Final Play
MATCHPLAY SERIES: BOOK THREE
Dakota Madison
Final Play
Copyright © 2013 by Dakota Madison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
This is a work of FICTION.
Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's offbeat imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead or previously dated by the author is entirely coincidental.
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One
The appetizers looked delicious—really delicious—and I was starving. I spotted a deviled egg that looked absolutely perfect in every way, from its coloring to its near perfect symmetry. As I reached for it, a petite hand grabbed the delicacy right out from under me.
“Hey,” I said as I turned to face the egg thief. “I was just about to select that egg.”
“Too bad,” the girl said and to my shock, instead of eating the egg, she opened up a large orange handbag and dropped the egg inside.
“You just stole that egg,” I stated incredulously.
She frowned. “And what are you? The hors d'oeuvre police?”
I didn’t know what to say. The girl had rendered me speechless. Who puts a deviled egg in a handbag? And she didn’t even wrap it up in a napkin first. And who carries an oversized orange handbag to a wedding reception?
She glared at me and continued her tirade. “And I don’t think it’s stealing because A) I was invited to the wedding and B) no one is charging money for these deviled eggs.”
I took a good look at the egg thief. She was willowy, like prairie grass in a summer breeze. Her long blonde hair was pulled away from her pale face with a flowered headband. She was wearing a knee length flowered dress that made her look like she had just stepped out the television series Mad Men. She appeared to be my age, mid-twenties, but when I looked into her pale blue eyes, I saw an old soul. It gave me chills at how much depth there was in her unfathomable eyes.
“Why are you staring at me?” the girl asked bluntly and it caught me off guard.
“I—um—.” I didn’t know what to say, once again at a loss for words.
“Well, just don’t,” she stated.
I gulped. “Are you actually going to eat the egg you plopped in your bag? You didn’t even wrap it.”
She looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet. Me, Mr. Genius IQ, seemed to be a real Dumbo as far as she was concerned. She got very close to me and opened her bag so I could peek inside. The entire thing was lined with plastic baggies that were stuffed with various types of food she had apparently swiped from the buffet table.
“I won’t have to grocery shop for a week,” she whispered.
Before I could say anything else, she turned and walked away.
I just stood there, thinking about the way her petite hand grabbed the deviled egg right out from under mine. I wondered what it would be like to hold that little hand in mine. I had no idea where that notion came from. Was she even my type? I rarely gave blondes a second look and she was just so—odd.
But there was something about her pale blue eyes that was utterly haunting. I felt like I could get lost in them—that I could look into them for years and never solve all the mysteries they seemed to hold.
As I walked over to the punch bowls, I saw the deviled egg thief standing in front of them. When I got closer, I noticed she had a strange expression on her face—confusion bordering on terror.
“I hope you’re not going to try pouring punch in your purse,” I joked trying to lighten her mood.
It didn’t work. She just glared at me. Then she said, “One of these is spiked. I need to know which one.” The way she said it made it sound like the security of the nation depended on it.
“Do you want me to taste them for you?” I suggested.
She eyed me with the utmost suspicion. “You’d do that? For me? You don’t even know me.”
“I know you liked deviled eggs. You can’t be all bad.”
That didn’t get a laugh either. I was clearly losing my touch.
She seemed to think about it for a moment and then she said, “Okay. Test them.”
I grabbed a plastic cup and ladled a small sip of the first punch into it. I gave it a taste. It was definitely not laced with any alcohol. It tasted like Kool-Aid. “This one’s just punch,” I told her.
“Are you sure?” Her eyes narrowed. “Test the other one.”
I shrugged and then poured a small sip of the other punch into my cup. I sampled it and it had a bit of a kick to it. “This one tastes like it has alcohol in it.”
To my surprise, she grabbed both of my upper arms and looked into my eyes. The intensity of her gaze was startling and nearly took my breath away. “You have to be sure,” she practically pleaded. She was the most dramatic person I had ever met, which is saying a lot if you’ve ever met my sister, who I always considered a Drama Queen. Most days, I felt like a 9-5 zombie sleepwalking through my life but this girl seemed to be completely and fully alive in every single moment of hers. It made me want to know more about her.
Never a rash person, I was the guy who over-thought and over-calculated every single move until I ended up looking like a robot. I’m an engineer. It’s my job to look at things from every possible angle and to make sure there’s no room for error. But this girl made me want to be spontaneous. She made me want to throw caution to the wind. For the first time, in quite a long time, she made me feel something.
I poured her a cup of the non-spiked punch and handed it to her. “No alcohol. I promise.”
She looked up at me with those pale blue eyes and for the first time since I’d met her, they actually held a bit of warmth. It sent a wave of heat through my body that I wasn’t expecting and it threw me off guard.
She grabbed the punch from my hand and downed it in one big gulp. When she looked back up at me, I noticed she had a little bit of punch on the side of her mouth. I’m not sure why but I was overcome with the urge to take care of her. I reached for a napkin and then slowly and carefully wiped the punch from her face. “You just had a little punch—um—on you.”
She didn’t seem to mind the intrusion at all. She gave me a crooked half smile that sent another wave of heat right through me.
“Are you allergic to alcohol?” I asked. I was curious as to why she seemed so concerned about it.
“No,” she replied. “It just messes with my meds.”
She was fragile but she didn’t look sick. I knew that didn’t mean anything, though. Lots of people lived with hidden illnesses. Once again, I was overwhelmed with the desire to take care of her. I had no idea why. I barely even knew her.
“I’m Lucas,” I stated as I held out my hand.
She made no motion to shake it and I suddenly felt awkward standing there with my arm outstretched.
“I know who you are,” she said matter-of-factly. “I also know you’ve been in love with the bride for years.”
A lump formed in my throat and I gulped. I had never seen this girl in my life. How did she know who I was and how did she know about my feelings for Rainy? I always did my best to try and hide all of my feelings, especially my feelings for my sister’s college roommate.
“How do you know that?” I managed to squeak out even though my throat was almost completely obstructed by the large lump that seemed to be getting larger by the minute.
She rol
led her eyes dismissively. “Please, it wasn’t hard to figure out. I saw the way you looked at her when she was walking down the aisle and I saw your expression when she said: I do. I can even see it in your eyes right now. The longing and the pain when you think about her and not being able to have her. The torment of unrequited love.”
“And what makes you such an expert on love?” I shot back.
“If I was an expert on love, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you, now would I? I’d be naked in a beach hut in Bali making love with my man day and night.”
I could feel sweat starting to bead on my temples at the thought of her naked in a beach hut. Why did I have the overwhelming desire to be that man she was making love to day and night?
I cleared my throat and tried to think of something else, anything else, except for her naked and needy.
“You haven’t told me your name,” I said.
She looked up at me and batted her long lashes as if she was teasing me. “I know,” she replied then she turned and walked away.
It took me a few seconds to register that she had walked away from me—again—and I still didn’t even have her name. I tried to follow her but she was quick and ducked behind a group of people taking photos and uploading them to various social networking sites.
When I finally managed to catch up to her I grabbed her elbow and she spun around and smacked me across the face.
“Don’t touch me,” she spat.
I quickly let go of her arm. “I’m sorry,” I managed to say even though I was in shock.
The rage that enflamed her blue eyes began to soften, maybe because she saw the signs of distress on my face.
“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she said softly. “It was a reflex.”
I touched my cheek where she slapped me and it felt hot. “Is it getting red?”
She examined the area. “A little. Maybe people will think you made a pass at me. It could be good for your rep.”
“How so?’ I asked.
She shrugged. “People won’t think you’re a virgin.”
“I’m not,” I said although I didn’t know why. My sex life wasn’t something I usually discussed with people who were practically strangers. Truth be told, I rarely discussed my sex life with anyone.
She placed her hands on her slim hips and narrowed her eyes. “How many girls have you been with?”
I got the feeling she didn’t believe I was truly sexually active. Not that I would characterize my sex life as active but I had been with a few girls in the past. I just wasn’t sure if I gave her the actual number, four, she’d think it was high or low.
“How many guys have you been with?” I countered.
“Fifty-eight,” she said without skipping a beat.
I nearly choked. I thought it would be rude to gape but I had a difficult time keeping my jaw from falling. I was completely and totally shocked. I had a feeling that she had been with a few more partners than I had but I thought her number might be in the mid-teens not over fifty.
“Were you thinking about making it fifty-nine?” she asked.
I could feel my face turn red hot. I cleared my throat to buy some time because I wasn’t sure how to respond. The figure seemed excessive and I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. I had read once the girls tended to understate their number of sexual partners. What if fifty-eight was an understatement?
“I still don’t know your name,” I muttered.
“Is that a prerequisite for you to have sex?” she countered.
The conversation was getting stranger by the moment. Just a minute ago she had slapped my face for touching her arm and now she was talking about having sex with me. It didn’t make sense.
“I like to get to know a girl before we get intimate.” I don’t know why she made me feel like that was suddenly a bad thing.
She closed the distance between us and said, “Do you have to be in love before you’ll fill her vajayjay with your sweet hot seed?”
I didn’t think it was possible for me to ever meet a more unique person than the girl standing in front of me. She was talking about sex in a way that was so completely foreign to me, she could have been speaking a different language and it would have had the same effect.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love,” I admitted.
She furrowed her brow. “I thought we already established you were in love with Rainy.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ve never been in love with someone who loved me back.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. “It makes doing the dirty deed so much more fun.”
I noticed a gleam in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Was she remembering previous lovers? I felt a twinge of something in my chest. Was it jealousy? How could I possibly be jealous of the men in her past?
As I gazed into those stunning blue eyes, I wondered what it would be like for her to be in love with me. I wondered what it would feel like for her to touch my face with her delicate hands. And to feel her kiss me with her pouty pink lips. To have her willowy body pressed under me.
“You seem like a really nice guy, Lucas.” She made it sound like a major brush off. Being brushed off was something I was used to. It happened a lot. And girls usually used the line: you seem like a really nice guy as a precursor to the inevitable dismissal.
“Don’t.” I said. The words came out more coldly than I had anticipated. Most of the time I didn’t care if girls brushed me off but I cared this time. For some reason, I cared about this girl and I didn’t want her to leave.
I had no idea why I cared so much. I definitely had no idea why I wanted her to love me. But I did.
“I don’t want to be a nice guy, at least not with you. I want to be the guy who you can’t stop thinking about. I want to be the guy who stars in your naughty dreams every night. I want to be the guy you can’t get enough of no matter how hard you try.” Once the words were out of my mouth, I immediately wished I could put them back in again. I knew I sounded like even more of a dork than I actually was and that was saying a lot. Sometimes I felt like the king of the dorks.
She gave me a wicked little smile and it sent a bolt of electricity through my body, an endorphin rush that made me tingly, hot and giddy. Giddy was not the most masculine choice of words perhaps euphoric would be a better word—more manly.
“You’ve got bigger balls than I gave you credit for.” I wasn’t sure it was a compliment but she put out her small hand for me to shake. “I’m Ella Warner,” she said.
I felt a rush of adrenaline pulse through my body when our hands touched and when I saw Ella’s breathe catch, I knew she felt it, too.
“You’re Evan’s sister?” I tried to hide the surprise in my voice.
She nodded then leaned in and said, “I don’t like having that fact spread around.” There was nothing about her that even remotely resembled her brother. Evan had a reputation for being a womanizer and kind of an asshole, so I could understand her reluctance to be associated with him.
Since I was being bold, I decided to go all the way. “Can I get your number?” I ventured.
She shook her head. “No.”
I don’t know how such a small word could feel so painful but I felt like she slapped me again.
“I don’t have a phone,” she clarified.
How was it possible in the 21st century not to have any kind of phone? “How can I contact you?” I asked.
“If it’s fated, we’ll see each other again.”
I wasn’t a big believer in anything but science and mathematics so I didn’t know how much I was willing to rely upon fate to bring us together again. I would have preferred to rely on our own initiative.
“I’m starting to feel very confined here,” she said. “I’m going to take off.”
I wasn’t ready for her to leave. I felt like she was a supernova and when I was in her presence, she illuminated everything around us with her bright light.
“Can I ask you a question?”
&n
bsp; She grinned. “You can ask me anything but it doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“Why do you take medication?”
She bit her lip as if she was thinking about whether or not to respond. Or maybe how to respond. I don’t know. She was extremely difficult to read.
Finally she said, “I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. But it’s just a label. It’s a way for people who need to describe things to describe why my mind doesn’t work like everyone else’s.”
I thought about what she was saying. I thought she was just a free spirit and different than everyone else. I guess I wasn’t prepared for her to tell me she had a mental illness. I didn’t know what to think or feel about that. I had never been close to anyone who was mentally ill.
She pulled a prescription bottle from her handbag and held it up for me to see. “Do you know what this is?”
I squinted as I tried to read the label on the bottle but it was too small and a little too far away for me to make out what it was. I shook my head.
“It’s a cage for my mind.” Her words were filled with resentment.
“What do you mean?” I probed.
“I take these pills because my doctor says they help to make me normal and stable—which they do—but it’s also a way to make me fit in—to do and say things that other people want or expect.”
I wondered why she seemed so cynical when she said it. I always did and said what people wanted or expected. It never occurred to me that there was any other option.
She continued. “But it’s not me. When I take these pills, I feel like I’m being put in a box where I can only access a small part of myself. I can’t fully express all that I am.”
The inevitable question, of course, was what else was there? She was already one of most unique and unusual people I had ever met. And that was her inside of a box. It actually scared me to think about how much more there was outside the box.
And I wondered, for the first time, if I was living in some kind of box. And if so, were there things outside of the box that I had never allowed myself to experience? It was a philosophical question that I wasn’t sure I wanted to explore. If I was inside of some kind of box, it felt good and I was comfortable there.
Final Play (Matchplay Series) Page 1
