First and Tension

by Tara Sivec

  “They wanted my voice loud and proud for all to hear, until I had something to say they didn’t agree with,” I tell Carson with a shake of my head, grabbing onto the top of the bar to steady myself when my body wobbles a little. “Hands on hips, smiles on lips, shut your damn mouth, you bitch!”

  When I giggle at the little cheer I just made up, I realize I’ve probably had enough alcohol for the night.

  Carson grabs a cocktail napkin from the bar and dabs the rest of the tequila off my chin for me, giving me a sympathetic smile while he also gingerly blots away the tears from the corner of my eyes I didn’t even realize were there before they ruin my makeup.

  “I spent too much time touching up your smoky eye in the car after I picked you up all sad and alone at that ghastly bar by your place, for you to ruin it,” Carson informs me, smartly shoving my shot glass and the tequila bottle far out of my reach, while I sniffle and try to get myself under control. “What’s done is done, and there’s no use crying about it now. Chin up, tits out, and give me five minutes to survey the room and find you a man worthy of your tequila tongue in his mouth.”

  I laugh through my tears as a loud chorus of groans from partygoers forces my head to turn toward the television a bunch of people are still gathered in front of, now watching an ESPN highlight of the Vipers quarterback throwing the interception that lost us last year’s Super Bowl.

  “If he would have gotten out of the pocket once during that game, we might have actually had a chance,” I complain, while Carson is busy checking out all the men in the room, before I switch right to another subject, as one does when there’s more tequila rushing through her veins than blood. “Why is this house so lifeless and boring? You couldn’t hang a few pictures and show some personality? It would be pretty if it weren’t for the walls. Who chose this boring, all-gray color scheme? It makes me want to shove a fork in my eye.”

  “Man, the guy at the paint shop told me gray was all the rage too. And I would have gotten out of the pocket more if my offensive line didn’t shit the bed on every play.”

  Carson and I both turn our heads until we’re staring at each other with equal looks of wide-eyed, holy shit, what the fuck looks on our faces. And then we slowly turn our whole bodies around in unison until we’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking several inches up at the owner of the deep, slightly annoyed voice that just spoke.

  Who I just insulted not once but twice!

  Quinn Bagley, quarterback for the Vipers since the start of his career when he was drafted in college, whose career I’ve followed since then. Partly because I love football—he’s extremely talented, and I made it my mission to know everything about every player for the Vipers since my dream was always to cheer for them one day. But mostly because sweet holy hell, he’s pretty to look at. Jet-black hair, and pale-blue eyes, in a 6’2”, 225-pound, lean, muscular body, with a killer smile and big dimples that not even a dusting of sexy, dark facial hair can hide. Although right now, I have to go off of memory in the dimple department from all the times I’ve seen him on TV or from a distance at games and team events. There’s nothing but a pissed-off frown on his face now, and his gorgeous blue eyes are narrowed in annoyance.

  Before I can wade through the slosh of tequila in my brain and remember what words are necessary in order to apologize to someone you just insulted in his own home, Quinn is speaking again as he starts backing away from me and an equally mute Carson.

  “Thanks for coming to the party. Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  His velvety deep voice does not indicate that he is thankful or want us to have any kind of a good time at all, but now I’m too busy staring at the man’s perfect ass in a snug pair of jeans when he turns and walks away—and freaking out about being in his home—to worry about how much I just insulted him.

  “What the shit, Carson? You told me this was a friend of a friend’s birthday party!” I screech in the most unladylike fashion after watching Quinn politely smile, nod, and say a few words to people as he walked across the room.

  He used some kind of superhuman strength I can’t even fathom to ignore his own television and what’s being played on it, before disappearing alone through a sliding glass door to his backyard.

  “It is.” Carson shrugs. “My friend Jason is friends with Billy, who was Quinn’s college roommate, and Quinn threw this party for Billy. I honestly didn’t even think he’d be here and thought he just let his friend use his place. I figured at most we’d be able to sneak up into his bedroom so you could hump his pillow. Surprise! I brought you to your biggest crush’s house!”

  “I’m not allowed to fraternize with professional football players!” I argue, looking worriedly around the room, waiting for someone to jump out and yell at me for breaking the rules.

  “You are no longer a professional cheerleader. That rule does not apply to you anymore, Drunky McDrunkerson. Which is precisely why I brought you here as my plus-one tonight.” He sighs. “I should have cut off your tequila three shots ago.”

  “It’s a dumb rule anyway,” I mutter, still staring over at the sliding glass door where the beautiful and exquisite specimen that is Quinn Bagley exited. “Seriously, making us sign a waiver that says we will not engage with football players in any fashion. We can’t follow them on social media, we have to block them if they follow us, and we’re not even allowed to say hello to them if we’re all at the same charity event together. It’s horseshit; that’s what it is.”

  “Look at that, a silver lining to getting fired and sent back to prison tomorrow. You can make out with Quinn Bagley before you go, and I can win the award as best wingman in the history of the world.” Carson smiles.

  “I’m not going to make out with Quinn Bagley, and stop calling Summersweet a prison,” I scold him, pulling my phone back out and trying to call Wren one more time, because she is seriously not going to believe whose house I’m at right now.

  Wait… whose house am I at again? Oh my God, tequila, you suck!

  “I dare you.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I glare at Carson as I hold my phone to my ear and the call starts going through to Wren, hoping she’ll finally pick up and talk me out of doing something really, really stupid. “You know I can’t turn down a dare!”

  Carson just continues to smile at me while waving his champagne flute in the bartender’s direction for a refill, and I listen to my call ring a few times, wishing there was some damn bread or something carby nearby to sober me up. I don’t know if all the tequila I drank is just now hitting my system, or if simply being a few feet away from the majesty of Quinn Bagley made me drunker, but this room is suddenly tilting like I’m on the Titanic when it started going down. The only thing that saves me from toppling over onto the floor is the ringing of my call cutting off and the most beautiful voice in the world in my ear.

  “Hey, Em, how’s—”

  “Wrennyyy! I love you so much!”

  I’m so excited to finally hear my best friend’s voice that it takes me a second to realize I’ve used my outside voice when I notice that, once again, all eyes in the room are on me. Waving everyone away with my hand, I turn my back to the room and try not to start crying again, now that I have my person on the phone and everything is going to be okay.

  “I quit my job, because it was dumb and because I missed you!”

  Carson moves into my line of sight and raises his eyebrow at my little white lie, while I press the phone closer to my ear to try to hear Wren’s voice over a bunch of noise on her end of the call.

  “I can barely hear you! I’m at the football game!” Wren shouts through the phone over what I can now tell is the noise of fans back home on Summersweet, cheering at a Friday night football game.

  “I said I quit, bitch!” I tell her again, this time without so much ear-piercing screaming and with a whole bunch more giggling, while Carson continues to stare at me all judgy-like.

  He doesn’t get it, because he didn’t grow up with us,
but if Sip and Bitch taught me anything, it’s that giving any kind of news, good or bad, is always better when all parties are drunk. And since Wren is at a football game, probably happily snuggling and making out with her hot boyfriend and definitely not drunk, she doesn’t need to worry about all the stupid, little, boring details, like me getting fired. I can tell her the truth when we’re both drunk, and it will not make any sense to either of us, like nature intended.

  “Oh no… how much tequila have you had? Is there bread near you? Eat some bread. Fucking carb up! Are you alone? You better not be alone or—”

  “Wrenny, baby!” I cut her off with more giggling as Carson just shakes his head at me. “I love how you alwaysh… Alwayshhh…. How you all the time make sure I’m okay. I miss you sooo much, but I’ll be home soon! I quit, bitch! I’m not gonna cheer anymore! I’m moving back home tomorrow, baby!”

  “You didn’t try out again?” she asks softly.

  I love how she’s trying to not sound excited, because she loves me, and she’s my person, and I’m gonna make out with Quinn Bagley tonight!

  “Fuck no, I won’t go!” I shout and then giggle a few more times before sobering. But you know, not actually sobering, unfortunately. Just moving on to more sniffling, crying, and lying, because I guess I’m not only a washed up, former cheerleader. I’m also a big, fat fibber. “Nope. Emily Flanagan is officially an old, dried-up, has-been cheerleader. Tryouts started two weeks ago, and I just realized I don’t have the heart for it anymore. And I’m too old for this shit, Wrenny. My knees locked up when I was sitting on the toilet peeing last month after a four-hour practice; did I tell you that? I was stuck on the fucking toilet, sad and alone with cramped knees. I don’t want to be sad and alone on the toilet anymore, Wren!”

  That part is actually true. My knees still hurt just thinking about it, but good Lord, I need to stop talking! Tryouts were two months ago, I definitely attended, and I absolutely made the team again. Wren’s been so busy and so happy with her new man that I didn’t want to make her sad by telling her I was staying in California another year, so I kept putting it off.

  Oh tequila, nooo….

  “Okay, sweetie, calm down,” she reassures me gently in her sweet mom-voice that always makes me feel better.

  “Anyway,” I continue, the lies just pouring out of me, because I guess this is who I am now. “I handed in my resignation. I’ve already packed up my apartment, and I wanted to surprise you once it was all finalized, and now it is, and now I’m celebrating with some of the girls that I’m finally moving back home at….”

  I pause and glare at Carson when he smacks my arm for the second time tonight, moving the phone away from my mouth to whisper-argue away his judgement.

  “Look, I already sent her a text earlier saying I was going out with the girls tonight. There’s no sense telling her the girls ditched me and getting into all that, or she’ll fly out here with Birdie and Tess and kick all their asses. Where the hell are we again? These gray walls are a vibe, and I’m here for it,” I murmur with a nod as I look around the room with my tequila goggles before bringing the phone back to my mouth and addressing Wren.

  “…fuck, I don’t even know whose house, but I think we’re in the Valley. It’s a really pretty house. Anyway, guess who just walked in who is no longer off-limits and I’m going to kiss the shit out of.”

  “Good God, woman.” Carson shakes his head at me. “I am never feeding you tequila again. We’re at Quinn Bagley’s house, and we’re in fucking Calabasas! How have you lived here for four years, and you still don’t know where you are or how you got there?”

  Like most people who grew up on an island where everyone gets around via golf cart, which negates the need for a driver’s license, I take a taxi or a car service everywhere. Which means I close my eyes, hold on tight, and hope to hell I don’t die before I reach my destination.

  Carson is still staring at me like I’m an idiot, and I realize I must have said all that in my head instead of out loud to him, when Wren starts yelling at me through the phone.

  “Emily, do not make out with the quarterback of the Vipers when you’re shitfaced!”

  “Goddamn, that man is hot.” I sigh, completely ignoring her while I think about how gorgeous Quinn’s eyes were up close and personal.

  “Emily Jean Flanagan, no!” she tries scolding me again, but she knows me well enough to understand it’s already too late.

  A dare has been given, and a dare must be taken.

  “Dude, I’m moving back home to Summersweet Island tomorrow. This is my one shot to show him everything he’s been missing the last four years. YOLO, motherfucker! See you bitches tomorrow!”

  “Emily, you are going to regret—”

  I end the call before she can finish telling me I’m going to regret kissing the guy I’ve had a massive crush on all four years I’ve cheered for the Vipers, and entirely too many years to count before that. Talking to Wren made me feel better about leaving my dreams behind to head back home tomorrow, and there’s just one more thing to do before I go.

  “Here, hold this,” I order Carson, thrusting my phone at him.

  “Holy shit,” he whispers, quickly grabbing my phone as I take a couple of deep breaths and run my fingers through my long, dark-red hair to fluff it while I will the room to stop spinning. “You’re actually doing it. You really can’t turn down a dare, can you?”

  “Physically impossible. How do I look?”

  “Hot as hell, of course, but also like you just drank half a bottle of tequila and you’re about to make several poor life choices that will require bail money and possibly an antibiotic.”

  The room stops spinning long enough for me to be able to successfully lean in and give Carson a quick kiss on the cheek without falling, a reassuring smile on my face as I pull away.

  “I’ve got it all under control; don’t worry about me. It’s not like I’m ever going to see or talk to that man again after tonight. I’m gonna be a pass rusher and get to his juicy end zone.” I wink at Carson, trying to make a cat-clawing motion with my hands but just ending up looking like I’m smacking at air.

  “Yeah,” he replies in a not-so-encouraging voice. “You’re going to worry about the dare after you apologize to him, of course.”

  “Of course! What could possibly go wrong?”

  And just like that, I’ve completely forgotten every scary movie I’ve ever seen, when someone always jinxes themselves by asking that question, and then they die a slow, tragic, painful death.

  This night isn’t going to kill me slowly or tragically, but I’m pretty sure the aftermath might.

  CHAPTER 1

  Emily

  “Fuck you, fuck you, and definitely fuck you.”

  Present day

  Summersweet Island

  “That’s it! We’re having an intervention!”

  When the front door to the Sandbar Cottages rental office bangs against the opposite wall after being flung open, I don’t bother looking up from my phone. I also unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn with my free hand before replying.

  “Will this be a small, intimate affair that can take place in one of our regular-sized cottages that sleeps four, or are you planning something a little larger that will require a family cottage that sleeps twelve?” I reply in a bored voice, resting my elbow on the new white shiplap check-in counter my dad built while I was living in California. Putting my chin in my hand, I continue tapping away on the screen of my phone.

  “Emily, I’m serious,” Wren complains with a huff as I bring my phone up closer to my face, wondering if I need glasses.

  “So am I. No one wants a shitty intervention. What size cottage you want will tell me how much you love me and how serious you are about intervening me. You know there isn’t enough counter space in the smaller cottages for complimentary veggie, cookie, and cheese trays, ever since I had those larger pantries installed last month. If I have to sit through my loved ones reading me poorly written
letters, I want all three.”

  My phone is immediately snatched from my hand, and I let out a grunt of annoyance that I temporarily forgot Wren is a mom and has the ninja-like ability to make it across the room at the speed of light without making a sound.

  “Come on, man. After four days, I was finally gonna make it past Level 212 of Mahjong,” I complain, finally looking up at my best friend standing on the other side of the counter with my phone in her hand, shaking her head at me.

  “This isn’t my normal, peppy, happy-go-lucky, up-for-anything friend, and I don’t like it,” Wren gripes, crossing her arms in front of her and glaring at me.

  Wren Bennett is an adorably hot MILF, with dark-brown hair always piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing her usual Summersweet Island uniform of cut-off jean shorts and a hoodie, whose hugs and smiles can probably achieve world peace. But when Wren gives you a stern look and a foot tap, you immediately feel her wrath and feel bad about whatever behavior brought on her disappointed “mom look.” Guilt churns in my stomach that I haven’t been honest with my best friend, or anyone, since I’ve been home. Clearly, I’ve been doing a shitty job of keeping up the farce my stupid, drunk brain came up with five months ago.

  “I’m sorry.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair behind the counter and letting my head drop back to stare up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling. “I’m just so bored.”

  If that isn’t the understatement of the year, I don’t know what is. One of the perks of living on an island is the ocean view. But being stuck in the Sandbar Cottages rental office all day, right smack in the middle of town at the very end of Summersweet Lane where all the businesses are located—a good distance away from the shoreline—means I don’t even have that. The only view I have is of people sporadically walking by on the sidewalk and these four walls. White ceiling, attached to white walls, down to the white hardwood floor in this small cottage office my mother decided to “modernize,” also while I was away. I guess “modernize” in my mother’s eyes means sterile, blank, and lifeless.