by A. Marie
Now, we’re getting somewhere.
“Hey, beautiful.”
A loud whistle slicing through the courtyard cuts me and my eye roll off.
“Aye, River! Don’t expect me to give you mouth-to-mouth when all that jewelry drags your ass straight to the bottom.”
River’s gaze leaves mine, giving a short nod but when he moves to stand, I say, “You could always lose the jewelry. And the clothes.” I tip an eyebrow even though, really, his all-black outfit should’ve been shed hours ago. This is southeast Washington in July—the less clothing, the better.
“Don’t be a twatsicle, dude, and just stay away from the deep end.” Ahem, my end.
There’s a bite to Beckett’s playful warning but I don’t bother checking behind me. Angela’s hazel eyes tell me everything I need to know. So does the retreating back formally known as my next one-night stand. Damn it.
“That was…interesting.” I keep my eyes locked on Angela’s, watching as they round in thought. “I’ve never seen Beckett act like that before.”
I finally break, chancing a look over my shoulder. Beckett’s staring daggers at River, slashing him to absolute pieces, all while the redhead from upstairs wiggles on his lap, happy as a clam and oblivious as one, too.
Oh, the hypocrisy.
Now I let the eye roll fly.
“Act like what?”
“Like he actually gives a shit.”
I eye her, wondering how much she’s willing to reveal here.
“Are you two…?” She lets the question linger as I pull up on the side of the pool next to her.
“No.”
Angela cocks her head and I almost laugh.
“We barely see each other.”
And when we do, well, we’re more likely to kill each other than fuck each other. I just don’t know which one sounds better.
“Well, what he does see, he likes because he’s never shown jealousy like that in the time I’ve known these knuckleheads. He may get protective over me sometimes but that’s not what that was.” Her finger swirls in the air.
I take a moment to observe the trio again. Marc, in a pair of red board shorts and matching red high tops, has his usual fuck-off attitude going strong, even as different people take turns attempting to pull him into the mix. With a hat sitting low over his face, you can’t even read what he’s thinking. I swear I see him wave his fingers to no one in particular though but I blink and his usual impassive self is back in place, the moment gone along with the…flirting? Who’d he wave at?
Coty, wearing black swim trunks and flip-flops, chats with a group of guys surrounding him like he holds the secret they’ve all been searching for. Like they know he did things the right way but now they want to know how he did it.
And Beckett’s got a small audience riveted as he entertains them with some story or another. Every time one of his punchlines doesn’t land the way he’d hoped though, his eyes strain a little and his gaze touches on his best friends like a reminder of who really matters. His colorful shorts are shorter than the others’ but in a stylish way that makes him look ahead of the game. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. His whole persona is to throw others off and keep them guessing. People take him at face value, too shallow to dig deeper to what lies beneath, and he knows it.
And, yes, the redhead is still in his lap, looking like one of those partially inflated balloon people in front of car dealerships as she laughs hysterically at something the big guy is saying. Balloon goons, my brothers used to call them, because they were so creepy but funny to watch as they’d inflate to full height only to fall back down to half-mast then up again.
She just can’t stand up on her own, can she?
Not with Beckett’s strong, reassuring arms to hold her up when everybody else left her to struggle by herself.
Umm. Where’d that come from?
“Maybe he’s just bored.” Angela’s voice brings me back from…wherever I just went. “Or he’s just an asshole?”
At that we both crack up, letting our laughter settle over us like the sun’s warm rays before it disappeared behind the building moments ago.
After a while, Angela finally pulls her legs out but, instead of getting up, turns to me with her face completely void of humor.
“He never lets his dates sleep over. It’s his only rule and I can attest to him never, ever breaking it. He wouldn’t admit why but I figured it out once.” She darts a look over, making sure Beckett isn’t paying attention. “On accident. I slept over with Coty as much as he was at my place and one time I was heading to the bathroom when I heard…”
Her eyes slam shut and I lean forward, holding my breath.
“What?”
She opens them with determination that I’m betting isn’t in my favor.
“I’m sorry. I can’t say. It’s his secret to share, if he chooses to.”
What?
She actually has the nerve to look apologetic after that epic lead up to nothing. Is this what it feels like to have blue balls? Because honestly, I understand the frustration.
The girl really had me going there.
She rests a hand on my exposed shoulder as she stands, saying, “I didn’t think I’d like you. Not you specifically, but I didn’t want to like the new roommate. I figured she’d come in and tear apart what they’ve worked so hard to build.” She gazes across the pool before adding, “But you’re different. You’ll call them on their bullshit while dealing with your own. You’re stronger than I expected and he needs that. Beckett needs someone that can handle the baggage he tries to act like isn’t there.”
I open my mouth to argue almost all of those points but she smiles down at me with a maniacal sort of look. Kind of like a pepped-up clown.
It’s not pretty. It’s intentional.
“I’m really happy you’re here, Paige, just don’t break him or I won’t be anymore.”
My jaw hangs off its hinges as I watch her stroll over to Coty whose arms are already open, waiting for her.
Did she just threaten me?
I let out an impressed laugh as I slide back down into the water. Truthfully, I didn’t think she had it in her but there’s more to Angela than meets the eye. There’s more to all of them.
A band of beauties with broken pasts.
And I’m supposed to fit in here?
I relax my entire body, letting it float up to the surface, and I close my eyes. Not the smartest idea at a pool party but I need a minute. The last couple hours are catching up to me and the thoughts are swirling like a goddamn tornado. Marc’s mom’s revelations, Angela’s semi-revelations, Beckett’s…whatever that was—it’s all given me a new look into the world I’ve found myself in. So many insights and yet no real details, like looking in a fogged-up mirror after a hot shower. Hints without facts.
Is Angela right about Beckett possibly being jealous? He doesn’t act like that to me. He behaves like a brat most of the time except, of course, for the night he put me to bed. He was sweet, almost tender. The next morning, however, all traces of his kindness were gone, replaced with a cold front that could rival any chilly morning I’ve ever experienced.
How’d he end up like that? Who caused those coping mechanisms in the first place?
Esme mentioned the people that are supposed to love the guys the most. Who didn’t give big, baby Beckett the love that they should’ve? And why?
Was it something he chose? Or did life take the choice from him entirely?
Hands latch onto my ankles then I’m yanked forward, causing my ass to sink and my head to spring up out of the water. The movement brings me face-to-face with the object of my thoughts as if my mind has the power to summon the devil himself. He’s smirking down at me like one so I return the favor, except where his looks like he got the last laugh, mine says I’m just getting started.
“You met neighbor girl?”
My eyebrows nosedive until I remember Angela saying she lived across the hall for a while. I peeked insi
de last week when the cleaners were there and that place is tiny. No wonder she ventured next door.
“Angela? Yeah, she’s cool. She said I should keep you in line.”
The side of his mouth quirks and I notice he hasn’t released me yet. His hands glide up to my knees, his thumbs rubbing the outsides of my legs and sending a trail of goose bumps up my body that even the cold water didn’t cause.
“In line or in a gag?”
I pop a shoulder. Whatever works.
“And how would you do that?”
Tilting my head to the side, I place my feet on the bottom of the pool, slipping out of his grasp. With my chest in line with his face since he’s in a deeper part, I look down at him and I get the feeling I might be the first to do such a thing. His eyes lift to mine and I swear they fucking sparkle like he gets off on it.
“I’ve got my ways.”
I let the suggestion hang in the air between us like a volleyball net.
Ball’s in your court.
He doesn’t press further though. Instead we hold our standoff in silence, each letting the other wonder what’s coming next.
Gesturing to Angela, I say, “You love her.”
This response gets spiked without a second thought. “She’s in love with Coty.”
“That much is obvious. I meant as a friend. She’s special to you.”
I watch him closely as the words sail over to his side, landing at his feet.
Beckett only gives a lazy shrug, saying, “Angie comes from a broken home, too. She laughs through the heartache.”
Too?
“Like you?”
His nostrils flare and I back up.
“You don’t know me.”
A humorless laugh glides across the water between us, reaching for something I’ve already tucked out of reach.
“I know you have a lot more going on than you show. I know your smile covers the cracks and your jokes stifle the pain. Whatever you’re burying isn’t completely dead and you know it but are too scared to face it. At least not without your trusty laugh track in place first.”
“The fuck makes you think that?”
His face hardens to stone and I take a moment to look it over, recognizing the same fissures I see when I look in the mirror.
“Why don’t you let anyone stay the night?”
“Easy. Just like you, I don’t want a relationship.”
“But you do.”
“What?” he snaps, shooting those baby blues around.
Don’t worry. They’re still there.
“You do. You want a relationship so bad but you’re terrified they’ll hurt you. That you’ll be the one to give them the power to destroy you, so you push women away with a smack on the ass and a smile on your face all while telling yourself that’s what you want.” I’d know. I’ve been doing the same thing for over a year now. It’s easy to keep others out. The hard part is showing the mess hidden inside. “But you’re already in a relationship with your boys and even if it’s not a romantic one, it’s a relationship just the same, proving your theory wrong and verifying what I thought all along—that you’re just a coward with a pocket full of one-liners.”
He stands to his full height and with one smooth motion, he yanks my waist until it’s flush against his, an embarrassing gasp falling from my lips from the contact.
“Here’s a one-liner—fuck you.”
Dropping me back on my feet, he stalks off, drawing notice from the entire party. When he joins his original plaything at the stairs, all eyes bounce between that and my stupid ass sitting in the middle of the pool.
I drag my hands down my face, catching movement by the gate.
My guy didn’t leave.
Walking slowly past the tangle of limbs—someone really should teach the girl how to use her legs correctly—I climb the stairs, making sure to splash Beckett with every step I take on my way out. I’ll need him for this next part.
Once I’m toe-to-toe with the rocker, I fist his unbuttoned shirt at his chest, pulling him to me gradually. My lips touch his and he finally catches on to what’s happening. Opening his lips with my tongue, I slide in to massage the piercing there.
Smoke and metal, like a car crash waiting to happen.
Something feels wrong with this kiss and it’s not just the taste of ash on his lips so I pull back slightly, taking his bottom lip with me. I’m still in it but I’m not in it.
His hands join in, dropping to just above my bikini bottoms with an eagerness I wish I could return. At least organically.
I hear a growl behind me and almost release the lip between my teeth from the smile sneaking out.
I draw the display out a little longer, pressing into him and earning a deep, loud rumble of a groan from him when my wet bottoms rub against the front of his skinny jeans. Those black-painted fingernails of his dig into my lower back to the point of pain and I almost slap the moron but hold off—barely—since it’d give the whole ruse away.
Happily releasing his lip with a juicy smack of my own, I roll my head over my shoulder, finding Beckett with the handrail in a death grip, watching the entire thing through glacial eyes. He’s a twitchy bull in the ring with steam billowing from his nose, following the red cape of hair at my back.
With him still standing, I make sure to meet his gaze head-on, unsheathing my second sword, ready to make my final cut. Lifting my middle finger, I rasp out, “no, baby, fuck you,” then leave the silenced party behind as I strut off, knowing I got the last laugh after all.
Nobody, not even a fuckboy on a power trip, determines what I can and can’t do.
And would you look at that, I guess I did have a few more shits and giggles to spare.
* * *
Back upstairs, after throwing on a cover-up, I find myself in the kitchen, diving into food prep with Esme. I’m still worked up from the scene outside and I’m not exactly sure what pulled me in here but Esme’s massive dinner makes for the perfect distraction.
I should feel bad for leaving River with a raging hard-on but serves him right for wearing skinny jeans to a fucking pool party.
I refuse to even consider what Beckett’s doing.
Esme and I chat about different topics ranging from farm life to zodiac signs. Both born in July, she’s a Cancer while I’m a Leo. She’s lived an incredible life but struggles with the constant unrest between her husband and their son. I guess things between the father-son duo have improved since Pop The Hood landed the farm as a major client but not as much as Esme would prefer. Her eyes light up anytime her kids’ names are even spoken and when she describes her daughter like she’s talking about a best friend, a jealousy like a deep cavern settles in my stomach, waiting to be filled with any inkling of affection in the vicinity.
I think I have that movie.
Cave dweller. I’m a cave dweller possessed by the ghosts of my family’s present, not past. The feral creatures inside can’t take me out. Their noxious parasites and bacteria won’t harm me. But the love from my family being omitted will fucking annihilate me.
Fully immersed in chopping ingredients for the ceviche, I miss the door to the apartment opening followed by someone stepping up behind me until Marc’s hand sneaks out to steal a red, slimy chunk with seeds stuck to it.
Seriously, how do you get them off?
He pops it into his mouth with an unapologetic smile then turns to his mom.
“You finally found someone to cut the tomatoes.” To me, he explains, saying, “I hate that part.”
She replies in Spanish, then the two continue in the language I always thought was sexy as hell but never learned a lick of. I chose German as my foreign language in high school. German. Ask me how many times I’ve used it in my life and I’ll answer with the only word I actually remember—nein.
I find myself unable to turn away from their conversation, hanging off every detail, every roll of the R’s—that shit’s so impressive—every widening of eyes for emphasis, every laugh passed between
mother and son. Esme’s an animated talker while Marc speaks in low tones, getting his point across without needing theatrics. He’s…intense.
When their gazes flick to mine, I resume my lackluster dicing.
Their easy banter makes me think of my mom’s sense of humor. She was always funny but stern in her own quirky way. I guess raising four boys and one headstrong girl you’d need to find comedy where you could. Roll with the punches with a nasty jab of your own is the way I’d describe my mom’s style of parenting. She put up with a lot from us kids, until she couldn’t.
Moisture gathers at the corners of my eyes so I quickly switch out the tomato with an onion.
I get one half sliced when I catch Marc’s hand reaching for something else but from Esme’s pile this time. Before he can pull away though, a wooden spoon smacks down on his knuckles like a frog’s tongue catching the arrogant fly. Marc hisses, rubbing at his knuckles, but the simple act cuts too close to home for me. Way too close. I’ve seen my own mom do that a hundred times.
The playful teasing crashes to a screeching halt when I drop the knife, watching it through blurry eyes as the shiny metal bounces off the cutting board onto the counter and I spin, keeping my head down, mumbling out, “I just remembered I work early tonight.”
Without looking up, I tell Marc’s mom, “It was great meeting you, Esme. Sorry I’m going to miss your food. It looks delicious.” Already out of the kitchen, I say, “Marc, thanks for the invite and, uh, enjoy your night.” Because I’ll probably never attend one of these again.
The word vomit doesn’t do me any favors in the credibility department and the hitch in my voice near the end is obvious, even to my own ears, but I’m halfway to my room before they can question me.
I tug my scrubs on over my wet face, hating that the tears won’t fucking stop. The wind on my ride to work will dry them though. I don’t need to go in early but I might as well. What’s here for me?
