Battle of the Bulge

by Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean

  “Well,” Gisselle replies, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, “I’m sure she’s used to being disappointed. She is your mother, after all.”

  I stand there watching these two rival reporters throw verbal mud pies at each other in the most hilarious pissing match ever. The weird thing is, I think they actually like each other. I could swear their faces are filled with the need for hate sex.

  I quickly think of Mitch. Even when I loathed him, I still wanted him. Just a little. Which only made me hate him more.

  I pat the woman, Gisselle, on the arm. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.” I head into the venue, hearing loud music coming from inside. The show must be starting.

  “Have Mitch call me!” Gisselle screams. “I won’t screw him over. I promise.”

  I offer a polite smile, but I am not about to make promises on behalf of Mitch. He and I don’t have that type of relationship. In fact, I have absolutely no idea where we stand. There was this moment after I prevented him from turning into a chlorinated dumpling that Mitch showed me the guy I almost fell for that night at his housewarming party—charming, genuine, and unapologetically confident. But not in a cocky way that says, “Hey, look at me! I have a giant chip on my shoulder.” No, this was that other kind of confidence—when a person is happy, loves life, and likes themselves so dang much that they just don’t care what anyone thinks. They’re not ashamed to be vulnerable or show who they are. They aren’t afraid to laugh at themselves. They treat others with respect. For six hours, that was the Mitch I got to know, and last night he returned for a few short minutes.

  Now I don’t know who I’ll find. Good Mitch? Prick Mitch? A sandwich? Okay, that last one was lame, but sandwich Mitch is somewhere in between. He offers to make you a turkey and cheese with mayo in the middle of the night when you’ve decimated his delicious-looking Italian sub.

  I can live with sandwich Mitch. I can definitely live with good Mitch. I cannot live with pooker Mitch. First things first, Abi. You gotta find out if he even wants you.

  I weave through the very excited, very oddly dressed crowd and find a spot for a shorty like me toward the front. Male models, toting generous phallic packages with extreme padding, strut the catwalk. They are all wearing various distasteful and/or shocking swimsuits. One guy just has a spatula glued to his cock and two plastic eggs—sunny-side up—stuck to his buns.

  “Jesus. I’m surprised this company lasted more than one season.” I look to my right and spot Georgie, who’s standing next to the walrus—party of five!—with a look of utter disbelief.

  I sidestep over to her, careful not to disturb the rare species of ocean life. “Hey. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I yell into her ear. The music, some hyper-tempo version of “Ocean Man” by a group called Ween, is thumping so loud, the walls are vibrating. I only know the song’s name because there’s a screen behind the catwalk displaying the title along with the music video, which is really just a compilation from the Creature from the Black Lagoon movie.

  This is one funky-ass fashion show.

  “Hey. You here alone?” a deep voice yells right into my ear.

  Startled, I jump to the side, almost knocking Georgie over. Oh, Jesus! It’s the dolphin from the fundraiser.

  “Sorry! I’m with someone.”

  “Okay, but just so you know, I mate for life.” He makes a little dolphin cackle.

  “Not. Happening,” I sneer.

  He bows his pointy head and shrinks back into the densely packed crowd. The event feels more like a rock concert than one of those fancy fashion shows you see on TV where everyone’s seated.

  The male models just keep on coming, one ridiculous swimsuit after another—a bikini with a harpoon shape on the front for the penis, faux-seal-fur short-shorts, a pair of lederhosen with a thong in the back.

  Jesus. I want to meet the men who wear this stuff to the beach. Or maybe that’s the problem; they don’t exist.

  Suddenly, the lights go dark, and the entire room pauses with bated breath. The lights return like an explosion—flashes of white, colors bouncing off every surface, and a strobe effect.

  The audience goes wild.

  Mitch is standing at the far end of the catwalk, wearing what can only be described as a bowling ball bag. I mean, literally, it’s a man’s bikini with a little bag stuck to the front. There’s a tiny handle and everything.

  What in the world?

  “I can’t believe Mitch is wearing that,” screams Georgie. “It’s hideous!”

  “Affirmative.” Yet I can’t take my eyes away. Mitch is smiling, chuckling, raising his brawny arms in the air, and having a damned good time. His skin is tan; his abs, thighs, pecs, arms, and legs are ripped. He is Mr. I Don’t Give a Fuck slash Let’s Have a Laugh.

  And I do. His trunks are freakin’ hysterical. But the moment he shows the audience that there’s a zipper at the top of the bag, the room goes apeshit.

  “No. No. Please do not tell me that the bag opens.” Georgie can’t hear me, but even if she could, I doubt she’d respond. Her gaping mouth and wide eyes say it all. She cannot believe what he’s about to do. Neither can I.

  Oh God, Mitch. Please don’t. Please don’t… Like the biggest tease ever, he slowly tugs on the zipper, bringing it completely around the circumference of his package while holding the front flap in place with the other hand.

  “You want this?” he yells. “You want to see what’s inside?”

  A group of ladies behind me start screaming, “Show us your magic spitting cobra, Mitch! Give us a look!”

  I cover my face. I’ve seen him nude. But this is not an image I want haunting my mind for the rest of my life. In fact, I want to punch him right in the bowling balls because, well…

  Fuck. I don’t know.

  All I can say is that in this moment, I am fighting with everything I’ve got. I want to body check him and stop this. I don’t want the entire world (because we all know this is definitely going viral) seeing my man.

  Or future man? Man I want?

  Mitch suddenly drops the flap. I gasp and try not to look, but the reaction of the crowd makes it impossible. They’re laughing hysterically and booing, but in a playful way.

  I have to look. I have to! I spread my fingers and discover that underneath is a layer of fabric with a bunch of bowling pins.

  Oh. You sneaky devil.

  I fume, but I smile. I can’t say I ever imagined this fourth version of Mitch—the sexy fun guy charming the pants off the crowd. No. Really. Some woman just removed her pants and threw them at him.

  I shake my head. Next thing I know, the people behind me are pushing me forward, and Mitch is pointing at me and instructing the crowd to help me up.

  “Wait. What?” I make the international symbol of ohellno by waving my hands, but no one seems to care. Even Georgie gets in on it.

  Defeated and horrified, I stand next to Mitch as he points down at the top of my head. The audience cheers.

  I’m going to have a panic attack. It’s one thing to want to be extroverted, and it’s another to actually be it. I am not. In fact, this is my worst nightmare. I have a very real fear of standing in front of a crowd. Oh God. Oh God. I’m going to faint.

  Mitch does the time-out signal with his hands, and within a few seconds the music stops.

  “Mates!” Mitch calls out to quiet the screaming. “Mates, just a moment of your attention, please!” The room quiets and Mitch is looking at me like he’s absolutely and utterly glowing.

  Oh God. Is he going to…? Since I was little, I dreamed of something like this. I’m standing in the crowd—not in front of it but in—at a big movie premiere. Photographers are lighting up the sky with their flashes, fans are holding signs and yelling words of adoration, the movie stars are glamorous and waving their manicured nails. Suddenly, the last limo pulls up. Everyone falls silent as the hottest man in the world exits the vehicle. For the record, the man has been a different guy at various times of my life. There w
as Zac Efron, Channing Tatum, Liam Hemsworth, Taylor Lautner, and Nick Jonas, to name a few. These last few years, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve been fantasizing about men who are more than just their good looks. Mature men. Responsible men. Men with purpose.

  Okay. Yes, sometimes he’s Mr. Clean. What woman doesn’t want a guy who loves a spotless house? But right now, that man is Mitch. And more than anything, I am hoping that he feels something for me, too. I’m hoping that’s why he brought me up here.

  “Everyone,” he says, “I just wanted to say three things. One, thank you for the support and enthusiasm these past few years. It’s been an honor to come to these shows and witness your enthusiasm for me and the Weeno brand. Two,” he holds up two fingers, “it is with extreme sadness that I confirm this is my last day as the Weeno ambassador.”

  Whats and oh nos erupt in the room.

  “And third,” he turns toward me, “I wanted to leave you all with this: a statement from my heart. A person’s greatness and worth isn’t about the size of their melons or mighty dangler. It’s not about the hardness of your abs.”

  “Yes, it is, you sexy thing! We love you, Mitch,” yells a woman.

  “Thank you. Thank you.” He smiles and dips his head in gratitude. “But greatness really comes from right here.” He looks at me, but places one hand over his heart. “This woman took a bullet for me last night. She stopped two other attempts on my life. She is the best bloody bodyguard—male, female, or otherwise—anyone could ask for. So tonight, Abi Carter, I give you the Weeno Award.”

  Huh? I’m so confused. The moment went from heading in a romantic direction to…a Weeno Award?

  I don’t even know what that is. And more importantly, I don’t want to.

  Two women come out on the catwalk with a crown that’s shaped like an upside-down pair of men’s bikini bottoms covered in gold rhinestones. In slow motion, I see the photographers snapping off their pictures. Everyone’s pointing and laughing hysterically at me. It’s like the scene right out of Carrie, but without the blood. Still, the horror! From this day forward, anyone who Googles “Abigail Carter” will find a picture of me wearing Elton John’s underpants on my head.

  “Stop!” I hold out my hand. “Don’t you come near me.”

  A shock wave of confused faces floods the room.

  “Abi? What’s wrong?” Mitch asks.

  “Is this some joke to you? Am I some joke?” I grab the stupid knicker-crown from the girl’s hand and throw it to the ground.

  “No. Not at all.” Mitch shakes his head.

  “Then what the hell, Mitch?” I tear up, feeling too emotional to hold back. Maybe it’s the pain in my chest, the lack of sleep, or the stress of facing death, all finally catching up. I don’t know. But this is not okay.

  “Abi, I just wanted to—”

  “Humiliate me? Minimize what I went through? I’m your bodyguard, Mitch. Your fucking bodyguard. Not your PR tool, toy, or mate. I took this irreplaceable temple,” I sweep my hands over my body, “and used it to shield you and your giant male ego. It’s a damned miracle you’re still alive because it would take ten of me to cover all of it.”

  “Abi,” he says like he’s shocked or perturbed by my words. In either case, he doesn’t get it.

  “I’m special, Mitch.” I point a finger in his face. “And for whatever reason, I felt like you were worth giving my life for. But I’ll be damned if I let you thank me by putting underwear on my head.” Somewhere deep inside, I’m realizing that my anger is about more than that. The truth is, I saved his life and it wasn’t about the money. I did it because I cared what happened to Mitch. A part of me just can’t get over him, so maybe all this fighting for his life has really been about fighting for us.

  Or my hope for us?

  I don’t know.

  All I can say is that he drives me crazy. He walks into a room and my heart fires up. My stomach knots. My head spins. All this time I’ve spent feeling angry, I was secretly hoping he wanted me as much as I want him, as much as he wanted me that night.

  Clearly he doesn’t. He’s all about the fame, the glory, and his swimming career. I’m a joke to him. Stupid! Stupid, Abi! Why do you set yourself up like this?

  “Let’s go backstage, Abi. Let’s talk this out,” Mitch says.

  “I gotta go.” I head straight down the catwalk, through the backstage area, and out the walrus exit. I don’t stop until I’m on my way to the airport.

  Georgie: Abi, you okay?

  Me: Sure. Peachy. Enjoy the rest of the weekend with Sam. See you back in Houston.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mitch

  That didn’t go at all how I imagined. I scratch my scruffy chin, trying to comprehend how my gesture toward Abi turned into a festering dung heap.

  I look down at the crowd, who’s still standing there staring at me.

  “Well, uh,” I scratch the back of my head, “that was a bit awkward, but I hope you all enjoy the rest of your evening. Swim on!” I signal to the bloke in the DJ booth to spin some music. I walk backstage and spot Norton, the owner of Weeno, surrounded by reporters.

  At least one person’s happy about all that. Weeno is going to get a boatload of free publicity and social media buzz from that debacle.

  “You’ve done some stupid things, buddy, but this takes the cake.” Sam stifles a smile, meeting me just outside my changing room.

  “Right. Thanks, Sam.” Ass.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He turns serious on me. “It’s just that you tried to put underwear on her head. As a thank-you.”

  “They were swimmers. Shiny ones. And I was attempting to be nice.”

  “I thought you had experience with women.”

  Little known fact: I have never had a serious girlfriend. Yeah, I’ve slept with a few. I partied a lot in my late teens and early twenties, but swimming has always been my girl. And she leaves me no time to be unfaithful.

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  “Then maybe you need a refresher, mate,” he says, mocking my accent. “Because that girl is in love with you.”

  Abi. In love with me? “You’ve lost your marbles there, Sam, because that woman hates my guts.” Sure, she said something about falling in love with me right before Ash showed up, but she was joking. And yes, she let me kiss her before it all went down. Heat of the moment and all that. But after the crap I’ve pulled, the things I’ve said, the danger I put her in, how could she be falling for a man like me? To entertain the thought is a joke, even if a day hasn’t gone by where I don’t think of her. Her golden brown eyes, her sweet smile, and that soft little body. Hands down, she’s the smartest, bravest, sexiest woman I’ve ever met.

  “Mitch, I only know two women in my life who’d jump in front of a bullet for me without thinking. My mother and Georgie. Abi has saved your ass twice.”

  “Three. There was the power cord in the swimming pool incident.”

  Sam cocks a brow. “You and I need to have better communication. But, fine. Three incidents, which only proves my point. She loves you. She might not want to admit it, but she does.”

  I whoosh out a breath and run a hand through my hair. “Dammit.” He has a point. And here I am, treating her like one of my mates. “Are you sure? Because you’d think a strongheaded, mouthy girl like that would just come out and say how she feels.” If she really feels it.

  “I’m sure that’s what you’re used to, Mitch; women falling at your feet and declaring their undying love. But Abi isn’t like that. She’s actually pretty shy.”

  Abi? “If that’s true, she doesn’t have issues speaking up to me.” She seems to enjoy pushing my buttons.

  “Trust me. Georgie and Abi have been best friends since they were kids, and I’ve gotten to know her. She’s proud, hardworking, and very loyal. But deep down, she’s not as tough as she seems.”

  I remember Abi mentioning that she was terminally shy growing up, which was why they gave her the sarcastic nickname of Blabi, but I thought she was exagg
erating. “Does this mean it was a mistake putting her up on stage?”

  Sam points his index finger and clicks with his mouth. “Now you’re catching on, Weeno boy. Let’s get out of here.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You keep away from me and my Weeno, shrimpy.”

  “Very fucking funny, Mitch. Now please get out of that oh-so-manly thong so we can get out of here.”

  I turn, making a production of sticking out my ass.

  “Stop it. Or I swear the next bullet will be yours.”

  I laugh and go into my dressing room, but the moment I’m alone, Sam’s words start to sink in. Really sink in. If Abi loves me, then what do I do about it? I’ve never had a real relationship for damned good reason. I don’t want one and I don’t have time.

  As for Abi, the decent man in me says she deserves someone who’s all in—gold medals, perfect strokes, tireless execution in the relationship department. I am a competitive person who’d want to be there for his woman in every way possible—friendship, support, incredible sex. More incredible sex. But I’m not capable of dedicating myself to anything but my sport. It’s been my life. It’s kept me sane in my darkest hours. It’s given me purpose. And more importantly, swimming can’t die. I don’t have to worry about being unable to protect it because some fucking psycho is after me. I don’t have to spend every waking minute wondering what I could have done differently to save it. I don’t have nightmares about watching it bleed out in my driveway while I plead with God to take my life instead. I’ve lost my entire family—parents, grandparents, and uncle—which is why no matter how much I want Abi, I can’t do right by her. I’ll never allow myself to love her fully like she deserves. Especially now, after she almost died yesterday. That image will haunt me until the day I die.

  If I care for this amazing woman, I will let her go. Again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Abi

  It’s been almost a week since Miami, and I cannot believe the crap I’ve had to put up with. Memes? Seriously, people? You just had to create little cartoony stories about me for sharing with the world?