Ruckus

by L.J. Shen

  Rosie

  Yeah.

  I stared at the word hard. No girl had ever one-worded me in a text message before. This chick was like egomaniac boot camp. I began to type my next text when another one came through.

  Rosie

  I’m sorry. So, so sorry this has happened. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I can’t leave this room, because I don’t want to face Millie. What kind of sister am I? Please let’s pretend last night never happened.

  Dean

  Okay.

  Rosie

  Okay?

  Dean

  If that’s what you need to tell yourself before we fuck again, I’m not going to burst your little bubble. I’m thinking we should have In-N-Out for lunch. I have a feeling the rehearsal dinner is going to be boring as fuck. What do you think?

  Rosie

  I think you can’t read. I said we can’t do this EVER AGAIN.

  Dean

  I said In-N-Out. I didn’t say fisting you on a balcony overlooking the romantic view of the Pacific Ocean.

  Dean

  (I’m game if you wanna do that tho.)

  Rosie

  No.

  Dean

  I’ll bring weed.

  Rosie

  NO.

  Dean

  I’ll bring my dick.

  Rosie

  How is that helping?!

  Dean

  After last night, I think you know the answer to that question ;)

  Rosie

  No dice, Ruckus. Today you’re on your own. Forget it ever happened. I know I will.

  I smiled, leaned back, and read her message again. She was going to come around—and on my dick—in no time.

  After I dropped Trent at his parents’ new house in Todos Santos, I stayed there a couple of hours to catch up with Trisha and Darius Rexroth. They were practically my second parents. I then went straight to the gym at the country club my (real) parents were members of and worked out some sweat. Punching bags and running on the treadmill calmed me down, even if only a little.

  After I was done with my workout, I walked to the sauna and sat on a wooden bench, pressing my back against the wall.

  You need to stop drinking, asshole.

  I needed to stop doing a lot of toxic shit, but what was the point? What was the point in not fucking three women at a time, or drinking until I passed out, or smoking every morning and every night to take the edge off?

  That was not to say that I was unhappy. I liked my job. Making money felt good. Burning it on crap I didn’t need felt even better. And I had a great family I wanted to see more of. But the space between phone calls from my family and friends and the long hours I spent at work was empty, so I filled it with pussy, alcohol, weed, and relentlessly pursuing the one girl I should stay away from.

  “Dean? Dean Cole?”

  The guy who walked into the sauna looked familiar. I blinked away my latest hangover (courtesy of the four gins I downed after I got settled at Vicious’s last night). On second glance, I recognized him. Matt Burton. A guy from high school. We were on the football team together. Not a star by any stretch of the imagination—that title was saved for Trent and me—but still a popular kid. He got rounder around the stomach, which was expected, not everyone was a vain-ass motherfucker like myself, and his hair seemed thinner. We bumped knuckles, because hugging when there was nothing but two towels separating our dicks was unacceptable. He slouched beside me.

  “You look good.” Matt let out a heavy sigh.

  “You look happy.” His laugh confirmed my assessment. He raised his left hand and waved a golden wedding band in triumph. “I am. Married with two daughters now. How ’bout you?”

  “You know me.” I hitched one shoulder. But apparently, he didn’t know, because he was still awaiting my answer. “Still sampling my options.”

  “Here in California?” He sniffed. His gut was spilling over the edge of his towel. I looked down to my towel. My abs were barely touching the white fabric. My tan flesh clung to my six-pack like a desperate Pats fangirl after the Super Bowl. Maybe eating tacos made Matt happy, but eating pussy made me happy. They looked about the same, but pussy had less calories. Plus, you always had room for seconds.

  “New York, actually. You?” I asked out of politeness. I didn’t give half a fuck. Matt was a nice guy, but I saw my ex-teammates and college friends get married. They always got fat, boring, and weirdly content with their tedious everyday rituals. No, thanks.

  “Stayed here. Bought a house just outside Todos Santos. Up-and-coming development. Got my accounting degree and recently became a partner at my dad’s firm.”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  “That’s awesome.” I stood up. I was feeling a little woozy. Guess it was really time to cut back on all the fucking crap I shoved into my body. “Well, gotta go. It was fun to catch up.”

  “Dean,” Matt said, and I felt his hand on my shoulder, and why the fuck was his hand on my shoulder? I turned around. He was standing, too. We looked at each other. Not like friends. Not like enemies. Not like anything. I wanted to go.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. If there ever was a more annoying question in the history of questions, it must have been ‘can you come outside? I don’t swallow’. But ‘are you okay’ was definitely a close second.

  “Yeah,” I said, leaving out “why?” I didn’t care why he asked.

  Matt offered me an awkward smile, removing his hand from my goddamn body, resting his hands on his hips. “You know, I always thought you’d marry the LeBlanc girl. You guys just had this spark.”

  I let out a chuckle. Not bitter, just amused. “Who? Millie?”

  He shook his head, his expression collapsing into a frown. “The other one. The one who always came to watch us play with her friends and ogled you. She was a hottie. Didn’t put out, though. Then again, she did look like a mouthy bitch.”

  Rosie.

  Still a hottie.

  Only hearing someone else say it inspired my inner jealous asshole, and I wanted to throw a punch in his face. Maybe it was because I still felt her mouth against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing with heat on my lips, and her moans gliding over my skin. Whatever it was, it made me back Matt to the wooden wall with my deadly expression and whisper, “Hey, Matt? Next time you talk about Rosie LeBlanc like that, make sure I’m not around. Because if I hear it, I’ll beat your ass and make sure you can’t see what she looks like these days. By the way, she’s still more beautiful than any woman who’d ever agree to touch you, and you were right, you genius motherfucker, she is going to be my wife one day. Goodbye.”

  What makes you feel alive?

  Regret. For regret reminds you that life has a weight. Sometimes it’s heavier. Sometimes it’s lighter.

  DEAR SELECTIVE AMNESIA,

  I need you in my life right now.

  Yours,

  Hopelessly idiotic girl

  Sitting on the bed wearing my percussion vest and staring at the poster-covered wall, I dangled my feet in the air as I replayed every second of last night.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I was the idiot. Not Dean. Dean simply took what I foolishly offered him in my drunken haze. Jesus, he was the voice of reason (now here’s a sentence I never thought I would utter, even in my mind) who asked me repeatedly if I was too drunk. Dean, who was sweet enough to wrap me in blankets.

  You know you’re in a bad place when Mr. Manwhore Galore is your knight in Brooks Brothers’s armor.

  It was a moment of weakness, but it would never happen again. Tonight, I was going to be on my best behavior at the rehearsal dinner. Millie only had one bridesmaid—yours truly—and I wasn’t going to screw this up. Not after everything she’d done for me.

  Besides, as far as I was concerned, Dean and I never had sex. And we certainly didn’t have the best sex I’d ever had—so filthy, and hot, it was on a whole different level than what I’d experienced before. Because if a tree falls in the forest and no one is ther
e to hear it, does it still make a sound?

  In other words, what Millie didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. I wasn’t going to say a word. Neither would Dean.

  A knock on the door made me click the pause button on my replay of the scene where Dean pushed me onto his hot tongue and bit my clit. A scene that never happened, I reminded myself. I scooted up and smoothed my hair away from my face.

  “It’s open.”

  Millie came in with a tray full of goodies. Her smile was apologetic. Probably about last night. I smiled back, reaching for a drawer next to the bed and sliding it open.

  “Got you breakfast,” she announced.

  “Got you dessert,” I said. Being a music buff had its perks. Millie liked punk rock and alternative music, too, but unlike me, she was too busy to look for those small, up-and-coming indie bands that shouldered their way into the scene. Me, that was what I lived for. To seek them out and hunt them down. So I always made sure I had a stack of demos to give my sister every time I saw her.

  Producing a USB the shape of Beetlejuice’s Ernie, I dangled it before her eyes.

  “Wait till you hear Zack Wade’s voice.” I grinned. “He has a talent for playing the guitar and the strings of your hormones.”

  She placed the tray with the pancakes, maple syrup, and freshly brewed coffee on my nightstand, muttering, “My hormones are playing just fine,” before biting down on her lip. Upon closer inspection, her eyes bloodshot and her purple hair a mess.

  “Dude, are you okay?” I got up on my feet, bracing her into a hug but supporting her weight at the same time. The vest was still on me, and there was a giant tube between us, but we were so used to it, none of us paid any attention. Millie went completely limp in my arms. It had better not been Vicious causing trouble. Although, I had to give him one thing. Ever since they hooked up, he had been an exceptional man to Millie. Too bad he was a cunt to everyone else.

  “I’m great!” She waved her hand around, dismissing the question and straightening her posture. “Probably a stomach bug or nerves. Vicious is taking me to the doctor for a check. It’s already ten and you haven’t left your room. I came in to see if you were okay.”

  I wasn’t okay. I was the opposite of okay. I was just too busy fantasizing about your ex-boyfriend, seconds from shoving a hand into my underwear.

  “I’m sorry.” I pulled her into another hug, my chin on her shoulder. “I took advantage of this little vacay. Normally I open up the coffee shop at six thirty and don’t go to bed before ten or eleven.”

  “Still volunteering with the babies?” She scrunched her nose. I looked down at my hands, bracing myself for another lecture. “You need to stop.” Her voice was forgiving.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen.”

  “You’re hurting yourself. Why would you do that?”

  Because I couldn’t volunteer anywhere else. All the other places—hospitals, clinics, hospices—were full of sick people, and my immune system was as brittle as my heart when it came to a certain HotHole.

  “Trust me, I’m no saint. If I didn’t love it, I wouldn’t do it. What about you? Excited about the rehearsal this evening?” I changed the subject.

  Millie exhaled and plopped down on the cushions. I sat back down, but didn’t stare at the ceiling like she did. I couldn’t with my vest.

  “I guess. The bachelorette party is what I’m really waiting for, though. It will be nice to spend some time together.”

  Millie and I had only been apart for one year, when I was a senior, before I boarded a plane and joined her in New York. We went from living together for years to living on different sides of the country.

  “Do you want me to come with you to the doctor?” I smoothed her hair. “I can do a coffee run, watch your car if you don’t find a parking space. Be your bitch.” I wiggled my brows.

  “No need.” Millie’s gaze shifted, her hands landing on her thighs, but this time, she didn’t rub them.

  I wasn’t stupid. The symptoms added up quickly. She was sick in the morning, woozy all day yesterday, and Mama didn’t want her doing any heavy lifting. Still, before I was an ex-nursing school student and a human being with a functioning brain, I was a sister. A sister who knew my sibling wouldn’t keep this kind of news from me.

  Because there was nothing I wanted more than to see her happy.

  And I knew that a baby would make Millie really, really happy.

  “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” I asked, keeping my voice as casual as possible.

  “No,” she said curtly, caressing my arm again, as she often did to soothe me. “Everything’s great.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “But that’s the answer you’re getting.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, come on, Rosie-bug. I’m getting married in a few days. I’m allowed to have a few off days.”

  Fair enough. I spun in place and turned off the machine hooked to the vest, then went through the usual ritual of folding everything and tucking it in place. After that, we talked some more. Mainly about wedding preparations and how she thought I kind of looked like Emma Stone from certain angles (she brought it up…not me).

  “Good luck at the doctor’s,” I said, when Vicious called Millie from downstairs and she walked through the door. The tray was still by my bed, and it would remain untouched until I got rid of it. I’d lost my appetite at dinner yesterday and never got it back.

  I flung my body into the bed and closed my eyes again, ignoring the thump between them and Mama shouting at Daddy downstairs to go to the store and get Millie Twinkies.

  They hadn’t spoken a word to me all morning, and since Millie hadn’t brought them up, I knew I was still in the doghouse. I would happily stay there for the remainder of this visit.

  I wasn’t going to apologize for who I was. For who I wanted to be.

  Independent and free.

  I WAS CATCHING UP ON work emails and administrative shit when Vicious came to his balcony where I sat and slumped on the opposite couch. By the shit-eating grin on his face, I was guessing that someone had died or that he knew something that was going to rock my boat, or at the very least, create a hole in it. He didn’t mean to be an evil fucker. I think he was just born this way.

  Working on the terrace was a good call, because I couldn’t concentrate anywhere else. I saw Rosie’s mom knocking on her door twice, nasally whining for her to do this and that—with Rosie barely answering back—and her dad bitching to Millie in the hallway about how his eldest daughter should just buy Rosie a ticket and make the decision for her. “Her irresponsibility will cost her her life,” I heard him say.

  “I’m graying because of her. Graying!” her mother added.

  Pricks.

  “Hello, fuck-face,” Vicious greeted me.

  “Howdy, asswipe,” I retorted, pulling out a blunt from behind my ear and lighting it casually, looking at Vicious like he just pissed into one of four different bowls of soup on a table and I wasn’t sure which. I was always suspicious of him. He of me, too.

  “Care to share?” He jerked his chin toward my blunt. I inhaled and passed it on, smoke skulking from between my lips.

  “So why are you really here? Your parents aren’t remodeling shit. I saw Eli downtown this morning when I took Em for her doctor’s appointment.”

  I put my MacBook down on the coffee table and leaned back, tapping my lip with my Zippo lighter as I considered his question before I broke the news to him.

  “I’m going after Baby LeBlanc.”

  “I sure as fuck hope you mean Rosie and not my future kid.”

  “Christ.” I rolled my eyes, leaning forward to snatch the blunt from him. “And then people accuse me of being the creepy one.”

  Vicious grinned. He wasn’t pissed off. He wasn’t even surprised. Astonishingly, he wasn’t against it either.

  “Finally, eh? What took you so long?”

  I shrugged. “Didn’t know she was in New York. And by the time I did, an
d she moved into the apartment, she had a boyfriend. She is single now. Not for long.”

  Vicious raised one skeptic eyebrow, his lips curving to one side. Of course, he didn’t give half a fuck if I went after Rosie. It made perfect sense to him, and why wouldn’t it? His wife-to-be, on the other hand, held a different opinion.

  Millie and I were civil, but she didn’t trust me. Which was ironic, considering our history.

  “Emilia is not going to like it.”

  “I didn’t like it either when Emilia started fucking one of my closest friends in my apartment. I got over it. Quickly, I may add.”

  “Watch your fucking mouth,” Vicious snapped, his eyes flaring, before smirking. “You took ten percent of the company from me.”

  “And gave it back to you.” I smiled.

  “For a lot of money.”

  “Which you have,” I retorted. “You’re a billionaire. We both know you paid because I needed to make you pay. You can wipe your ass with double the price you paid me and still not notice it missing from your bank account. It was a lesson. Have you learned anything?”

  “Yes.” Vicious gave me the stink eye. “That you’re no less an asshole than I am, even though you definitely hide it better. Millie thinks you’re trouble.”

  Now it was my turn to give him my I-don’t-give-a-fuck smirk. I wasn’t even trying to defend myself. What was the point?

  “And I tend to agree.” He snatched the blunt.

  “I’m hurt.” I clutched the left side of my orange Armani tee and made a face. “But I’ll live.”

  “Whether you live or not solely depends on how the shit with Rosie is going to pan out. If you break her heart, use her, and shit all over this, I’d have to take a side.” I knew which one he was going to take. Vicious and I were genuinely good friends. We spoke on the phone all the time. We had a good laugh. But we were wary of one another, too. It was just one of those things. There was never competition between Jaime and Trent, or Trent and me, or Vicious and Jaime. But there was always a silent, bloody war between Vicious and me.