by Teagan Kade
Still, I don’t have everything. I have my game. I have girls a text away, girls who’ll do damn near anything I ask, and have, but I don’t have her. That’s the problem and there’s sweet FA I can do about it.
Sex is fun, sure. But the groupie girls that frequent my bed don’t always seem into it, at least not for the act itself. It’s more like I’m an amusement ride to be conquered and soon forgotten. They laugh at my jokes, moan and grab the sheets at the right moments, talk dirty, but it’s a show, an act. I’ve caught more than one texting before I’m even pulled out, literally unable to wait to tell their friends they’ve bedding Jensen Collins. I hate their kind, phones glued to their faces 24/7, only living through the approval of others, a virtual life without substance or reason.
I hear Pops in my head. And how is your life any better, Jenny? I hated him calling me that. What good are you doing? Kicking a ball into a net? Fucking bravo, big boy.
He’s right, though. I’ve got the fame I always wanted, plenty to show for it, but there’s a missing piece to the puzzle.
You know what it is.
The turn-off looms for home. I start to exit the highway, but I can’t shake the way Scarlet looked in the tunnel, the redness around her eyes. She’d been crying, and it certainly wasn’t with joy over our win. No, it’s Josh. It’s always Josh.
I yank the wheel and swerve hard back onto the highway, just missing a barrier, and cutting across the path of a semi.
Always fucking Josh.
I grip the wheel tighter and step on the gas. He can’t treat her like shit and expect to get away with it because she doesn’t know better.
Blood or not, he’s going to get a piece of my mind.
*
Gangster rap is cranking when I pull up, the front windows of Josh’s house open and the whole neighborhood no doubt getting a dose of his fine musical pedigree. I almost have to laugh given how at odds the music is with this cushy street in the Hills, every house bigger than the next and the average age of the occupants probably three-hundred. They call the cops on him almost daily, not that Josh gives a shit. He can weasel his way out of anything now that he has money. He forgets where we came from. Maybe that’s the problem.
I smack the door. “Josh! Open up.”
I hold the wall and lean out to a window. One of the local soccer groupies, Carolina, has her feet up on the coffee table, a joint between her lips.
The fuck?
I pound the door again, growing angrier. “Josh! Open the fucking door!”
The music suddenly cuts off, the door swinging open and a clearly wasted Josh swaying in front of me. There’s a Crystal Head Vodka skull cradled in his arm that definitely wasn’t half-empty when I visited yesterday.
He holds it up in front of me. “Can you believe they pay me fifty grand just to drink this shit?” He heaves the skull over my head. It shatters on the driveway. “How much is Nike paying you to wear their crap? It’s more, isn’t it?”
We’ve always been competitive, but it’s getting worse now we’re on the same team, now we’ve made it. It’s consuming him.
I push past him. Place smells of weed, sweat, and rip-off J’Adore.
Carolina watches me enter, lifting her legs off the table, skirt sliding up, but I’m not buying. “Hey, Jensen.”
I have nothing against Latino girls. I’ve had my share, but Carolina’s a different breed. She’s the kind of girl who’ll do anything to be part of the inner circle, become a real player’s girlfriend.
I ignore her and turn back to Josh. He’s in boxers, half of his dick hanging out. “What’s she doing here, Josh?”
He steps forward and slams the door closed behind me. “I’m not sharing, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s mine.”
“I’m right here,” comes Carolina’s whiney voice.
“Scarlet is yours,” I tell Josh, making sure I’m saying it nice and loud so everyone can hear.
Carolina stands and moves behind me, even her walk practiced, sultry—a stripper’s parade. She places her hand on my back, lets it turn into a finger that runs up my spine before glancing off my shoulder. She moves between us, purring, “Don’t worry. We were only having a little fun, weren’t we, Josh? Nothing untoward.” She slides up against Josh, rubbing herself against his crotch.
I cross my arms. “Yeah? Because it looks to me like you’re halfway to sucking his cock.”
Josh pushes her away and shoves me in the chest. If it comes down to that, I’m going to break his arm. He’s strong, but I’m stronger.
He stabs his finger at me, but I refuse to step back, holding my ground. “What’s your problem, bro? You heard her. I’m relaxing. I can’t do that when Scarlet’s around. You know how she gets.”
“Does she know,” I direct my eyes to Carolina, “that is here.”
Josh throws his arms up. “Of course not, and you’re not fucking well going to tell her.”
“Or what?”
He gets right into my face, but he’s so drunk I doubt he could even land a punch if he tried. “Or I’m going to lay you the fuck out for stealing that goal tonight.”
I laugh, nostrils flaring on an indrawn breath. “Stealing? Their defenders were over you like flies on honey. I was the only one open. What did you want me to do? Lose the match? Is that it?”
“Coach made it clear.” He taps his finger into his chest. “That was my play.”
I shrug. “Call it improvisation.”
“You’re not fucking Miles Davis, man. If you ever fucking do that again…”
“You’ll lay me out, right?” I lean out, expose my jaw. “Go on, take a shot. Call it a freebie.”
Carolina looks a little concerned. Good.
Josh starts to bounce around, thinks he’s suddenly become Mayweather. He throws a right, but it’s wide. I duck away and slap him in the face.
“Fuck!” he screams, swinging again but catching only air. He falls onto a knee, swaying. He knows he hasn’t got a shot in hell of doing any damage.
I crouch down in front of him. “I should tell Scarlet. She deserves to know what’s going on here.”
Josh looks past me to Carolina. “How about you get us some drinks? Take your time.”
Carolina looks reluctant to leave our little gathering. This is probably a dream come true for her, the kind of goss the tabloids would lap up like fresh milk. But she nods and sways off to the kitchen down the back.
Josh stands, cracks his neck. For a second he looks somber, almost composed. “Scarlet is none of your business.”
“I bumped into her before I left. She wasn’t a picture of happiness.”
Josh rolls his eyes. “And that’s my fault?”
“Yeah, I kind of think it is. You should treat her better. She deserves that.”
He takes it in, nodding like Pops does before he explodes, but Josh isn’t Pops. He holds his cool, lets his words do the damage. “You had your chance, bro. She could have been yours, but you fucked around um’ing and ah’ing. You snoozed, so I scooped her up and you’re still holding it over me because you lost.”
“She’s not a game, Josh, a ball to be tossed around.”
But she has been. I know it. Josh knows it. She was more than the girl next door. She was different. I think we both sensed it right out of the gate. She was shy. Took us a week to even lure her out of her room, forever trying to evade Old Man Matthews. He saw us for the ratbags we were right away. No pulling the wool over his eyes. What would he think if he knew she was with Josh, that she was deeply unhappy?
Probably doesn’t give a shit.
Josh pauses. Maybe it was real back then when we were younger, but whatever he feels for her now isn’t love. It’s all about possession and it’s all because of me. He points again. “She’s mine and that’s all there is to it. I’ll treat her however the fuck I want.”
I snap, shove him so hard he goes ass over heels into the sunken lounge. I jump down on top of him, a tumbler falling off the table beside u
s, its amber contents running into the carpet. “You’re going to treat her with fucking respect or I’m going to fucking break you. I swear to god.”
He’s smiling, eyes glassy. “Little brother,” he taunts, knowing we were only born minutes apart. “Always with the shining armor routine. It’s getting fucking old, bro. She doesn’t want you. Go home.”
I take hold of his hair and raise my fist, ready to smash it into his smug fucking face. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make any attempt to stop me. He wants it. The thought makes me sick. I roll off him and stand, heading for the door.
Carolina returns, placing the drinks down. “Stay a little, babe. Relax. Have some fun.”
One hand on the doorknob, I turn. “I think I’ve had quite enough fun for one evening.”
I open the door and step out listening to Josh call at my back.
“Fucking pussy. Get the fuck out of here.”
Outside, I can’t move. I stand there seething, temples beating and a blood-red anger desperate to be released.
I close my eyes and breathe, force myself to calm down. It works, but it’s short-lived when I hear a thud against the door.
There’s a gasp from the other side, another thud.
A laugh, Carolina’s—thud, thud, thud, her laugh turning into a deep groan.
My fist clenches. The fucking balls…
Let it go.
I’m caught. He’s laughing in my face, fucking that groupie whore right under my nose.
Leave, before you do something stupid.
But I want to. Boy, do I want to.
I listen to them screwing and can’t take any more. I storm down to my car and throw it into reverse, give Josh’s neighbors something else to complain about besides 50 Cent.
CHAPTER THREE
SCARLET
I pace around my apartment running over what Angela said. She’s a reporter. She’s only trying to get to you, elicit a response.
It worked. As much as I want to believe Josh would never cheat on me, I can’t be sure any more. I can’t be sure of anything. God, it was so good in the beginning. Jensen was the one who went off the rails. I don’t know how it turned into this.
I run my hand over my shelf of Babushka dolls. There’s even a Victory FC one, a present Josh brought home after he and Jensen were selected. I was happy, deliriously so, even though things were already going downhill. Here is the fork in the road, I thought, the path to change.
“At least you haven’t changed, Won Ton.” My pug lifts his head from his pillow. “Well, maybe a little fatter, but more or less the same.
I sit down, the fridge and half a tub of salted caramel ice cream calling, but I can’t seem to get Angela’s words out of my head. She’s getting to me.
The encounter with Jensen was another thing altogether. It always is. I can’t deny there is a chemistry between us. He might be the best player going around—on and off the green stuff—but the Jensen I knew all those years ago is still under that skin of bravado and rippage. And god is he ripped. Josh has a body, but Jensen… Call the fire brigade. Spill a freakin’ dam. He’s so cut and perfect it’s certifiable. Nothing but ovary-exploding, get-in-my-bed goodness.
His bed’s never empty, of course. That’s the problem. There’s no shortage of bimbos looking to be WAGS… or BAGS, as I’ve dubbed them. Thing is, he’s bedded all these woman and not once has Jensen made a move to settle down. Guess it wouldn’t play with the whole ‘bad boy of soccer’ thing, insert relevant balls pun.
He only has eyes for you.
I wish. We have something, yes, but neither of us is going to act on it. Jensen had his chance.
I drum my fingers on the table wishing I could hunt down Hermione and steal her time-turner. Life with Jensen… It could be amazing.
Who are you kidding?
Won Ton’s running figure-of-eights around my ankles, his beady black eyes looking up, a perpetual pout on his face. I rub him behind the ears. “What do you think about it all, huh?”
He gives me a gruff! and darts back to his bed. I’m tempted to do the same, but I’ve got to talk to someone about the business with Angela. As much as it would be nice to hit up Jensen, I’m not exactly in the mood to walk in on him ‘making the love’ with his latest accessory. Besides, if Josh ever found out he’d never forgive me. It would be World War Three all over again. No one wants that. I’m happy to play Switzerland for now.
No, if it’s going to be anyone, it has to be Josh. He is my boyfriend, after all, not that he’s been such a winning example lately. He’s had an hour or two to sober up now, or maybe I want him to be drunk. Booze is, after all, the cheapest truth serum out. I’ll ask him straight about what Angela said. If he denies it, fine. If not? Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Like he’d ever tell you. Don’t be so stupid, Scar.
I want to believe it’s baseless, but often the wildest rumors are born from some kind of truth. It doesn’t matter. I need to hear it from his lips and his alone.
I stand, set, scooping my keys off the table and telling Won Ton not to wait up. Momma’s headed to the Hills.
*
The streets are surprisingly busy considering it’s heading past midnight. I see a line snaking around a corner half a block for one of the newest clubs on the strip, Coco. Jensen’s probably in there already with a couple of girls dripping off him. He likes to party after a big win. Who can blame him, really? He works hard, plays hard. He deserves to reap the rewards.
So does Josh.
I think back to the way Josh spoke to me in the parking lot. Even though I know it was the bourbon talking, it still scared me. There was genuine hate there.
In contrast to the sparkling city below, the Hills are pin-drop quiet. I pull up to Josh’s place. His Mustang’s in the driveway—alone. So far, so good.
The lights are off as far as I can tell, no music. Maybe he really is asleep in there?
I consider calling this off and heading home, but I’ve come all this way. The least he can offer me is a kiss goodnight, an apology. That’s his strong suit, the groveling, knee-busting sorrys that always lure me back. I’m a sucker for it.
Damn straight, Oprah-Walters chides.
His doorbell could wake the dead, so I knock on the door instead and wait.
“Josh?” I call out, only a neighborhood dog barking in reply.
I knock again, a little more forcefully now. On the third the door swings slightly ajar. Idiot forgot to close it properly. It reminds me of the time Jensen walked in on us at college. He stood there with the weirdest expression on his face as I tried to gather the sheets and what was left of my modesty, scrambling off Josh for the bathroom. Jensen didn’t looked shocked. No, he looked sad.
I push the door open and take a step inside, calling, “Josh? It’s me.”
In the dark I kick something round and hard, cussing as it rolls into the kitchen. Looked like a skull. Wow, now you are seeing things, Scar. What next? Professor Plum emerging from the living room with a candlestick?
I’ve always been a scaredy-cat, the dark so final and all-consuming. I still use the Buzz Lightyear nightlight I’ve had since I was seven. Buzz—now there is a man. Woody’s nice and all, but Buzz… To infinity and beyond alright.
“Josh?” I call again, a little more urgent as I hunt for the lights. Damn place is all remote, WiFi’d, connected, and voice-activated. Whatever happened to a simple light switch?
I curse again as I bump into a wall, the stairs before me that lead up the second floor and bedrooms. I’m sure I hear something up there, a short grunt that has to be Josh talking in his sleep. He once recited half of Independence Day.
A large void above the stairwell provides modest illumination as I ascend the stairs, a Banksy piece of a girl picking grenades out of a garden framed beside me. Josh probably doesn’t even know why he bought it himself. Half of the crap in this house is straight out of the Robb Report. Jensen? Still living in the same crappy two-bedder do
wntown he has for the last couple of years. Even his Charger remains as it did in college, not hotted up and sprayed the brightest shade of orange possible like Josh’s Mustang—cursed thing’s a rolling seizure.
“Josh?” I make it a loud whisper. Still no reply.
I hit the top of the stairs and hear his voice again, muted, but it sounds different.
I approach his door, lean against it. He’s moaning in his sleep, but there’s another sound I can’t quite place.
Let him sleep. Deal with it in the morning.
I strip off my jeans and blouse, opening the door and moving into the darkness of his room. There are no windows in here. It’s pitch black the way Josh likes it and precisely why I don’t like to spend too much time at his place.
The moan comes again, low, the sheets shifting. Whatever he’s dreaming about, it must be damn good.
I don’t speak as I pad across the carpet, the cold sending a dimpled layer of goosebumps rising to the surface of my skin.
When I’m close enough, I take hold of the sheets and pull them back, sliding in. Josh is on his back, head whipping to the side as he groans again, almost in agony. I get a whiff of alcohol, but it’s nowhere near as overpowering as before. There’s another smell, familiar, but one I can’t quite put my finger on.
I run my hand across his chest, and that’s when I feel it—hair. It’s too thick to be Josh’s, in too much abundance. I run my hand lower and it hits something hard and round.
What the hell?
“Josh?” I stammer.
“Josh?” comes another voice, female.
He sits up like he’s just been given a lightning-bolt enema, something else lifting towards the base on the bed. It’s at precisely that moment I realize what’s going on.
“Scarlet?” whimpers Josh, and I hear the fear in his voice, the surprise. I run my hand across the bedhead and hit the light. Even before my finger presses the switch I know the horror that awaits.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but when they do it is a nightmare of such magnitude I literally cannot breathe, lungs seized tight.
