by Teagan Kade
Very simply, it’s a blackmail attempt, right there in black and pixelated white. The sender is some throwaway account, but the message is clear. It appears to allude to some kind of incident in Peyton’s past, an incident ‘you’ll surely want to keep quiet,’ the email reads. There’s no sign-off, no signature.
“I had a friend in computer sciences try to backtrack it, but it’s useless. Could have come from anywhere.”
I straighten up. “It’s spam, right? Just delete it.”
“I don’t think it’s spam.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m starting to get concerned.
He leans against the counter with his hands deep in his pockets, chin to his chest. “When I was seventeen, a senior in high school, I was failing this one class pretty hard. Our old man was pretty tough with the sports stuff, but grades too. He understood the importance of a good education, I guess, or my mother did. One of the two.”
He draws in a deep breath and looks at me, looks like his entire world has suddenly fallen apart. “This teacher, Lorna, she offered to give me a passing grade if, you know,” long pause, “I had sex with her.”
I almost can’t believe what I’m hearing. “And you think this teacher is trying to blackmail you, now?”
“Yes. The incident she’s talking about, calling it ‘tit for tat,’ saying it was ‘mutually beneficial.’ Yeah, it’s her all right. Those were the exact words she used when she pitched the whole thing to me. I mean, it has to be her. No one else knew about it.”
I take a seat trying to unravel it all. “Wow, okay. You could go to the police, couldn’t you?”
“If word gets out, if this leaks, the high school’s going to take away my diploma, and then what? I won’t be able to finish my degree; any football offers will vanish and I’m fucked. Or I might have to start playing early when I really want my degree first. It’s fucked. I am fucked.”
I came over expecting many things, but never this.
“You can’t let her get away with it. You were a minor, weren’t you?”
“I knew what I was doing.”
“You can’t say that. She used you, Peyton.”
He stares off towards the windows. “The scandal of it, a King? Could you imagine?”
I sit up and walk to him, hold him. His hands fall around my neck and I’m not sure who’s really comforting who right now. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, but in my head it’s a mishmash of thoughts, of actions and consequences and what the hell to do here if this is all true.
He's right. A scandal like this could do some serious damage to his future prospects. Even though he’s clearly been wronged here, the general public won’t see it that way. The backlash alone would upend everything he’s been working for, regardless of his party-boy image. Even that would be gone because hey, he slept with a teacher for better grades. He’s… a hero? Some will see it that way, which only makes the image problem worse for prospective teams looking for a nice, clean poster boy for their franchises to sell soft drink and shirts.
Whatever the case, police involvement or not, I cannot see an outcome where this doesn’t go pear-shaped in some way. I’m thinking. Oh, I’m thinking, but solutions seem imperfect — improbable. And why now? Of all times when things just starting to seem like they were settling out.
He places his chin on top of my head. His chest fills and expands against my own, his heart beating firmly. I can feel him, the weight of his body and the soapy scent of his skin, the way his shirt feels against my fingers. I don’t want this to be happening. I want to be here without any lingering storms on the horizon.
“We’ll fix it,” I repeat.
But I have no idea how.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PEYTON
The twins are arguing about something downstairs, Nolan calling down for them to shut up. I swear the walls in this place are made from paper. I cover my face with my pillow. It still smells like Erin, like vanilla.
I breathe it in before placing the pillow beside me and rocking into a sitting position, palms against my eyes trying to wake up.
Erin left early so as to avoid the walk of shame — apparently a particularly common occurrence around here if my brothers’ stories are anything to go by. The way they talk you’d think this place was a reverse brothel. Certainly looks like one downstairs.
My laptop’s open on my desk, taunting me. Anxiety begins to pin-prick its way up the back of my neck as I remember the blackmail attempt — and attempt is going to be the appropriate word here, because I’m not going to let Lorna, that bitch, get the better of me.
After a night with Erin my head is clear. I know what I have to do.
I swing out of bed and make my way over to the desk.
“How the hell was I supposed to know you’d already fucked her?” yells one of the twins downstairs.
I shake my head, moving my finger to the mousepad of the laptop, the screen coming out of standby.
I bring up the blackmail email and hit reply. I make my response as simple as possible, leave no doubt: ‘What do you want?’
The email sends with a ‘ding’. I’m about to close my laptop and get on with my day when it suddenly dings again.
I open it back up, surprised to find a reply back already. Lorna’s obviously been waiting. Her reply is equally short: ‘10K and this all goes away.’
“Hmm,” I murmur, not surprised at the figure. She knows I’d be able to drum up a sum like that without too many issues. Any more, however, and flags would be raised.
I doubt paying would make anything go away, but if I could get through the school year and sign with a team, then I’d be in a better position to weather the scandal if she was to tell anyone.
I’m surprised at my own mental acuity, especially considering the physical exertion between the sheets last night. Paying her now might not put an end to this, but it will buy me time. Maybe that’s all I need.
Is it foolproof? Fuck no. I consider calling Erin, getting her take on this, but I bent her ear enough yesterday with my shit. There’s no need for her to get any more involved.
I know she’d take offense to that. She wants to be involved, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, especially as a King, it’s that you handle these kinds of affairs in-house. The less people who know, the better. Keeps it clean that way, simple.
Yeah, because everything about this is real simple, isn’t it?
I ignore my inner cynic.
I bring up Google and search for the bank branch in town.
I take a shower, clean up, and head downstairs to find Nolan perched at the breakfast bar chewing on a banana.
He reaches into the fruit bowl and tosses me an apple without turning around. I catch it one-handed. “Where are the twins?”
He points sideways through the sliding door leading outside where the twins are busy either doing a weird sibling love dance or rehashing Wrestlemania Thirty-Five. “You sure they’re related to us?”
I jump up onto the breakfast bar, take a bite of the apple, chewing and swallowing. The twins are… different. “Let them get it out. Sounded like World War Three was about to erupt down here before. Girl shit?”
“Girl shit,” nods Nolan.
Even in middle school the twins would be constantly fighting over their women. I know a brace-faced Rebecca Taminson certainly got off on the fact not one, but two Kings wanted claiming rights on her.
Nolan pops the last piece of banana into his mouth, tossing the banana peel in a perfect arc into the trashcan at the back of the kitchen. “Speaking of female company, sounds like you were renovating upstairs last night yourself.”
We may have been a bit vocal.
I play dumb. “Just a restless night, that’s all.”
“A restless night with legs for days named Erin Nash, yeah. You guys are getting pretty serious, huh?”
It’s unlike Nolan to be this curious about my love life, which means he’s either a) really fucking bored or b) genui
nely curious.
I humor him. “She’s different.”
“How so? Third nipple? Birthmarks that looks like Jesus on her ass?”
Ignore. “She,” I search for the word, “has a brain.”
Nolan almost chokes with laughter, slapping the breakfast bar. He holds his throat trying to recover. “Oh, shit. That was perfect.”
One of the twins slams into the sliding door, soon pulled away again back into the fray outside. Neither Nolan nor I pay it any attention.
“You must admit, though,” continues Nolan, “there’s a certain safety in banging the brainless of Crestfall, the walking dead, you might say.”
“Spot on, because yeah, they will eat your fucking brain if you get close enough, wear you down with neediness and bullshit about cheer practice.”
“But this Erin does not fall into said zombie state?”
“She’s got plans,” I reply, “a real future. How I figure into it? That I don’t know yet.”
Nolan stands, hand on my shoulder. “Look at you all grown up.” He wipes away an imaginary tear from his cheek. “I’m so proud,” he sobs.
I push him away. “Don’t you have a puck to shove up someone’s ass?”
And just like that we’re back to usual, the D&M over. “Coach’s ass, preferably. I know Mooney’s a hard ass, but we’ve got a BFW of our own down on the ice, put you pansy Thunder boys to shame.
I toss my apple core at him. He deflects it with an elbow. “And that’s why they pay me the big bucks, bro.”
“Dream on,” I smile, just as another twin hits the glass of the sliding doors, their face pressed flat against it, one eye bulging.
All I can do is shake my head.
*
It’s a weekday in town, the city center busy during lunch hour. Withdrawing that much cash took a little greasing at the bank, but now I’m sitting here with a cheap backpack I bought from the surplus shop on Main Street, waiting for my femme de blackmailer at the most popular diner in town, Karina’s.
I’m sitting at one of the small tables by the rose bushes outside, as instructed, a waitress I don’t recognize drifting by every couple of minutes to see if I want to order anything else. The fries I ordered earlier sit cooling to death beside me, barely touched.
A public place, busy… I kind of get what Lorna was going for. There’d be witnesses if I tried to, say, strangle her — an increasingly enticing proposition giving the shit she’s putting me through here.
I spot her a mile away. She looks like she’s had a bit of work around her cheeks, definitely a bit of the Botox slug lips going on, ‘cougar maintenance’ as my brothers call it. She’s in a red blouse the same striking hue as the rose bush beside me and none too undercover, nor is the miniskirt that basically starts somewhere around her tits.
She takes a seat, freshly straightened straw hair washing around her shoulders. I can still smell the burn on it.
Sitting here looking at her, I don’t think I was ever attracted to her. She was always too Driving Miss Daisy for my tastes. The other boys loved the idea of sleeping with the teacher, living out their American Pie fantasies, but the reality was quite different. I wouldn’t have been hard at all if it wasn’t for the Viagra she made me pop prior to the act. Even then what went down is a blur. I’ve more or less erased her, filled her over with a hundred other girls.
She ignores me and signals the waitress, ordering a flat white, “Almond milk, not too hot.”
Five seconds in and I want to get as far away from her fake, ugly ass as possible.
Now she turns her attention to me, smiling behind oversized Manhattan sunglasses. “My how you have grown, Mr. King.” She puckers her lips. “Mmm, mmm.”
I lift up the backpack. “You want the fucking money or not?”
She looks around in alarm. “Easy now, tiger. Where are the pleasantries?”
“I think they went out the window the moment you fucked a minor.”
Her tone hardens. “Hey. Easy, like I said.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
She seems to relax. “I hear you’re doing very well for yourself. You’re the big guy on campus,” her hand goes up in an arc, “the shining star of the Academy.”
“Some would say.”
“Do you still think about me?”
Christ, is she really this narcissistic? Has she always been? “No.”
She pouts. “Oh, come now. I bet all these stick-figure bimbos you’ve been burying that big dick of yours into are nothing compared to me, right?”
I have to bite my tongue, but I do lean forward, make my thoughts on the matter clear. “To be honest…”
She looks hopeful.
“…I don’t remember a thing about it. In fact, I’d say in the scheme of things you were completely un-fucking-remarkable.”
She still won’t give in. “Don’t be a sore loser now, Peyton. This was the smartest thing to do. Like I said, it will all go away now. You’ll never hear from me again. That is,” she says, “unless you’d like another round, maybe jog your memory?”
The thought physically disgusts me, my cock so absolutely uninspired I’m surprised it’s not reversing back into my body. “You’re sick, you know that?”
Her coffee arrives, the waitress looking between us no doubt wondering what I’m doing here with a washed-up Miss America.
Lorna doesn’t reply, sticking me with that god-awful look of satisfaction I’d do almost anything to rid from her face.
As soon as the waitress is gone, I stand and heave the backpack onto the table with enough force to spill her coffee. She gives a yelp, others looking around to see what the fuss is. “Take it,” I tell her. “Take it and leave me the fuck alone.”
And with that I turn and walk.
I don’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ERIN
Writing this article is fast turning into torture — physical as well as mental. My palms are sweaty against the bottom of the keyboard, my fingers slipping when they should run true. I’m a mess.
It’s no surprise. On one hand I’m sleeping with Peyton, have drawn so close to him that every word I write seems like a betrayal of the highest order.
Treason.
Every time I think like this, I try to guide myself back to the ‘why,’ to the bigger picture at hand. I fob off our relationship, try to justify it as a simple fling, but deep down I know it has become much more than that. I begin to wonder if my big, bright future is really worth burying someone I’ve come to care for, to love, that deep.
A sharp ‘ping’ sends a jitter through me at my desk, but it’s just an incoming email notification. It’s Lewis again, piling on the pressure — like I needed any more at this stage. He has no idea of the stakes at play here, the moral and ethical bind he has put me in.
And wasn’t I raised better than this? On the one hand, yes, but I promised my mother I would make it, I gave her my word on her deathbed I would do what it took to be great, to turn my childhood dream into reality. Not many people get the chance to do that. She sure as hell didn’t, raising a daughter by herself, breaking her back sending me to the best school she could afford, making sure I was fed and clothed and looked after. I owe her, don’t I? Isn’t that bigger than this?
Martha Gellhorn and Barbara Walters never shied from the hard truth, never backed away from the uncomfortable. No, you embrace it. You push on.
I keep typing between bouts of caffeine and tea trying to push the guilt away. Slowly, the real story starts to emerge. Damn him, but Lewis was right. With Peyton taking a starring role, the story has a genuine human focus. I end up using more personal information about him than I expected, detailing the fight, the arrest and family wash-over to keep it all tucked away. I try to remain as objective as I can, relying on the facts and not my own personal thoughts of Peyton as a person to influence the story.
I come to the final section and pause. This is where I had intended to place Peyton’s big secret �
� the whole sex-for-grades scandal, the blackmail attempt. My fingers hover over the keys and I don’t know if I can, or if I should, do it. I’m battling with myself — yes, no, yes, no. It fell into my lap almost like it was meant to be, mana from the heavens.
I’m not even sure where’s Peyton’s at with the whole thing. He hasn’t told me if he decided to pay this Lorna woman or not. It’s his business, yes, but I’m sure if I asked him, he’d tell me what happened.
It’s all distraction. The question remains. I sigh and decide to write it up anyhow, to see how the story stands both with and without the revelation. Even as I type, my hands are sweating, my pulse raised like Peyton’s about to pop over my shoulder at any second with a look of shock on his face. He’ll shake his head like it’s suddenly not working. ‘How could you?’ he’ll say, eyes wet and glassy. ‘How could you betray me?’
But like the journalistic Judas I am, I keep on writing.
Afterwards, reading through the article with what must be my fifth coffee of the day, the only thing I’m certain of is that I have no damn idea which version to go with. I hit print on both and stand to scoop them up out of the printer in the corner before Amanda smells the ink drying. I separate them and walk to Lewis’s office. He’s on a call, but he hangs up when he sees me, waving me in.
I close the door and seat myself, the two versions of the story on my lap, one under the other.
“Is that the story?” he asks, gesturing to the pile of freshly printed paper.
“Two stories, actually, slightly different,” I begin, my heart beating far faster than it should be, the paper burning in my hands. It feels like it might spontaneously combust at any second, the ground opening up under my chair. “I’d like your opinion which is stronger — your professional opinion,” I add.
He seems chuffed at that, straightening up in his chair and extending his hand. “Well, of course. Color me curious.”
I lift the paper and it suddenly feels like it weights fifty pounds. He takes it but I can’t seem to let go.
Lewis looks at me puzzled. “Erin? You do realize you have to let go of the article for me to actually read it, right?”
