by Teagan Kade
CHAPTER FIVE
ERIN
I spend the rest of my time at the office staring at a blank screen, the little paperclip mascot in Microsoft Word popping in from time to time, daring me to actually put something down. But every time I go to write I’m pulled back to Peyton ‘God’s Gift to Women Worldwide’ King.
I’ve convinced myself because my bubble tea is green it must have health benefits, but it sure tastes like a sugar-fest going down. I sip at it while I close Word and pull up a web browser, bringing up Peyton’s social media. It’s a rat’s nest of pec pics and girls gone wild, the occasional football photo or quote from Tom Brady. It doesn’t unearth anything new.
I move to Peyton’s three brothers — Titus and Phoenix, juniors, fraternal twins, and big on campus in both baseball and basketball respectively. Then there’s Nolan, a sophomore who’s all the rage in the rink. Combined, the Kings dominate Crestfall Academy. Regardless of what the academy says, money talks, and the Kings are the campus Kardashians.
My chair wheezes as I lean back and reach for a hamburger squishy — one of maybe twenty lined up on my desk. It’s something about the feel of memory foam, the way it pushes back against your fingers. It helps with the stress of the job. Hell, I squeezed one of poor things so hard last week it basically became a hockey puck.
I need this story to be perfect. People have gone from this place to the Times, the Globe… It can happen if you put in the hard yards, and boy am I prepared to do whatever it takes.
You sure about that? my head interjects, a shot of Peyton with two string bikini-clad girls on his shoulders flickering on my screen.
Well, almost anything.
I let my mind wander. I try not to dwell on the sex, considering instead if it’s possible Peyton, or any of these cliché college guys, could ever be anything other than a one-night deal.
What do you think, Erin? He’s suddenly going to join you watching world cinema? He’ll bring you breakfast in bed, blueberry pancakes like Mom used to make? Help you pick out a nice shade of lilac for the nursery?
Un-fucking-likely.
I snap myself out of it so hard my head spins, my chest slamming against the front of the desk as the chair lurches back into position.
Hell no.
I check the time — half an hour to go until crunch time.
But still I remind myself why it is I pushed the puke back and said yes to his invitation. I need Peyton King. I need his connections and insight. I need an ‘in’ to that tight-knit Crestfall social circle that puts on these parties — parties with such fame and legend you’ll find people talking about them six states away.
I need Peyton King and I need this article to be a success.
“That the guy?”
I madly slap at my mouse trying to close the shot of Peyton on screen but fumble and end up opening additional windows, carbon copies of Peyton’s same shit-eating grin popping up over and over as Lewis leers over my shoulder, squinting behind his glasses.
“Yep, looks like an A-grade Crestfall douchebag,” he notes.
Finally, mercifully, I close the browser and spin to face Lewis with the best smile I can rummage up. “Sorry?”
Lewis points to the now blank screen. “That was him, right? Your King Dong or whatever they call him?”
“He’s not my—”
“Classic Crestfall clone, if you ask me. The amount of these guys I’ve seen saunter in and out of this place. Jesus, you could fill a stadium with them.”
“Weren’t you a Crestfall student, sir?”
Only the holy Lord himself knows why I ask my editor this, but he seems oblivious to the implication, hitching his pants up.
“I was, back in ’02. Bitchin’ year to be around, let me tell you.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him no one says ‘bitchin’’ any more.
He wags his fingers at my screen. “But I wasn’t one of those guys. I worked my ass off. If it wasn’t for my damn shoulder…”
I’ve heard this story approximately ten-thousand times in the four weeks I’ve been here. “…You’d be at Superbowl, crushing it like Joe Montana,” I finish.
“Damn straight. We even look the same, don’t you think?”
I humor him. “It’s scary.”
He pats me on the back and wanders off in a cloud of nostalgia.
I check my watch again — crunch time — and gather my things, repeating a silent mantra to myself: You need an in. You need an in. That’s why you’re doing this.
I pull in a deep breath and stand, quietly whispering, “Ready or not, King Dong, here I come.”
*
Much like Lewis, the Steam Room hasn’t changed much since the noughties. There’s garish neon lighting around the bar area, a framed print of ‘A Friend in Need,’ the artwork of a group of dogs playing poker, hanging in prime place on the wall.
The front of the place is packed with students looking for an end-of-day carb hit. I spot Peyton at the window bar and place my bag down, lifting myself onto a stool and then shifting one over just in case.
Why? Because you think his big ol’ ding dong’s going to snake over here and fertilize you while you’re not looking?
He’s wearing a Cresftfall Thunder jersey, number twelve just like Brady, arms bulging from what I assume was a full-on practice given the still-wet state of his hair. He’s already halfway through a hamburger, a plate of fries in front of him that could feed a small country. He slides a Corona across to me, a wedge of lime jammed into the top.
“One drink,” he says, smiling, “as promised.”
“It’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it, thinking I like Corona?”
The smile turns smug. “You don’t?”
Damn it.
Lying’s not my strong suit. I have too many tells. I simply reply, “Hmm,” taking a small sip of yes, my preferred beer of choice, damn him. “You eating for yourself or an army?”
He pauses mid-fry, offering me the plate. “Help yourself. Looks like you could do with something to eat.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
That smug, slack smirk of a smile remains. No, it grows. “It means you can drop the intermittent fasting thing and let your hair down a little.”
“How did you—”
“Know?” He lifts his Corona up, looking out the window. “Oh, I know plenty about you, Erin Janie Nash.”
I’m nervous, my arm pits are quickly becoming swampland, but I know I can’t show any weakness here. I have to push back if I ever want to establish any kind of trust. It’s what he wants. He wants me to play hard to get.
So, fuck it. I will.
I channel all the divas — J.Lo, Gaga, Pink. “You ain’t got shit, Mr. King, and I think you know it.”
Good one.
He rears back. “Mr. King. So formal. Don’t make me sound like my father now.”
“Ahhh, so you’ve got Daddy issues. I guess that explains a lot.”
Inside, I’m chattering away on spin cycle, but my exterior is pure bitchy bad-ass.
It’s working. He hesitates, his immediate rebuttal lost, reaching for this beer instead. He hangs his head before lifting it up, smiling. “You’re something, you know that? Maybe more than I expected.”
I go for it. “All that testosterone and you can’t handle little ol’ me? Is that what you’re saying? Is the mighty Peyton King about to piss his pants because,” I actually cover my mouth in mock shock, “because a girl is actually standing up to him?”
Holy fuck, I’m on fire. It’s like I’ve been possessed. Even if I start climbing walls like Linda Blair soon, it’s worth it.
His back straightens, the smugness returning. Those mocha eyes glimmer and I know in that small moment whatever hold I thought I had starts to loosen and unfurl. “Why did you come? Tell me. The truth.”
Shitty shit shit shit. Lying’s going to put me on the back foot. I have to inject some truth into it. “Call it curiosity.”
&nbs
p; Yes!
“So I’m just a sideshow attraction to you?” And fuck me, he actually looks sort of offended.
I’m off guard. “Well, no, but—”
“But what?” more forceful now. “You don’t think I have a brain, thoughts and emotions like everyone else?”
It’s laughable because yeah, I kind of do, but the serious expression on his face, the pure belief of it, has me floundering. I’m looking for a life preserver but all I’m seeing is ocean.
“I… I…” Damn it. I don’t know what to say.
He starts to laugh himself, watching me while he swigs at his Corona. “Ah,” he breathes out, “You really bought that shit, didn’t you?”
That floundering turns to anger. “What?”
“Curiosity be damned. You’re here because you want my dick, pure and simple.
“Your dick?”
He inches closer. “Feels good in your mouth, doesn’t it?”
Oh, hell to the no.
No.
No.
NO.
My jaw drops, literally. I can’t seem to close it I’m so deep in shock.
“Bit wider, baby. It’s bigger than you think.”
The fucking gall of this guy.
For a split second I thought he might be deeper than a breakfast bowl, but that’s gone to hell in a handbasket.
I’ve had it. Screw the in. I’ll find another way, anything but this.
“My god, could you be any fuller of yourself?” I stammer, knowing my cheeks are flushed, that I’ve let him get to me.
He sits back, scooping up ketchup with a handful of fries, taking his time to chew and swallow them down before replying. “I’m sorry, was that a rhetorical question?”
I remind myself to close my mouth, stop it hanging open in shock. “I’m surprised you know what the word means.”
He leans forward over the table. “And you, O wise one, where has your grand college degree gotten you, hmm?”
He has a point, damn him, but I manage to straighten and compose myself. “It’s going to get me into the job of my dreams.”
“Oh, good,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “just another thirty years of photocopying and playing grab-ass with the boss to go, I guess.”
“I do not—” I start, before realizing I’ve fallen right into his trap.
He smiles knowingly. “I mean, I’d be happy to take his position, get myself a nice handful of it.”
I shake my head, but I’m not going to be beaten here by what amounts to a toddler in a man’s body.
A very taut, especially hard body, my head interjects.
It comes to me in a blinding flash of brilliance. I think back to the rundown of his last game. “Funny, ’cause last I heard you couldn’t even hold a football properly.”
His look says it all.
Bullseye.
He recovers quickly, putting an ankle on top of his other leg and examining me with cloudy, challenging eyes. “Okay, I’ll cop that. My game on the field hasn’t been up to standard lately, but as for my game off the field…”
My mouth begins to flap again. “I’ve met guys like you a thousand times before. You’re all disciples of Neil Strauss, alpha-male morons who think negging on a girl is a surefire way to get them into bed. You’re as shallow as a kiddie pool, and completely transparent.”
“But you still want to fuck me, don’t you? You still want to see what all the fuss is about, if, gasp, I could really be that big.”
I’m too dumbfounded to reply.
“Go on,” he prompts, the definition of self-satisfied, “be completely honest and tell me you’re not sitting there getting wet thinking about my big, hard cock and the thousand ways it could make you come.”
I have to applaud him. It would sound ridiculous coming from anyone else, but he pulls it off, and damn it, but I’m not going to give him the attention he wants, even if there is a tiny, teeny weeny, so-small-you’d-need-a-microscope-to-see-it shred of truth to what he’s saying.
I press my legs together. “You done?”
“Are you?”
I stand, picking up my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “I think that’s more than enough for today.” I start to walk off.
“There’s no such thing as ‘enough,’” he calls to my back. “You know where to find me.”
That I do, I think.
That.
I.
Do.
*
Mindy’s on the sofa listening to Kendrick Lamar. She pulls her headphones off when she sees me. “Jesus, that was quick.”
“Ha,” I stammer, taking off my bag and slumping down beside her. “The guy only knows a few sentences. It’s like conversing with a juiced-up GI Joe doll.”
“Did he talk about his penis?”
I laugh. “I swear to god he finds a way to insert it into every sentence that slips from his mouth.” Cute as that mouth may be. “I’ve never met anyone so narcissistic, so self-centered and downright repulsive in my entire life.”
“And yet you can’t stop thinking about him, can you?”
Damn Mindy for knowing me so well. “Sadly, no.”
“So, sleep with him. You know, for research.”
I feign a mortal wound. “Excuse me?”
“Come on. When’s the last time that vagina of yours saw any action? The Great Hormone Flood of High School? Loud and proud with that horrid vibrator you keep under your bed that looks like something from a 1970s Cleo catalogue?”
“It’s a Magic Wand, modern,” I protest, “and far safer and, dare I say it, more effective than anything Peyton Asshole King has to offer.”
Mindy’s not convinced, playing with the cord of her headphones. “I don’t know. Have you been online? If cocks could be rated, something tell me his would be five-star dining.”
“For the final time, I am not dining on anything, least of all King’s big ol’ rama-dama ding dong.”
Mindy cracks up. “The fact you even call it that with a straight face tells me you need to get laid, and fast before that clam of yours closes up altogether. You’ve seen Stranger Things, right? I bet there’s a demogorgon hiding in there just waiting to be blown out by the aforementioned ‘ding dong.’”
I get up. “You’re out of your damn mind.” I swipe up my headphones. “What’s Kendrick been saying to you?”
“Look,” she says, slipping one leg under the other, “I’ve been with enough college guys to know they’re a bit like Halloween candy — it’s all about the anticipation, the build-up, but once you’ve collected that candy, gorged on it, well, all you end up with is regret. It’s fun for a quick hit, but eat too much and that belly ache’s only getting bigger.”
I bow. “Such wisdom.”
She salutes in return. “I’m a poet, what can I say?”
“And I’m Edgar Allen Poe,” I reply, heading to my room.
“Keep up that dreary air and you really will be. Your happiness, quoth the Raven, ‘nevermore.’”
I take a shower and stare down my body at the water swirling into the drain below — a perfect picture of my life, really. Maybe Mindy’s onto something. It would be nice to get laid, to feel something other than silicone and plastic between my legs for once, an actual, flesh-and-blood appendage that’s hard, hard for me.
Peyton already confirmed I was his type, though something tells me he’d fuck a mailbox if it had two legs.
No, the voice of reason butts in, do not even go there. Do not pass go. Do not collect penis. Only disaster awaits.
But I want that candy. I don’t care about the belly ache or the big ball of regret that will follow. I want the hit, to experience it if only for a moment. If nothing else, I’d have something to write about.
CHAPTER SIX
PEYTON
Tony’s clicking his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Peyton. You even here, bro?”
I sniff and shake myself out of the daydream, my eyes settling on Tony’s dick. I look away. “Fuck
, man. Put on a towel.”
He takes hold of it, wagging it my face. “You fucking love it.”
I slap it away. “You could at least wax or something. Looks like the damn Amazon jungle. Dwayne Johnson and Kevin Hart in there somewhere?”
I stand, wearing a towel myself and more than ready to hit the showers if I could get Erin out of my head. She was cute when she was incredulous, and yes, I could have reined in the OTT bad boy thing a bit, maybe slowly worked her up to it, but I couldn’t help it. It was like an automatic reaction, the words pouring out of my mouth before I could think any better of it.
Tony, thank fuck, finds himself a towel. “You looked vexed, sir.”
He has some odd turns of phrase, ol’ Tony. Grew up watching too much History Channel. “In a way.”
“It’s your unicorn, isn’t it?”
“Erin.”
Tony throws his hands up, announcing to the rest of the team. “Erin, sirs, she has a name. Huzzah!”
“Huzzah!” the others shout in unison; fuck them.
I punch Tony in the chest, give the rest of them the finger. “Fuck you and fuck you, and you, and you.”
Wheezing, Tony draws closer to me, lowering his voice. “She’s like deep in your head, isn’t she? Can’t say I’ve seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Weak.”
I shove him away playfully. “I ain’t weak, man. It’s just…”
He holds his hand out. “She has your balls, bro, gently rolling them around in her fingers.”
“Please, stop doing that.”
He dances around, voice lifting. “She’s got your balls and you need them back. That’s it, right?”
“That’s not it,” but I can’t stop him now he’s on a roll.
“She didn’t fuck you on the first date and now you’re moping around like a pre-tween whose mom just blocked JoJo Siwa.”
“Why you bringing fucking JoJo Siwa into this?”
“That girl works for her dime,” one of the line-backers arcs up. “She deserves respect.”
I shake my head, moving to the showers. “You’re fucking crazy, all of you.”
I step under the water, making it extra hot, but still Erin remains fixated in my thoughts. I’m thinking of the tight lines of her body, the slight swell of her upper lip, the coral pink tone of it waiting to be touched and kissed and worshipped. The things I’d do to that mouth…
