Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel

by Niki Hager

  "Leave it alone, man," Roman tells him.

  "Yeah, I really don't need to know what she does behind closed doors in her room," Enzo says, and then makes a motion like he's shivering.

  "Oh, please, like how I don't know what you do in that room of yours? You guys don't even want to know what I've walked in on."

  "I am never gonna live that down, am I?" he complains.

  "You wouldn't let me, either, if the tables were turned."

  "Wait, what are we talking about? Please don't tell me my girlfriend walked in on you yanking on your cock."

  Enzo snorts. "It's not like I asked her to walk into my room."

  "It's not like you locked your door," I remind him while I give him a dirty look.

  "All right, guys, it's been a long drive, and we're all a little testy, but can we please act like grown—"

  "Ouch! He pinched me!" I screech.

  "You two, stop it right now or I'm going to pull this car over!"

  "It's getting too hot in here," Lyle whines out of the corner of his mouth.

  Roman glances at him and states, "It's February."

  "February ain't got shit on four people breathing for five hours in a tiny ass car. I'm rolling the window down."

  "No! Don't roll the window down it's—" Insert sound of breaking glass here "—broke." Roman lowers his head, shakes it, and sighs loudly.

  You have got to be kidding me. I'll say one thing, never again will I ever think to myself, "At least it can't get much worse" because trust me, it can.

  An hour later, and we finally arrive at our destination. I've been in the back seat, huddled up against Enzo to stay warm, for long enough. I peer up at Lyle in the passenger seat while we find a spot to park and I revel in him shivering his ass off. He's getting the brunt of the cold wind, seeing as how he's the one right next to the broken window.

  At least he isn't whining about being too hot anymore. Cup half full.

  Roman

  Sometimes you just need to punch a fucker in the face. I had spotted this guy from across the venue staring at Bug a couple of different times. I get it, dude, she's hot, but she's also mine. It doesn't matter how good a girl looks if she's with another man. You just don't. At least, that's the code I've always kept. Whatever. I'm not even sure what a preppy, straight-laced, jock-cock is doing at punk show in the first place. Hey, if the guy wants to be a creepy fucker then let ‘em, but c'mon, he's acting straight up unreal. Bee is enjoying herself, dancing around with us not noticing, but the prick continues to eye her … and me.

  Finally, after Rigbee walked away with Enzo at one point, he got the balls to approach me—kind of. He walked by like he was going to slide past me, then shouldered me at the last second. Fucking hard, too. Now, he has the audacity to stop and turn toward me with sarcasm and a fake apologetic look on his face. Like, sorry it was an accident, but not really.

  "Sorry, bro. So are you, like, one of those people? The Emo kind? Does that get the chicks hot and bothered for you or something?"

  There's that damn word again "bro". You know what kind of men use the word "bro"? I do. I know the kind of men who use the word "bro" and this jerk-off is definitely of the kind.

  "Dude, don't ask me if I'm Emo, man. I didn't, randomly but purposely, shoulder shove you and then go on to ask if you were a dipshit, faux-intellectual, pompous ass, pinky prick."

  He swings at me. That just happened. Stuffy little uptight prep boy took a swing at me. I duck, of course. He didn't ever have a chance. Years of paintball, dodging and swerving, has me conditioned for a fight.

  I come back up with a rage I can physically feel coursing through my blood stream. Every muscle twitches with urge and anticipation. Reel it in, Rome. Rigbee would probably be pissed if she had to bail you out of jail in a foreign country.

  "Go ahead, come at me. Punch me," he spews at me, spit flies out of his mouth alongside of his words. He takes a step forward with his hands out to his sides, face all up in my face, like the cliché drunk rich guy in every goddamn movie.

  "I would, man, but I'm trying to impress my girl tonight, and I don't want the smell of douchebag on my hands when I'm doing it."

  He puts his hands on his hips, hangs his head, and lets out a laugh lined with depraved sarcasm.

  Raising his eyes to glare at me, he coughs, "Emo bitch."

  Sometimes you just need to punch a fucker in the face. So, I land the last punch, on my first try.

  Rigbee

  "I saw him holding your hand," Lyle walks up behind me on the venue floor and shouts to me over the piercing loud filler music they're using between bands.

  We got here just in time to see the second opening band, so now most of us, including Roman, are taking the time in-between sets to use the bathroom.

  "And?" I ask to the cause of Lyles random observation.

  "He doesn't. At least, I have never seen him hold a girl's hand. Ever. Not even Amy's. And I've known him a long ass time, through each girl he's ever had."

  "Really?" I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Why?" I ask him, knowing I look like my ears perk up like a dogs.

  "Honestly, I don't know. I've never felt the need to ask him. I figured it was something he didn't do, but now, here you are."

  "Huh. I'll have to ask him about the odd fact." He's officially piqued my curiosity; if that was his intention, then well played, Lyle, well played.

  I catch Roman's figure standing next to me out of the corner of my eye. Leaning in, he places a kiss to the side of my neck and then grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers one torturous touch at a time. I didn't even see him walk up, it's as if he materialized beside me at a molecular level. Him being so close to me, I am feeling some other things at a molecular level.

  "Here, take Rigbee to go get a shirt." He hurriedly hands Lyle a wad of cash. When the money is being exchanged, Roman's hands catch my attention. They are bloody as hell, the knuckles on his right hand are broken open. He jerks his hand away fast, shoving them in his pockets, and I know he's trying to hide it from me. Doesn't matter, though, because good ol’ Lyle won't let the bloody knuckles go, either.

  "Dude, what the fuck happened!"

  "Oh, my god, are you okay? What did you do to your hand?" I yell at him, my voice hoarse already from talking over the music.

  He shifts his weight and doesn't look at me when he says, "It's fine. Leave it alone."

  "It's so not fine. Tell me what happened, now." I stomp my foot and point to the ground like I'm scolding a misbehaved child.

  He runs both hands through his hair and grumbles, "I kind of don't want to tell you."

  I stand there, an unwavering glare spotlighting my face. Seriously, what happened to "Mr. Honest to a fault" and "I'm going to always be myself", huh?

  "Fine!" he relents and throws his hands up in frustration. "I punched some fucker in the face. Are you happy now? Are you glad you know?"

  "Yes," I nod my head and say with a straight face.

  "You're not pissed?" He cocks his head to the side, looking confused and unsure.

  "Pissed my boyfriend is a badass? Nope, not in the least," I answer, unconcerned and shrugging my shoulders.

  I turn around and snatch the cash still in Lyle’s hand before he realizes it even happened, and I make my way to the merch table.

  "Don't you even want to know why?" Roman yells back at me through the distance I've already put between us.

  I turn my head halfway, glancing back at him. I cup a hand around my mouth and shout back, "No," and continue my trek to get my t-shirt I was promised.

  "Hasn't tonight been one giant shit show after another?"

  I turn around from my place in line to a very hammered Enzo.

  "It's been all right since we got here. I'm having fun, are you?" I ask.

  "Oh, yeah. Sooo much fun," he slurs at me, then lifts his beer into a cheers.

  "Are you okay, what are you trying to do?" I ask, concerned, because he doesn't seem himself.

  "Drown my s
orrows, of course. Hey, isn't that a name of a song the band sings? No? It should be. But for real, I think it is."

  He starts to sway, and it's not to the music. I officially think he's had enough. I go to grab his beer from him, but he swipes it away at the last second, my hand catches nothing but empty air.

  He hugs it to his chest and yelps, "Mine." Like those annoying seagulls in Finding Nemo.

  "I know, but you've had plenty already. I think it's time for some water."

  "What is it you said to me, Bee? I don't need you to save me. Yeah, I think that was it. I'm single, and I'm a ming-ga-ling-ga-ling, so back off and save your saving for someone who ss-ssh-sh-shit, what was I saying? Don't even matter." He shrugs and takes a sip.

  "What do you mean single?" I give him a pointed look, hoping he doesn't say what I think he's going to say.

  "Didn't you hear? I was dating a felon."

  "I heard. But so?"

  "A F-E-L-O-N," he drunkenly spells for me.

  "But you don't exactly have to—"

  "Oh, but I did." Shit. "I did it anyways. It's official, my first real relationship and it lasted … oooh, less than five months. F-I-V-E." He holds up his hand to count his five fingers one by one.

  "Good to know you're a literate drunk, at least. Who knew how much you'd enjoy spelling your words when inebriated?"

  "Ine-bri-ated, I-N—"

  "Enough, I get it. Come on, sad-face, let’s find the boys. Looks like we all have had an eventful enough evening."

  I tug Enzo along with me toward the spot where Roman and Lyle stand, relinquishing the elusive t-shirt for another time.

  Balls to the Floor

  My House- Flo Rida

  Rigbee

  Life started moving in fast forward after the show in Toronto. Enzo is starting to get back to normal, well trying to, at least, and I am trying to balance school and life. I never realized how hard offsetting the work was with actually having a social life. I never had anything better to do then study and paint, so good grades came easy. This semester, on the other hand, I find myself much more interested in having fun. I've missed out on a lot up until now, and isn't the experience what college is supposed to be about anyhow? My grades could, be better but I'm not too worried about it yet. I've never felt better.

  We're on our way to Chicago right now for one of the paintball tournaments. I'm excited to watch Roman play for the first time; It's nice to be included in a personal part of his life.

  It's been a long drive, and my neck and legs are cramping up like no other, but we're almost there. It's only March, so it's still cold outside. Thankfully, we stopped at a window repair shop on our way home from Canada to fix the mess Lyle made. He did at least pay for it without being asked.

  Lyle gets a lot of shit, but when it comes down to it, he is a loyal and caring friend. Definitely a good one to have on your side. He's in the passenger seat again due to how freakishly tall he is, and I am in the back with Thomas … again. I've gotten to know him a little better seeing as how we've been sharing the backseat of The Ghost so often. The whole drive he's been trying to explain to me the basics of the paintball sport. There are so many terms to remember, but I think I'm getting the jist of it. Who knew so much went into paintball? I didn't even realize it was a sport until Roman told me, but paintball is a pretty big deal to these guys.

  I don't think I was fully aware of what I was getting myself into when I thought paintball tournament, but it sure as shit wasn't this. Paintball is sheer insanity. Also, it turns out this isn't even a tournament for the Championship or World Cup or whatever it's called, which is not until August. No, I'm told this is a much smaller event.

  When we pulled up to the sports park where it's being held, there are people everywhere. Guys and girls pack the place, screaming and drinking and cheering for their favorite teams already. We haven't even gotten ten yards from the car when I hear Roman's name shouted. I turn around assuming it's one of the guys from the team I have met, but it's coming from a group of people I don't recognize.

  They begin to chant, "Ran-som broth-ers" and I am really confused.

  Roman and Thomas start walking in their direction, so I start to follow. I feel Lyle place his hand on my arm as he gently tugs to keep me in place.

  "They'll be right back, but you might not want to go over there."

  And then I see why: the boys are bombarded. Girls are lining up to cling to one of the "brother's" arms, while guys ask questions and kids ask for autographs.

  "W-What the … What is going on right now?" I ask Lyle without looking away from the scene, not risking taking my eyes off of Roman for fear I'm imagining things.

  "Let's just say Roman and Trav are pretty good."

  I finally turn to Lyle with a hand on my hip and confront him, "Pretty good?"

  I feel somewhat betrayed. I wasn't given the full amount of information upon coming here, and now I look and feel blindsided.

  "As in, pretty well known in the sport." He's still trying to downplay the reality of it.

  I gasp. "No kidding." I put my hand against my forehead above my eyes like a visor to shade the sun and continue to watch the group of guys and girls alike fawn all over my boyfriend. "He should've told me it was going to be nuts."

  Lyle walks up, stands shoulder to shoulder with me and looks ahead at the crowd. "One, he didn't want to brag because he doesn't even think it’s a big enough deal to talk about. And two, would you have really believed him?" He turns his gaze to me and smirks.

  "Point. But look at them, they are practically famous!" I yelp and wave my arm, pointing my full hand in the direction of my famous paintball playing boyfriend.

  Lyles eyes dart to mine and then quickly to the right as he nods his head ever-so-gently in a different direction silently telling me to look.

  I gasp. "Oh. My. God. You have got to be kidding me, they are on a fucking banner. Are you serious? How is this real life?" I'm looking straight into those intimately familiar brown eyes up on the Chicago Open sign.

  "It's like any other pro sports league, Bee. They are contract killers. They get paid to play. There are always those athletes who stand out and everyone knows their name. Rome just happens to be hopelessly humble."

  "It's okay, this is okay, right? I'm not jealous of all those girls oogling and hanging off of him, really I'm not. And, it's not like paintball is really all that popular else it would be on telev—" I stop mid-word and mouth open when the sports network's broadcast vans drive past. Lyle topples over himself cracking up at the look on my face.

  Roman and Thomas came back, but they can't seem to shake a chubby pre-teen boy who keeps following them around like a puppy, asking question after question. Both are very polite and answer every single one as best they can. Finally, when I know it has to be time to start getting ready, the boy gives them an awkwardly long side hug and goes on his merry way with a phone full of selfies and a smile.

  Before the Atomic-Anarchy boys leave to go play, Roman tells me to stay and stand with them, therefore I have to watch them get ready. We are under a tent designated for our team, and it seems to be blocking the wind enough to be almost comfortable.

  I look around and see familiar faces. I met most of these guys at the New Years’ party, you know, before I spent the night face first in the puke bin. None of them seem shy about stripping down naked in front of me as they work to get their gear on. When they are finished, they legit look like the teams I see on the banners and signs, decked out in bandanas, jerseys, visors, goggles, and guns. Then, before too long, it is go-time.

  Roman

  I really like the Marq series of guns. The spacing from the reg to the frame feels good to me. Mostly, it's the frame; I like how thin it is. The grips don't protrude, so I get a really good contact. For me, feel of the gun is tops. If it doesn't feel good in my hand, I couldn't care less how it shoots. I get a scarily similar feeling with Rigbee. When I have her in my arms, I couldn't give two shits about anything else. The feel
of her skin when my touch gives her goosebumps. The way she turns her head halfway to look back at me when I've got a hold of her from behind, even that goddamn smirk she doesn't realize she gives me when she thinks she knows something I don't, it's consuming me and driving me downright fucking insane.

  "Hey, man, I'm really liking the trajectory of the Marqs too. It seems to shoot really flat, like an Autococker," I hear Lawrence say.

  "Yeah, it's a bit older, but that means you can get them a shit ton cheaper," Lyle walks up to us and puts in his two cents as he fucks around with his Shocker.

  Huh. When you think about it, comparing Bug to Paintball isn't much of a stretch considering how dirty some of it sounds. Autococker, Shocker. Shit, I need to focus.

  "And they really aren't outmatched by any new guns. In speed, efficiency or recoil. Ain't that right." Lawrence looks at me for my response.

  When I don't give him one, he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me a knowing glare. My muscles tense—the urge to punch something creeps up my spine. Unknowingly until now, this girl has been driving me crazy. I have never been not with it before a game, ever. Not since Amy, and I don't count that particular time period.

  Some of the team are already dry firing into their barrel condoms. Condoms, another one. Gah! Pull it together. I quickly grab the rest of my pods, check my air, and make my way to the field, trying not to think too much about Bug. However, the mere fact she will be watching makes her all I think about.

  Rigbee

  "A-A splatter balls!" I watch the team scream as they take the field. I don't know what they're yelling means. Doesn't matter, though, because if I know one thing, it's watching Roman play paintball is pretty freaking sexy. I can tell he is completely in his element. To be honest, it's really hard to tell who is who out there. They all look the same in their protective gear and with them wearing masks and goggles, but I can easily pick my man out of the bunch. The way he moves is so natural, fluid. Every time he dives behind a bunker, which I now know is called drifting—thank you, Thomas—I get scared he got hit or hurt, but he always sits back up and lets the other team have it. I didn't know how watching him would put giant butterflies in my stomach. Every time I hear the ref guy call something, there's a burning in my chest, where my heart sinks, and I have to remind myself Roman knows what he's doing. Who would've thought I would end up getting so into the game? I freaking hate sports. I officially don't hate paintball.