by June Winters
“Oh, you mean, the same way a boy that age always does when he has a crush on a girl?” Piper asked, obviously implying that was the case with Beau and I.
“Not the same, Piper.” I shook my head defiantly. “Plus, he was a total thorn in my side when I decided I wanted to go by Camille instead of Rachel. He refused to call me Camille, just like you saw at the bakery. And since everyone in school followed Beau's lead, I stayed 'Rachel' in everyone's eyes, all throughout high school. That was annoying as hell.”
“Okay, I can see that. Still, it kinda sounds like he had a thing for you.”
I chuckled. “Then why would he always loudly proclaim that I wasn't the sweet, smart, quiet girl everyone thought I was?”
“Whaaat?”
“Yeah. He'd swear up and down that I had this dark side. I didn't get it. It was so random, but it infuriated me.”
“That's definitely weird.” Piper paused and gave me a stare. “And you're sure you have no idea why he'd say something like that?”
After a long pause, I sighed.
“Okay, I should admit one thing. But I doubt it's related.”
Piper rubbed her hands together gleefully. “Oh, I bet it is.”
“After the BBB website was started, someone came along and started a site that was anti-BBB. It was called the Beau Bradford Blandwagon. It was written to be a satire of the fan-club, and poked fun at the cult of celebrity surrounding him. It had jokes about how dumb it was that everyone glorified him, when really, he just happened to be good at shooting a rubber disc into a net. I mean really, so what? Who cares? He wasn't going to solve the world's problems or anything like that. He was good at a sport. The end.”
Piper's knowing eyes narrowed into slits. “And you—”
I gave a nod. “And yes, I'm the one who started that site.”
“Camille!” Piper burst out with laughter. “That's such a bitch move!”
“But the site was anonymous, Piper. There's no way he could've known it was me. Anyone could've written it. And the site was only up for a few months before I deleted it. I doubt anyone even saw it but my small group of friends. So I really doubt that's what this whole thing is about.”
She threw her arms into the air. “Of course that's what it's about! You injured his pride!”
I covered my mouth and giggled. I was amused, but equally ashamed. “You really think so?”
“Yes!”
But no matter how much I tried to, I couldn't believe it. “He would've said something.”
“He did! He said you had a dark side. Which, by the way, you apparently do.” Piper choked back laughter.
“But Beau's no stranger to confrontation. He would've said something more directly if he knew it was me.”
“Maybe he was just testing you to see if you were the guilty party? Who knows.” Piper rose from the couch and stretched. “Anyway. We should probably get ready to go, dude.”
“Yeah, alright.” I finished my drink and stood.
While Piper ran to her bedroom, I gave myself one last nervous stare in the bathroom mirror.
A moment later, Piper appeared in the mirror behind me. She put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a reassuring squeeze.
“Don't worry. You look like a babe.”
“But I—”
She cut me off. “I know, I know. You don't care, because you and Beau hate each other, blah, blah, blah. I'm just letting you know: you look like a babe.”
I swallowed. “Thanks.”
“Now c'mon. We gotta get going or we're going to miss them.”
We rushed out of her building and hailed a cab out front. Destination: Club 1 OAK in Chelsea.
***
Doubts and second thoughts raced through my mind as we joined the end of the line to enter the club. My stomach sank deeper each time the doorman turned away a girl—girls who were prettier than me, girls who had better figures and tighter dresses.
I felt sick to my stomach.
Why did I agree to this? What am I trying to prove?
I didn't know. I wasn't a popular girl back when I went to school with Beau, and I definitely wasn't the kind of girl to be spotted at popular NYC clubs now.
“I dunno about this, Piper,” I mumbled nervously as we slowly advanced through the queue.
“No turning back now!” she chirped confidently.
After a bit of a wait, it was our turn to get judged. The bouncer appraised Piper and I with a side-long glare. “Welcome to 1 OAK, ladies.” He opened the door for us.
I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and a smug sense of self-satisfaction rushed over me—because I was hot enough to get into this club, damn it!
Be careful, Camille, I warned myself. Don't enjoy that too much.
Because that feeling—that pride, that hubris—is what possessed Beau Bradford all those years ago, and infected all the girls he let into his circle.
We stepped in and a wall of sound hit me, like running face-first into a brick wall. The club was packed with bodies. The air was hot and humid, and the scent of booze and sweat hung in the air. Piper and I had to push our way into the crowd, slowly carving a path through the dance floor. Well-dressed men and women bumped and ground against one another to the loud beat of the music.
“This is nuts!” I shouted. “What are we doing here?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? We're going to hang out with your boyfriend and all his professional athlete buddies!”
“He's not my boyfriend!”
But I had to fight back a smile. If you spend enough time feverishly denying something, you might end up surprised by the doubts that begin to creep into your own mind:
What if I'm wrong? What if Piper's right? What if there was something between us all along?
Still, I knew the appeal of Beau was the impossible fantasy. The alpha-male sports hero who decides to settle down with one girl, even though he has his pick of the women. And anyone silly enough to be lured in by the fantasy always ended up getting burned—just ask any of Beau's broken-hearted exes from high school.
Because guys like Beau didn't settle down. They didn't have to. They had a golden ticket in life, and they wouldn't give it up for someone like me. And that's why he was allowed to get away with being such a massive dick.
But deep in my heart, there was some small part of me, some nugget of my soul, that so badly wished Piper could be right—even if I hated myself for being so weak and vulnerable. So pathetically human.
Just then, a second later, I spotted the booth in the back of the club. And that idiotic nugget of my soul was crushed out of existence, squashed like a troublesome bug.
Oh God.
I tapped Piper on the shoulder and discreetly pointed out the smarmy athlete in the dress shirt and suit jacket.
“There's my boyfriend, Piper.”
Beau Bradford hadn't changed at all. He sat with his arms around not one, not two, not even three—but four girls. Four. All of them young and bright-eyed and vying for his attention, their boobs damn-near spilling out of their tiny dresses.
Piper finally spotted Beau, and a hand went straight to her mouth with surprise. I could see the regret in her face—surely now she understood what we were dealing with. But did she see the role she'd played in getting my hopes up?
Stewing with resentment, I turned around to high-tail it out of the club. But Piper grabbed me by the hand and stopped me.
“Wait. One drink,” she said. “We came all this way. We might as well have one drink.”
I blew out a heavy breath. “Fine. One drink.”
I put a hand up to hide my face and let Piper lead me to the bar. There, she 'accidentally' bumped into the men standing next to us and struck up a conversation. They offered to buy us both a drink, and Piper happily accepted.
“Now listen,” she whispered to me. “You're going to play along and do what I say.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I know you and Beau better than you know
each other.”
Oh, give it up already … I don't like the guy. I don't care.
Chapter 6
One of a Kind
Beau
The light was dim and the music loud and everyone had to shout to be heard at Club 1 OAK. We relaxed in the VIP lounge in the back of the venue, in a huge circular booth made out of plush velvet.
Yeah, so I had a moment of weakness. After dinner, I got bored while killing time at the hotel. I ended up reinstalling MeatMarket on my phone and messaged back a handful of those girls to meet us here.
And here they were. I had two girls on my left, two girls on my right, and both my arms around their shoulders. As the night got later, the girls scooted closer and closer until their warm bodies pressed against mine. After the first drink, their hands started moving under the table and out-of-sight. They traced their finger-nails up and down my thigh as a silent competition played out between them.
Normally, a little tease like that is enough to get me hard. I'm not ashamed of it—touch me like you want me, and yeah, I'll grow some wood. The girls always eventually notice the bulge running down my trousers—and then it's just a matter of time before they start secretly touching that under the table, too.
Tonight, though?
For whatever reason, it wasn't working. I guess I wasn't all that excited. I dunno, maybe Hunter was right. My head was in the clouds all day for some reason and I couldn't figure out why.
“BEAU!” Vinny yelled. The boys were embroiled in some kind of debate that I was supposed to be paying attention to, apparently. “You're awfully quiet over there. What do you think?”
“… About what?”
“Christ! Aren't you listening?”
I took a sip from my vodka-water and gave him a careless shrug.
The girl on my left jumped in with a giggle. “Can't you see? His mind is elsewhere.” She ran her fingers against my stomach, fondling the ridged texture of my abs through my shirt. Then she whispered in my ear. “You look so strong and sexy tonight, Beau.”
The girl on my right, not to be outdone, moved closer. She whispered in my ear so close, her gin-and-diet-soda breath clouding my space. “Just say the word when you wanna go. Remember: I'm your girl. All night.”
I gave her a polite smile. “Yeah, maybe later.”
I checked my watch. Two hours until curfew. Where the heck was she?
If Hunter had any idea that I had four girls hanging off me, but I was still thinking about the one who wasn't here? He'd bust my balls and come up with all sorts of conspiracy theories about how she's the one I wanted all along! Or some horseshit.
Thankfully, Hunter was back at the hotel—ever since he got married, he's not really into partying with the boys anymore. Which is probably why he's always telling us younger guys about how great life is once you settle down. Dude's just lonely, that's all. When we're on the road, he has to sit in that hotel room by himself. Highlight of his day is a 10 minute conversation with his wife when they talk about their days. And then they run out of things to say to each other and hang up.
No thanks. Not what I want.
I'll take this instead: four hot girls, whose names I can't even remember. Four hot girls who know they'll never see me again and don't even give a shit. Four hot girls who would happily fight each other just for the chance to—
Camille?
I peeked up just in time to see her. Camille and the other girl from the bakery—Piper, I think. My heart started beating a little faster, and for once, I started feeling more like myself.
She's here.
And damn. Damn. She looked amazing. She'd worn a strapless dress; the sexy little item hugged her hourglass curves and pushed her lovely, perky tits up, daring you to stare. I practically salivated at the sight and tried to lure her over with my eyes.
But Camille and her friend didn't come over to sit with us. Instead, they turned and fled straight to the bar.
Huh? Didn't she see me over here?
She had to have seen me, though. She looked right at me. I know she did.
But then why the hell was she hiding her face like that?
I watched as Camille and her friend went up to some Wall Street looking guys and struck up a conversation. Those girls were way out of those two greaseballs' league. Why the hell were they even talking to them?
A stifling heat boiled under my shirt collar. I tugged at it and grunted, but no relief came. Suddenly, a heat swallowed me whole. I pushed my shoulders against the girls on my left and right, trying to get a little extra space.
“Hey, what's wrong?” the girl on the left asked.
“I'm hot.”
“Yeah you are,” she flirted, moving right back.
I pushed her away again. “No, I'm not being cute with you. I'm seriously burning up over here.”
“Sheesh, alright, you don't have to be a dick-head about it,” she snapped. “Fucking asshole.”
“Whatever.”
With a tense knot in my throat, I watched as those Wall Street bastards tried to run their game on the two girls. Just from their body language, I could just see the horrible conversation going down:
Guys: Hey ladies, what do you do? Great. We're financial analysts. Yeah, here's exactly how our jobs work in painstaking technical detail …
Girls: ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
I mean, Camille and Piper looked so bored. But they finished their drinks and then the guys ordered a round of shots for everyone. And then they took the girls to the dance floor.
Okay. Hell no.
I couldn't sit here and watch this torture anymore.
“Hey, lemme out,” I growled as I climbed over my teammates to get out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” the girls mewled.
“Don't worry about it.”
I made my way to the dance floor and bee-lined straight for Camille and her guy. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Hey bud. You mind if I get this dance?”
He looked at Camille. What was he looking at her for? Did he expect her to be the man in this situation?
“But—I just—” he whimpered.
I stepped in front of him and budged him out of the way. “Thanks, pal.”
Camille stared daggers at me. And Mr. Wall Street stood on the sidelines and glared at me too.
For a second, he looked like he might actually want to do something about it. Not that I was worried. I stood a head taller and had at least 70 pounds of muscle on him. What was he going to do? Scold me?
But then that anger left his face in a flash, replaced by a boyish excitement instead.
“Wait a minute. I just realized—you're Beau Bradford!” he squealed. “Can I get a selfie with you?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Sorry bud. I don't do selfies.”
“Oh, uh, okay … thanks anyway.” And with that, Mr. Wall Street put his head down and left me alone with his woman.
My woman now.
I grinned at Camille. She didn't look too thrilled—but for me, that whole scenario couldn't have gone down any more perfectly. Over the loud club music, I had to lean in and speak directly into her ear.
“Sup Rach? Glad you could make it.”
She gave me a dirty stare.
I leaned in again. The closeness was nice, even if we hated each other. I could feel her warm puffs of breath against my neck.
“Sorry if I butted in on something there. That was some guy you were talking to.” I chuckled sarcastically. “C'mon, you can do better than him.”
She stood on her tip-toes to reach my ear. She reached for my navel with her tiny hand and grabbed a handful of my shirt to hang on for support. I leaned down and met her half-way.
“You're such an ass, Beau.” She slapped at my shoulder angrily. “He was actually nice. You know what that word means, right? Being kind and considerate to people? You might try it sometime.”
“Oh, yeah,” I grinned. “You sure know a lot about that, don't you?”
Her
eyes darted to the left. “I dunno what you're getting at.”
I didn't lean in to say anything that time. I just forced a smile.
A crowd of bodies surrounded us, moving to the club's hip-hop beats. They closed in on us, tightening like a knot.
“So, you wanna dance or what?” I shouted over the music.
“What about your harem?” she shouted, nodding in the direction of the four MeatMarket girls. Each of the four girls had a glowing phone screen jammed in their faces—a sight that made me roll my eyes. “Won't they be mad?”
“You think I care?”
“I know you don't care!” she shouted with a wicked smile. “That's why I said you're an ass!”
I had to laugh. She had a point.
But whatever. I wanted to dance. So I put my hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer. Camille sneered at my touch and stood her ground—but I knew part of her liked it anyway. And sure enough, once I started moving to the beats, she started moving with me.
Take note, Mr. Wall Street. That's how you do it.
The beat thumped in my body, pounding at the point where my the base of my skull and spine met. I let my thoughts go and let the music come to me. I let raw instinct take over, the same way I do in a game.
And raw instinct loved it all: the pissed-off smirk she wore at first, like she wanted to run off but couldn't actually convince herself to do it. Or the way she always defiantly pried my hand free from her waist the second I tried to grab her. Or when we got so close, her soft, round breasts brushed against me—and a wave of heat swept over my heart. Or when she whipped her hair about, and whiffs of her dangerously intoxicating scent filled my senses.
Hell. Now I wanted her closer.
I wrapped my hands around her waist. I could span her, all of her, between my large hands. I ran the tips of my thumbs over the softness of her taut belly.
With a scowl, she grabbed hold and peeled my hands off her again. She stood on her toes and shouted in my ear.
“Keep your hands to yourself!”
But I'd be a fool not to notice the conflicted way the tips of her nails glided up and down my chest—like she wasn't sure if she wanted to shred my heart out or grab a hunk of muscle and hold on.
