by Anthology
I stare up at my home for the next week. Calling it a cabin doesn't really do it justice. Woodsy mansion on the edge of town is more like it. The perfect hideaway for an NFL star. Also known as Bristol's older brother or, known to the world as tight end for the Dallas Cowboys, Declan Keating. Famous for his plays on the field and infamous for his plays in the bedroom.
Both reasons he would need a hideaway on a regular basis.
But this weekend, I'm doing the hiding from my own reality. I'm here to celebrate with Bristol and her longtime boyfriend, who also happens to have just been named starting quarterback. Being related to an NFL player apparently has perks. And she scored the big win.
Tonight we party to celebrate their accomplishments, and tomorrow, I’ve been invited to join them for a huge charity luncheon with some of the biggest big-shots in Texas. I’m here to be Bristol’s wing-woman—oh, and she suggested that I needed to get out of “boring” Chicago and have some fun—something I’ve missed since my early retirement from my career in dance.
Bristol, and I have been friends since we started dancing together at the age of four, but it's been years since we've been in the same state, let alone the same town. Bristol just finished touring with an off-Broadway company, and she’s been teaching and performing major productions in Dallas while courting Nash Attwood.
And I’ve...
Well, I was supposed to be the brightest star. I'd won every competition from state to national by the time I was fourteen. Spent a few years touring the world, and performing in shows all across Europe. A whirlwind experience coupled with a whirlwind marriage.
We were the Cinderella and Prince Charming of dance.
And then I fractured my spine.
An injury that, luckily, didn't leave me paralyzed, but I'll never be able to tolerate the rigor or stress of professional dancing again.
Then, to the world, Hugh became my hero again. I rub the metal of my wedding band as I gather my luggage and pull it through the door, following my best friend.
"Declan had the whole place cleaned," Bristol says. "Bedroom is through there," she points to a door near the back. "The kitchen is stocked, and the bathroom is massive."
I just smile.
A weekend here should make me happier. And it does, but my mind is elsewhere, waiting on the news.
Waiting on the call from my lawyer.
Waiting on word that my failed marriage is finally behind me.
Bristol brought her things as well so we can get ready for the party together. Just like old times.
I twist my aching back. It doesn’t take well to sitting in one place for hours on end. "You get started. I need to stretch a bit more. I think I'll step outside."
And check my messages.
The sliding door to the back patio hums with vibrations I attribute to the air conditioner when I push it open. Then, the hum stops, replaced by sloshing water.
"You girls are early," Declan says. He's up to his chest in the largest hot tub I've ever seen—and I've seen quite a few.
"You're not supposed to be here," I say. I happily spend my weekend right there. My back would love it.
"My place.” He shrugs. His dampened golden curls cling to his tanned, olive skin. It all makes his blue eyes even more entrancing. That is if you can ignore the rest of his sinful body to look at his face. “My hot tub. I wanted a good soak."
I find it hard to believe he couldn't soak elsewhere. Surely he has a hot tub in his other house? Or he could just book a suite. But it's Declan. He's always up to something. Always where he isn't supposed to be.
He stretches up, out of the water.
Sculpted chest.
Chiseled abs.
That perfect, mouth-watering, V.
I lick my dry lips.
And...
I gasp. "Are you naked?"
He cocks one eyebrow. “Are you staring?”
No. I most definitely am.
Not.
Focus.
He shrugs nonchalantly as the bubbles kick up again, obscuring any look I might have been tempted to take. "I've never known you to be shy."
My face flushes.
Bristol storms through the house. "Declan! You promised."
He sinks into the water. This game of exhibition and voyeurism. This is our game.
Our very old game.
"Go get ready," he says, waving an arm at us. "I'll disappear before either of you manage to perfect your eyeliner."
"And you're not coming back tonight?" Bristol confirms.
"The place is all yours." Declan reclines back, lacing his hands behind his head. And, I realize, I’m still staring with my mouth hanging open. He doesn't need that kind of ego boost.
Bristol scoffs, tapping her foot against the threshold. "You can't resist trying to get a rise out of people."
Bristol grabs my arm and pulls me inside.
"See you at the party," I call back.
"Condoms are in the top drawer of the nightstand," Declan yells.
Bristol squeezes my arm, her face turning a shade of crimson. She hates when I flirt with big brother, and hates even more when he eggs me on.
But hey, it's a weekend of fun. I may as well have it somewhere.
The two of us shut ourselves in the bathroom to groom and primp for the evening. When you’ve done as many dance competitions as we did growing up, you learn very quickly not to be shy around one another—or intimidated. Bristol stands as tall and lanky as me, but she shares her brother’s blond hair and blue eyes. With a bit of hair product, her curls cascade down her back, and it seems like it takes her no time at all to have her porcelain skin perfected. My shoulder-length ginger hair is fussier, and my freckled skin takes double the effort, but soon we both look ready to steal the show. And I remember how much I loved being on stage—I wish that was the plan for the night, but alcohol, football players, old friends, it all can’t be that bad.
I try to convince myself that I’ll finally let loose and have a good time, but as I shake the wrinkles out of my dress, I realize it’s going to be just as stubborn as my brain. So I race out to grab the wrinkle releaser from my suitcase, only to find myself staring at Declan’s naked ass through the bedroom door as he stretches a T-shirt over his broad chest.
I clear my throat, but he continues as if I'm not there.
"What if I'd been your sister?"
"You would have been out the door yelling,” he says, his voice just as confident as his broad-shouldered and pantless stance. “I knew it was you."
"How's that?"
"You were always the one who liked to watch."
I clear my throat again, but this time, it's because I feel like I'm choking.
"Didn't realize that was a secret," Declan says smoothly, shimmying into a pair of dark dress pants.
We both know it wasn't.
Suddenly my mind is back to high school. Back to me watching through a window or cracked door with fascination and embarrassment.
Back to him catching me.
Back to the wink that said he didn't care.
Nothing ever existed between us beyond fantasy. Beyond what we both decided a long time ago we could never have.
He wasn't my type.
I wasn't his.
Or were we just looking for excuses?
SECOND QUARTER
Londyn
By eight o’clock, the party is in full swing. Wine, Champaign, and fancy hors d'oeuvres float around the room, carried by men in black tuxedos.
Such a formal affair.
Affair. I sigh.
Fuck love.
Fuck sexy men.
Fuck cheaters.
I grab another flute of Champaign off a passing tray. I never got a chance to listen to my voicemail, but I did get a wonderful text from Hugh on the way over here.
See you in court, fucking cunt.
I wonder if I can use that to back my case. That along with the long list of women he's had affairs with. Oh, and the child sup
port claim that came a week after I had major back surgery.
Bristol's fiancé, Nash, climbs up on the bar, and she squeezes my arm.
"Can I have everyone's attention," Nash yells, raising his arms.
Across the room, I hear a catcall, and someone else whoops.
Bristol giggles, practically glowing as she stares up at her quarterback. Her other half.
I hope she has better luck than I did.
"As you all know," Nash says, "I've been named the starting quarterback this year."
The crowd cheers and raises their glasses.
"And my gorgeous girlfriend Bristol has just finished up her production contract with Dallas Dance Company and already has a waiting list for her studio opening in October. This is our year." Nash lifts his glass. "I'm confident we'll be bringing home some rings at the end of the season, but...." He reaches one hand into his pocket as he hands his glass off to Declan, who's standing next to the bar.
I knew there had to be something more to this party.
Bristol gasps, clutching tighter to my arm.
"Bristol Keating, I think we've nursed each other through enough injuries to surpass any reasonable person's idea of torture, and I can't imagine coming home to anyone except you. Will you marry me?"
Bristol hands me her drink, and despite her long dress and heels, she scales the bar like a skilled mountain climber, before lacing her hands behind Nash's neck and pulling him down to kiss her.
Everyone in the crowd cheers and whistles, but the kiss goes on and on.
They're going to have a hell of a time topping this at the wedding, but finally, Nash comes up for air and slips the engagement ring on Bristol's finger. Next to me, another girl sniffles and wipes her eyes.
Around the room, everyone chats, murmurs, and smiles.
I have to remind myself to do the latter, taking a drink to bury my recently forged cynicism.
But the flavor filling my mouth isn’t what I expected. I realize I'm drinking from Bristol's glass, and it's nothing but sparkling grape juice.
Damn.
I raise her glass and give her a little wink. Here’s to their already growing family.
Bristol is beaming when they both descend from the bar, and into the waiting crowd. It's perfect.
I lean over the railing of the balcony, taking a breath of the humid night air. It's slightly quieter out here, and much less crowded. No one else dares to venture out of the air conditioning on a night like this, but I need a break from the rush as I swallow down another flute of Champaign.
I remind myself to let go and have some fun, but every time I feel my wedding ring a bitter taste rises up the back of my throat that I chase down with drink after drink.
I haven't brought it up to anyone, except of course my lawyer and the private investigator I hired to find out about all of Hugh's indiscretion.
Now the weight of telling everyone seems exceptionally heavy. Congratulations on your engagement and pregnancy, now would you like to hear about my divorce?
"What happened to the social butterfly?" Declan asks, leaning over the railing next to me.
"It was a long flight and my wings are tired."
"And where's Mr. Pointe?"
Stab.
Pointe isn’t really my last name, but I think everyone has called me that since I refused to take off my first pair of pointe shoes.
I groan and flag down a passing waiter through the door. "He had business."
The waiter takes my empty glass, handing me a fresh one, as I tilt my head to Declan. "And where's your lady of the night?"
His eyes scan the crowded room beyond the glass. "Haven't decided yet."
He unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt and leans back, resting his elbow against the railing and crossing his ankles.
He’s freedom.
I take another gulp of Champaign.
"How many of those have you had?" he asks.
"I've made it a point not to count."
He scoffs and shakes his head. "When I try that, I'm reminded I'm not as young as I think I am anymore."
“Can’t stop change.” I back away, press the door open and slip back into the cool party room. One of us has to do it. Maintaining our distance is the only way to keep the balance of the universe and keep our world from imploding.
But he follows.
“Dance with me,” he says, plucking the flute from my hand, setting it on a passing tray, and taking my hand.
“I don’t feel like dancing.” The only thing worse than coming to a party alone is being the only lone married person.
“You always feel like dancing,” he whispers into my ear.
“Everything changes,” I repeat, but he pulls me to the center of the room where everyone sways to the music.
“Declan,” I object again, but as he turns back to me, I lose myself somewhere between the music and his eyes. I let my body fall into that magnetic field where the blur of the music melds with the touch of his skin.
I press my hips closer.
The fantasy.
I think I even smile.
And then the light catches the metal band on my hand, and I’m ripped back to reality.
“We’re only dancing,” he says. He must’ve noticed my stiffness.
But nothing between us is ever just as it seems. Especially not that burning, fluttering in the pit of my stomach.
We both return to the party, me because I'm sick of the heat, and I want to avoid being under anyone's focus. And him, to dance with a few of the girls who look like cheerleaders.
* * *
Declan
She's not the same.
I try to keep her in my line of sight. Although, in general, she's a sight for sore eyes, something about her worries me. The catch I never caught. The one I’ve wanted so much that I never dared take her for fear of ripping her out of her natural element. The butterfly that the collector would much rather see in fleeting glances than under glass.
But, the last few years apparently haven't been so kind to her.
As the party wears on, and everyone settles, I find myself in the corner, chatting with a few other players while....
Janelle? Jasmine? I can't even keep their names straight anymore.
She curls up in my lap and strokes the back of my head.
You'd think if I can't even remember their names, I'd be bored enough to stop fucking a new girl every weekend. But I'm not.
And I won't.
It's not the names that matter. It's the orgasms. Hearing my name on their tongue as they scream in ecstasy. I grab that shit like a thief grabs diamonds. Every color. Every variety. I always need more.
And Jasmine... that's the name I'm going to go with unless someone reminds me different... she might be that orgasm for the night.
Until I see Londyn stumbling across the room.
Sure thing?
Or no thing?
Pierson follows her out onto the balcony, grabbing her ass, and feeling for the edge of her skirt in full view of everyone.
Is she really that drunk?
She's been off the market for more than five years since she settled down with Smug-Face.
I never really cared to learn his name. I could also call him Butterfly-Killer. That seems like a much better name tonight.
Jasmine leans toward my face, but I immediately stretch back to see around her.
Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, but this niggling in the back of my head says I'm going to regret not being the good guy tonight far more than I’ll regret jading one more woman.
Jasmine starts to argue when I stand, dumping her out of my lap, but I'm across the room before I hear her words. As soon as I slide the balcony door open, I'm welcomed by the sight of Londyn vomiting all over Pierson.
I guess she didn't need my help getting rid of him.
She stumbles back, covering her mouth and grabbing for the railing while Pierson runs off. Her head bobbles and I catch her before she topples over.
"I thinked to... Fuck."
I'm sure that's not what she intended to say, but it's damn hilarious. She’s a fucking irresistible drunk.
"Where are your shoes?" I ask.
She looks down, wiggles her bare toes and shrugs.
"Feet hurt. Back hurt." She throws her head back. "But I can't feel my face."
"Uh huh." There goes getting laid tonight.
Although I could just put her to bed and come back to the party.
Right.
My night is over.
I lift her up, hoping the sudden motion doesn't initiate another round of projectile vomit, but she sinks into my arms.
Outside, I flag one of the waiting hired cars over. Nash wanted to ensure that no one would be driving away from the party drunk. We’re overly cautious before the start of what we’re hoping will be an amazing season to turn around a not-so-amazing recent record.
Seems like Londyn needs a turnaround herself.
With Londyn settled in the back seat, I straighten to close the door, but another arm grabs me from behind.
"Jasmine," I begin to explain, just before her hand leaves a burning imprint on my left cheek.
"My name is Tamara," she yells. Then splashes what's left of her drink in my face and stomps away.
Well, shit. I wipe the alcohol out of my eyes, glance at her ass one last time before the door closes behind her, and then join Londyn in the back of the car.
As soon as the car pulls away from the curb, she flops across the seat, her head landing in my lap.
"Why are you wet?" she asks, her nose crinkling. "You smell like oranges. And alcohol."
Then, she sits up and covers her mouth.
All I need is to get puked on. That would make this an epically historic night.
"1945 Jackson Ave," I tell the driver when we reach the exit to the parking lot. My house is much closer than the cabin—and that leaves a lot less time for anything to go wrong before we have a bathroom within crawling distance.
But by the time we get to my house, she’s passed out anyway.
Bristol’s going to kill me.
But where was she when her friend needed her? Probably with her tongue down Nash’s throat again. Not a sight I want to be etched in my memory.
