by S. E. Hall
“Got it.” I nod. “This is our row, turn in.”
We shuffle sideways, knocking against people’s legs, all whom act like it’s putting them out and tempt me to “accidently” spill some beer on them. Finally in our seats, she turns in hers to look me in the eyes. “You said you loved her. Earlier, at her apartment.”
“I what?” Pretty sure they heard me backstage…and now I do spill some beer.
“Uh huh,” she bobs her head several times, sporting a huge, clever smile. “In her room, when she told you she wasn’t on Snapchat. You said, and I quote, ‘God, I love you. That’s my girl.’”
Well fuck me sideways, I sure as hell did. And perhaps a bit slow on the uptake, I catch up, putting the pieces together. In the car, after she asked me if there was anything else I loved besides her skirt…clueless, I’d brushed right over it.
“JT.” Brynn shakes me. “What is it? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
“It’s a good possibility. I, I don’t know how to fix it, because now I have two problems and no answers to either one.” I swallow down the rising, acidic burn of worry.
“Well, you’ve got to get that puke-green hue and bug-eyed stare gone before she gets here, so tell me the problems and we’ll speed-solve.”
Love my Brynny, so level-headed. At the moment, anyway.
“Problem numero-uno is obviously fixing things with Bellamy. I don’t want her mad, sad, confused…nothing. Just happy. But I’m not sure how to fix the first until I figure out the second.”
“Which is?” She already knows; her poker face is a know-it-all, mile-wide grin.
I take a big drink from one of the beers, wipe my mouth, inhale…and blurt it out. “Do I love her? They say the subconscious stores information we either don’t have room to, or don’t want to, comprehend.”
“I can’t answer that, Freud. This one’s all on you, brother,” she laughs. “You’re a smart guy, fix the first one now, as honestly as you can, and take your time figuring out the second. Now sshh, here they come.”
We stand, Brynn moving down, and when arranged to everyone’s liking, we sit: me, Bellamy, Presley, Sutton, Brynn, and Ryder. Guys on the endcaps, all the girls caged between us, safe…just how I like it.
Presley’s showing off the shirt she bought when I notice Bellamy doesn’t have one. I bend to her ear. “Baby, I thought you wanted a shirt?”
“Nah, I’m good. I just went to keep Presley company in line.”
Presley, unable to be anyone but herself, leans forward with her eavesdropping ass. “She’s lying. She wanted one but refused to let me buy it for her.”
“I’m sorry, Bellamy, I wasn’t thinking. Let’s-”
“Jefferson Tate Kendrick, if you offer to buy me a thirty-five-dollar t-shirt or make one move for your wallet, we’re gonna have problems. I said I was good,” she softens her tone and rubs my leg. “Promise.”
“Whatever you say,” I lean in and kiss her, looking past her to Presley, who grins and nods—she’ll grab the shirt for me and say it was from her.
Squad Secret Language—no one’s immune.
I pass a beer to Presley, Sutton and Ryder, and again, realize I’m the world’s worst date. “You want me to run and get you a drink?” I ask Bellamy.
“I’ll just share with you, if that’s okay?”
“That’s more than okay.” I give her another quick kiss, searching for the right moment to say the perfect thing—whatever that is—to fix my earlier slip of tongue. Or was it?
Just when we’re all settled in, I sense someone standing over my shoulder and look up. “Can I help you?” I ask the guy, about my age and obviously lost…the number of piercings in his face screaming that he took a wrong turn on his way to a Sons of Satan concert (if that’s a band) and ended up at Sam Hunt instead.
“Yeah, dude,” he slurs…confusing me again; not sure if he’s drunk, stoned, both or thinks talking like that adds to his persona. “That hot fucking piece of gash,” he points down the row to, I think Presley, “is in my seat. See?” He holds out a ticket.
And now it doesn’t matter that one of us, with Sutton’s surprise arrival, probably is in his seat. Nor will I be offering him money to trade one of us seats, which I would have done…before. Before he referred to my cousin as “a hot fucking piece of gash.”
And Sutton heard him.
“I’m sitting here now,” Sutton doesn’t bother getting up, yet, and pulls “his” ticket out of his jeans pocket, flipping in the air to land on the sticky, I-wouldn’t-go-digging-round-down-there ground. “Pick it up, that’s your new seat. We traded,” Sutton tells him, calm and matter-of-factly.
“No way man,” dumb-as-fuck, pierced, maybe stoned guy argues. “I’m taking the seat I paid for, next to her.” He gives Presley a leering once-over and licks his lips…baring his desperate need for pro-bono orthodontic work. Unless of course, he has money, and chooses not to spend it on frivolous things such as toothpaste and soap; in which case, forget the pro-bono part.
Sutton’s what I like to think of as a “gentle giant.” He’s fucking giant, but he’s giving the guy more than one chance to live, thus the “gentle” part. But now, Sutton’s regular-looking teeth are bared and he’s braced on his armrests, about to push up from his seat. The intensity is already palpable, and Bellamy’s shaking like a thin limb in a windstorm beside me, so I try to intervene.
“Listen dude,” I plead with the guy in his language, “if that motherfucker stands up, the only gash around here will be the deep one, down the middle of your face. Trust me on this.” I dig out my wallet, putting aside the vulgar insult to my cousin for the sake of peace, and pull out a twenty. Then, knowing Brynny will have hand sanitizer in her purse…’cause that’s how she rolls…I bend over and pick up the ticket off the ground for him. “Here, a perfectly good seat and twenty bucks for your trouble. Who knows, maybe this seat will be surrounded by even hotter girls.” I pray there’s not, or they have big boyfriends with them.
“Make it forty.” He tries to grin, it really is a horrific sight, and I sigh, reaching for my wallet.
Sutton takes a step toward him with each sinisterly low word of warning. “Fuck. You. Dude. Take the twenty, the ticket, your death wish, and get the fuck outta my sight. Countin’ to three. Can you count that high?”
And we’re done. Both the money and ticket are ripped from my hand and Stony takes off so fast a cloud of his putrid scent flies off him, gagging us all for a second. Too damn funny; Sutton didn’t even need to talk, he could’ve simply stood up and gotten the same reaction.
“We all good?” he asks and everyone shakes their head, eyes bulging with frightened wonder. “All right then,” he nods and retakes his seat.
“Well that was interesting,” Bellamy whispers and I laugh, kissing her head.
“Everything’s fine, baby. Sutton rarely has to actually throw a punch. Relax and enjoy the night, okay?”
She nods and snuggles against me. Soon, it’s all forgotten and some dude I’ve never heard of starts his opening act. He’s decent, but clearly not the main attraction, since all our girls opt to talk through the whole thing. We’re the first row behind a dividing rail and Bellamy props her feet up on it, then, in what is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, drops them back down with a yelp and hides her face in my shoulder.
“Oh, my God, I can’t believe I just did that!” Her horror is muffled. “I’m wearing a skirt. Do you think anyone below saw, you know…”
I laugh off the weight of a thousand worries, full and uplifting, kissing the top of her head. “No, they’re all facing the stage. But on the off-chance anyone did, they dare mention it and I’ll make sure they never talk again.”
“So,” Sutton’s booming voice interrupts as he leans around Presley. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Bellamy. I’m Sutton Ellis, JT’s roommate. It’s nice to finally meet the girl I’ve heard so much about.” He smiles and holds out his hand…lying. He hasn’t heard shit abou
t Bellamy. I like the guy, but he’s a dog, and the less he knows about my girl, the better off we’ll be.
Bellamy shakes his hand, then blurts out some funny shit before I even realize she’s said it. “Nice to meet you too. I wish I could say I’ve heard about you as well, but, um, I kinda forgot Jefferson even had an apartment. I thought he just floated between work and tracking me down, catching a shower somewhere along the way.”
“Yeah,” Sutton laughs, “I was lying. I never see him anymore. Had to ask Presley your name.”
“Where do you shower, J?” Presley grins.
“Fuck off,” I grumble.
“No really, you should stock-up on your pretty boy supplies at Bellamy’s and shower there. Save a lot of time.”
Bellamy’s hand tenses on my knee, but I dip my head and force her to meet my eyes. “Ignore them, baby. No pressure.”
“Um, excuse me.” A girl in the row behind us leans forward, interrupting in the most annoying, haughty, and nasally voice I’ve ever heard. “Do you people plan on being rude and trashy, talking through the entire concert?”
Oh shit. Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? Again? “Get your girl,” I warn Sutton quickly, sincerely afraid of what Presley will do to this chick. Presley does throw punches and will capitalize off the adrenaline of the earlier showdown; I know her. I mean, what the fuck…do we have targets on our backs tonight or what?
And in what is the most shocking turn of events I’ll probably ever encounter, I turn to see why Brynny’s gasping and follow her horrified gaze to…Bellamy, my shy lil’ Bellamy, on her feet, finger stabbing the air toward “Miss Thang” behind us.
Apparently, also riding high on adrenaline.
“Do you know the name of the guy currently wanging, kinda like your voice, his way through a remake right now?” Bellamy hisses. Presley whoops her approval and even Brynny adds a tiny “yeah.”
“Listen here, bitch.”
“No,” Bellamy starts to climb over the back of her chair, apparently no longer concerned with the fact she’s wearing a skirt, but I think it best to stop her short of that and hook my finger in the top of said skirt to hold her at bay. “You listen. I haven’t name called, yet, but you’re pushing it. I’m actually not a bitch, at all, nor are my friends or boyfriend trashy or rude. In fact, they’re some of the most generous, loving, kind people in the whole world. So apologize, and we’ll try to keep it down.”
Even when she’s “chewing ass,” (we’ll let her think that), she’s rational, fair, and sweet as an angel. Bellamy Morgan steals my breath. Amazes me. Makes me want to be a man worthy of such inherent goodness.
And I’m gonna work on that…right after I keep us all from going to jail.
“You and your gang of,” Cruella, (my mom would be so proud), scrunches her face in disgust, “hoodlums should be the ones apologizing. And honey, I wouldn’t draw attention to myself in that outfit,” she sneers.
What. A. Bitch. All I see is red. Bellamy was so damn proud of her new outfit. She even handed out fliers to every woman in my family, her whole face glowing as she bragged about the store and all the nice stuff there.
Presley and Brynn feel exactly the same way as me, their teeth bared and eyes screaming of pain to be inflicted. Also like me, they probably caught the brief fall to Bellamy’s face, the slight slump in her shoulders. Hell. No.
I give Presley “the look,” the one that says ‘do your thing, I’ll bail you out and back any story you tell your parents.’ No one gets to shame my Bellamy and get away with it.
And with the silent assurance, Presley goes from zero to five-hundred in a blaze of Beckett glory. “Alright, Twat, Bellamy was trying to be civil. Didn’t seem to work, and I don’t like that fucking approach anyway, so now, you’re in grave danger. And you might wanna piss-off with your that outfit shit. Your earrings are fake, your purse is a knock-off and your nose job? Sue for malpractice immediately. Bellamy is hotter than you’d ever be even if I set you on fire, WHICH I’M CONSIDERING, and everyone here knows it. Your man there can’t quit looking at her! Now apologize, shut the fuck up and sit down, in that order, or I’m gonna vag drag you all the way to the parking lot! Your choice.”
And that, folks, is my kick-ass cousin. “Vag Drag” is new—I like it.
The girl about to be set on fire and/or dragged by her vag’s boyfriend, who hasn’t so much as stood up and better not be ogling my woman, finally decides to get involved. Not his best decision. Did he not see what just happened with the other guy? Moron.
“And now we’re supposed to believe you’re not trash?” he scoffs at Presley. “Real nice mouth you got on ya there. How ‘bout I give you twenty bucks and you call it a night, catch a cab back to the trailer park, on me?”
Ah, I see what he did there, with the twenty bucks offer; so he was watching before…taking him from moron to complete imbecile.
“Sit down and don’t move,” I demand while physically placing Bellamy in her seat, then start around the end of the aisle—onto the plan where Presley bails me out and covers my back on explanation after I’m done kicking the shit outta this punk. I’m done for the night; no more insulting my girls!
But I’m stopped by my own earlier words. “J, I got this, you get my girl,” Sutton says so calmly it’s frightening. He slowly stands, of course everything he does appears somewhat slow—hard to move his 6’5, 260 lb. self anywhere quickly—but he does it. In one, gold-medal worthy hurdle, he’s over his chair and in the aisle behind us.
“Move,” he snarls at the girl who started this whole mess. “You’re a mean bitch, but I don’t wanna hurt you, so sit the fuck down and stay there. Gonna teach your boy here some manners. You should probably take notes.”
“Listen, man,” her boy is having serious second thoughts since getting another look at Sutton upright; (yeah, maybe it is scarier close-up, I’ll give him that), both hands up in the classic pose of “I surrender, please don’t grind my bones to make your bread,” and visibly, profusely sweating. “Let’s just forget the whole thing, and everyone enjoy their night. Jenny, tell them you’re sorry.”
“Sorry,” she huffs, rolling her eyes.
“And you?” Sutton stalks closer, cracking his knuckles as he asks dude numero dos, who, if he hasn’t already, is on the brink of shitting himself.
“I’m sorry too, very. Let me make it up to you, all of you. We’re just gonna go see if we can’t find some other seats and how about I send over a round of beers for everyone?”
“Bellamy,” Sutton looks back at her, “you okay with that?”
Like that he asked her first, exactly why he’s my friend…one big, scary, class act.
“Yep, as long as by “we” he means he’s taking Miss ‘Wouldn’t Know a Great Outfit if it Smacked Her in the Sourpuss Face’ with him. Maybe they’ll find seats by Mister ‘I Lick Ashtrays for Fun.’ That should be a fun party; they all deserve each other.”
That’s my girl.
“Presley, sugar, what about you?” We all take a collective, baited breath as we await her reply.
“Make it two rounds of beers, and seriously, promise you’ll check on the malpractice for that nose and we’ve got a deal.” Princess P gets in another jab.
Sutton leans in to the guy’s face and growls. “You heard the boss, two rounds. And if you don’t find other seats, too fucking bad. Don’t come back. I’m done talking tonight. I’m on a strict ‘kick ass, ask later’ basis now.”
They scamper away with their tails between their legs and I finally exhale. No jail cells tonight—bonus.
“Sutton Ellis, you behemoth chunk of man meat,” Presley turns her flirt all the way up, “all this badass, intimidation shit is sexy as fuck. You’re my ride home tonight, stud.”
“I’m on a Harley,” he grins.
“In that case,” she holds out her arms so he can lift her over the seat, which he does, and she wraps herself around him, “you’re my ride to your home tonight.”
“
Okay, so Presley’s obviously fine,” Brynn sums up dryly. “Bellamy, are you okay?”
“Dandy. And did everyone notice I was right? She never was able to name the guy on stage. Threw her off,” my cutie taps her temple and winks, “had that fight won from the word go.”
“Hell yeah, you did,” Pres laughs. “You’re quite the badass yourself, Bellamy. And defending us? You’re officially Squad now.”
“Here, here!” Brynn claps.
I lean into her, inhaling her sweet scent, and whisper in her ear, “hear that, baby? Squad’s for life; no getting rid of me now.”
Thirty-Three
Bellamy
I’M NOT NORMALLY a volatile person, not even in the ballpark, but there was no way in hell I was gonna sit back and do nothing while someone called my friends “rude” and “trashy.” Especially when they’re anything but. They’ve all been so good to me; because of Jefferson, I now have a really nice apartment and a freakin’ car. Yeah, no…I had to say something to her.
Now that my adrenaline’s finally resumed normal flow-rate, my mind starts to drift back to where it’s been most of the night—Jefferson and the “love” bomb he dropped— accidently. I shouldn’t be upset, he can’t help what he does and doesn’t feel, or when it happens. But the moment he said it, something in me bloomed with hope. Hope that he did, could, love me. And once the notion was given voice, thought, possibility…I can’t seem to think of anything else, or find my way back to how I felt before.
And maybe if he’d never said it, my subconscious would’ve kept me protected, ‘cause up until now, I’d refused to acknowledge my own feelings. Too petrified of opening myself up for the hurt I’d be left to endure…when Jefferson got bored and left. But if you love someone, you don’t leave. You stay and fight. Work through it.
Even if he didn’t mean to say it, Pandora’s Box has been opened and I’m faced with the truth—I’m in love with Jefferson Tate Kendrick, and there’s no going back to the “safe” place of non-acknowledgement.
