by Kristy Marie
But alas, such is not the case. Drew would drag me out of the house and Bennett would cut me that disapproving frown of his, ruining my night. So I’m going to this party whether I feel like it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I love Drew and Bennett, but knowing that I might have to go one more day without my nightly movie in my ratty chair, sends a level of anxiety through me that I only get with my waxer.
Do not side-eye me. I might wear flannel but that does not mean I have to rock a bush. I’m girly in all the right places, trust me. I just find flannel a little more comfortable than spandex or camisoles. Where do you keep your phone in those outfits? I’m certainly not stuffing it in my bra or carrying around a purse.
I have a backpack and that’s the extent of my accessories which—my phone dings and I roll onto my side and snag it. Huge mistake.
Apparently, his coffee and aspirin have kicked in.
Demon Douche: Quick! Do I have something on my face?
Ugh! I squish my head into the mattress and muffle a scream. If I text him back, he’ll like it. How do I know he’ll like it? Because I would like it and Sebastian is just as warped as I am with our back and forth.
Demon Douche: Hurry, T! I need to make a good impression.
Demon Douche: I mean V. Stupid Autocorrect.
Autocorrect…my ass. This man needs an ankle monitor and a muzzle. I swipe the text away and hit the red button to delete. I’m not playing his game today. Sure, I want to—badly—but I’m not, because I’m better than that. And, unless he’s texting a drop point for the exchange of my chair for his pillow, I’m not interested.
Demon Douche: I was thinking the yellow shorts looked better than the red ones.
I grit my teeth and clutch the phone in my hand. He knows those shorts are ridiculous.
Don’t do it, Vee.
You know better. You’ll just be egging him on. Don’t let him bait you.
Fuck it. I ease down to the floor and crawl to the window for one tiny look-see. Sure enough, the bane of my college existence is turning his head side to side in the window, as if he were directly in front of me, and I was his personal mirror.
Demon Douche: I’m serious, V. You might as well give me your opinion. What’s the range on those binoculars anyway?
If only I had a paintball gun, I would… do nothing because then I’d be scared that I’d shoot the annoying idiot in the eye and spend the rest of my life groveling for his forgiveness or—gasp—taking care of him. Not to mention he would retaliate, and I’d end up being the eighty-year-old woman still playing pranks with a single, immature old man. Yeah, no one is marrying that. A big dick ain’t everything. Not that I know if Sebastian’s dick is big, but something has to be going for him to keep women in his bed. I’m just saying that if—and that’s a big if—Sebastian manages to keep a woman, I’ll admit I was wrong in my assessment. But I’m not wrong because this is Sebastian we’re talking about. He’s no prince.
And, apparently, I’m no angel because my fingers betray me, and I swipe up to reply to his message before my conscience can change my mind.
Me: Those shorts look like you sat in baby shit.
It’s like I can feel the smile that forms on his face. Why do we love to do this to each other?
Demon Douche: It’s mustard colored. Very trendy. You wouldn’t know since you never wear anything but hand-me-down dish towels.
Really? Dish towels? Please.
Me: If I recall, you enjoyed the feel of my flannel.
His reply comes quickly.
Demon Douche: Fuck you.
I’ll admit his response makes me smile, but then that stupid guilt creeps into my belly and I change the subject before we take this playful banter into asshole territory.
Me: Who are you trying to NOT impress?
Demon Douche: Now, now. That’s not how this game works anymore. Thanks for the chair, V. I don’t owe you one.
Not how this game works anymore… my stomach drops. His text hits me right in the guilt. He’s right; the game has changed. Because, once upon a time, he would have told me who he was not dressing up for.
Because, once upon a time, he told me everything.
University CamFlix Competition Submission
Entry Number: 75
Sebastian and Valentina
First Interview Continued, or otherwise known as the fifteen minutes I didn’t shove Vee off the sofa
“How did Sebastian sabotage your video to start the war between you two?”
That’s the question everyone wants to know, but not one she likes talking about.
I can’t stop the snort that comes out of me. “Should I tell it, sweetie, or would you prefer to do the honors?” This entire interview has been a delight. I love fucking with her while she can’t do anything about it.
Her cheeks puff with a fake-ass smile. “I’ll tell it. I’d hate for your fans to think you were a camera hog.”
She intends for that comment to sting. It doesn’t. It’s no secret I enjoy being in front of the camera but seeing her squirm, while trying to spin this story into something less embarrassing, makes my fucking year. I nod, forcing down a shit-eating grin and extend my hand to the camera. “By all means, spill the tea, sweets.”
Not even rubbing it eases the stiffness. No, not my dick—although that maintained a decent pudge earlier—but my neck. This particular stiffy is brought on by sleeping on a flat pillow. The other stiffy was brought on by my delightful neighbor.
That I hate.
Most days.
Okay, probably around six out of the seven days of the week, if I’m being honest.
She puts the bat in batshit crazy, and for some reason, that gets me rock fucking hard.
My dick is a traitorous bastard.
“Sebastian.” Maverick, my friend, snaps his fingers in front of my face, effectively pulling my gaze from the window. “Focus. I don’t have time to sit here all day and play matchmaker. I have shit to do.”
He has time; he’s nowhere near as popular as he thinks he is. I level him with a flat look. “Playing Who Wants to Be a Millionaire on the iPad is not having shit to do, Mav. It’s called being a boring motherfucker.”
Once deemed the best of my friends, Maverick has gone and abandoned me for a girl. His entire life now revolves around date nights and endless texts about what’s for dinner. It’s disgusting. You’ll never catch me abandoning my guys and poker nights in favor of cuddling with a certain someone. If I’m cuddling, you bet your ass it’s going to be because she was mind-blowing amazing in bed, and I want to make sure she stays put for round two.
“I’m answering emails, dick. Not playing a game. Not that it matters to you since you’re only half-ass giving Brad, here, your attention.”
He motions to the film student in front of us who, I’ll admit, I almost forgot was here for an interview. The neighbor’s window and this pounding headache have been quite the distraction this afternoon.
“My name is Brick,” the potential cameraman says, correcting Mav, who is already focused back on his phone screen.
“He doesn’t care,” I return, glancing one more time at the window. “All Maverick cares about these days is stupid sea lions and macaroni and cheese.”
Maverick’s head pops up at my comment, but he doesn’t bother denying my observations. Which really aren’t observations at all—more like facts. “Brian,” Mav addresses the guy, but keeps his gaze on me, “do you have a problem with being the voice of reason? How ‘bout being the designated driver because that’s really the job you’re interviewing for. Sebastian needs more of a nanny than a cameraman. I’m not sure why the flyer says otherwise.”
See what I mean? Having a girl has made him soft. Before Ainsley, he would have dropped at least a couple of F bombs in that spiel. I couldn’t be more disappointed.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Brick answers slowly, his eyes widening.
I wave off Brick’s concern and kick the wicker chair under Mav�
�the one I dragged from my neighbor’s patio—and hold up my middle finger. “Ignore him. He takes joy in other people’s misfortunes.”
Maverick rolls his eyes but says nothing. Which is good because, the truth is, I don’t need a D.D. or a voice of reason. I’m not self-destructing. Well, not as much, anyway. I’ve done better lately, like since yesterday, when I stole Valentina’s favorite patio chair. Her cute little ass didn’t sit outside last night and munch on ten pounds of popcorn as she gasped and jumped at the worst 90’s horror movies.
I did the neighborhood a solid.
And myself.
Because I really do feel much better knowing we both suffered.
“Sebastian.” Maverick punches my arm.
Shit. Right.
Focus, Bash.
“Why do you want to be my cameraman anyway?” I ask, trying to, somewhat, adult. It lasts for all of a second because I catch movement in my peripheral. Did she close the curtains?
“Goddammit. Sebastian!”
Ugh. Another time, neighbor.
I straighten and smile at Brick like a boss would because that’s what I am when I feel like it. “From your resume, it seems like you’ve done well in the film industry. Being a cameraman for a MyView page can’t be all that fulfilling, considering you’ve been filming a three-year documentary.”
Brick really is talented and well-known around campus. I should be more impressed. Should being the operative word.
Brick nods and swallows. “Subscription media is on the rise. If I want to pitch to the likes of Netflix and Hulu one day, I’ll need the experience. I thought this job would be the best route.”
Smart.
So far Mr. Potential New Cameraman has aced this interview. At least he did when I was paying attention. He’s given me all the right answers and even spat out a few ‘Yo Mama’ jokes earlier that made me laugh. Basically, he’s exhibited all the traits I admire in a good cameraman. But since my last one quit, I’m gun-shy to jump at the next person with a shitty sense of humor and a great eye for angles. Brick here, will need to provide me with a little thing called proof.
“He’s the best you’ve seen out of fifty applicants,” Maverick mumbles next to me. “Hire him and let’s move on with our lives.”
I ignore Maverick, and the word “best” that just left his mouth. I already had the best cameraman. This guy in front of me, clutching his expensive fucking Nikon, is merely a wannabe cameraman, not the best I’ve ever seen.
He’s right, though. Brick is the best I’ve seen so far. It’s been months since I lost Tweener, my last cameraman. My ratings are dropping like a drunk mountain biker. I can’t afford to keep filming selfie-style or on a tripod; that’s a rookie move.
My videos are becoming basic, and at this point, I can’t afford to lose any more subscribers or advertisers than I already have. I need the money. Having steady income is the only way out of Georgia and away from a past that haunts me each and every day.
“One last question, Brick.”
What kind of name is Brick anyway?
I suppose a film one. Maybe I should come up with something short like G-Easy or Eminem. Not that I’m a rapper, but maybe that’s the rebranding I need in on social media. I loathe the fact my name coincides with hers. If I get asked one more time, “Where’s Vee?” someone is getting punched. Apparently, my fame was born from her and, obviously, my fame has died with her, which only adds to my warm and sarcastic personality. The one thing I thought I succeeded in, she snatched away from me, reminding me that I’ve yet to really succeed at anything on my own.
Brick sits taller, clearing his throat. “Hit me.” His voice is deep and edgy with a hint of a southern accent. Good—if I never hear a southern Latina accent ever again, it’ll be too soon.
“If I offer you this job—and I’m not saying I am—but if I do…” I draw out the words with a cringe and fight the urge to look out the fucking window. “Would you be able to provide a copy of your birth certificate?”
Brick may think that’s a strange fucking question but so is his name. Dealing with my cynicism comes with the job.
“Uh…” His eyes go left to right in rapid sequence, before finally landing on the pussy-whipped asshole beside me. Maverick—the scary, unhelpful paperweight.
I snap my fingers, drawing Brick’s attention back to the proper asshole. Me. “He’s not the one hiring. I am.”
A muscle in Brick’s throat works as he swallows and averts his eyes to the prerequisite questionnaire I had him fill out a few minutes earlier. I’m nothing if not a thorough employer.
“Let it go, Bash,” Maverick mutters, not looking up from his damn phone. “Your interview questions are escalating with each applicant.” Maverick’s voice is laced with amusement. Almost as if he’s refraining from laughing. “Soon, you’ll be asking them to pull up their shirts, so you can check for wires and nipple hair.” I watch as he grins into his phone, one last time, before I snatch it from his hand and toss it on the sofa out of his reach.
His blinks are slow as he eyes me seriously. “Don’t deflect because you’re uncomfortable. Stop this charade. You don’t need any more drama and rumors floating around about you.”
Tingling races up my forearms at his mention of drama and rumors. It isn’t the drama I’m scared of. I’m used to rumors. The anger is what I can’t get over.
I was played.
And that both turns me on and pisses me the fuck off.
Granted, I deserved the payback and even instigated the war between us, but that’s beside the point. The point is: one moment—one real moment—changed who I was altogether. I hate this version of myself—the version that doesn’t bed new women every night or drink and smoke the night away. This version of Sebastian Carrington is confused, vulnerable, and downright mad at the fucking world. No, not the world. Just her.
Why did she have to come into my life and make me see myself differently? Why couldn’t she have left me alone, wallowing in my own insecurities, self-deprecating until I lashed out and drowned my sorrows in moonshine?
I’ve never loved something more than I loved the prank wars I did on MyView. I was the king of clickbait, and she took it all away from me in one night.
“You know, Maverick,” I say, narrowing my eyes in the asshole’s direction. “You’ve been as much help as a crocheted condom during these interviews.”
“I offered to send Rowan—” he says, pulling out the iconic deck of cards he keeps in his back pocket, “—or anyone other than me, for that matter.” The cards make a swishing noise as he shuffles them, and it causes Brick’s shoulders to snap to attention. “It’s been two long-ass months, Sebastian. Frankly, Rowan and I are sick of babysitting your self-destructive ass. Hire Bill and move the fuck on with your life.”
I grit my teeth. “I have moved on.”
I have dammit, and I’ll prove it.
“You’re hired,” I fling at Brick rather vengefully. Fuck Maverick. I am so over her; I can taste my ratings skyrocketing. “Be here tomorrow at seven a.m. I don’t want to hear you overslept or need a water and an aspirin when you get here. I’m not a CVS or your girlfriend.” I don’t practice what I preach, obviously. “I don’t do hungover employees.”
Maverick scoffs and I add, “Anymore. I don’t do hungover employees anymore.”
I fight the urge to look back at the window.
Why does fucking with Valentina float my demented boat?
Yes, we’re enemies and I’d very much like to never speak to her again after what she did.
But yet, I sat at my window downing moonshine shots after moonshine shots while I watched her snuggle into her ratty old chair in her stupid flannel pajamas and mismatched socks.
I could see all the lies as I looked at her all peaceful and cozy. Meanwhile, I was stalking her like some loser. The drunker I became, the more ridiculous my thoughts were.
I didn’t miss her.
I didn’t care what movie she was watching.
I was fine without her.
It’s not like I won’t graduate in another year and move clear across the country. I don’t need Valentina in my life, not for views and especially not for my own entertainment.
So I removed part of the equation. If she couldn’t sit in her chair, then she couldn’t pique my interest and suck away my entire night.
Except, it didn’t quite pan out that way.
“Great. Now that we’ve found you a new friend, I’m going home.” Slowly, I pull my gaze forward and find that Maverick has stood and grabbed his phone from the sofa, texting someone—probably Ainsley.
“Gigi’s tonight?” I ask, refraining from demanding it like I want to.
He sighs a long and exaggerated breath. “Sure. I’ll meet you there at ten.”
Fucking finally. We haven’t been to Gigi’s in months.
I nod, hiding my excitement, and walk to the door, hoping Brick takes the hint and follows Maverick out. “Sounds good. Tell Ainsley I’ll answer her text later.” I take a look around my townhouse, noting the dirty clothes, I think I might have been wearing last night, laid haphazardly over the trash can. “I need to do a couple things first.”
Maverick doesn’t take the bait about Ainsley. He knows no one is stupid enough to text his girl. “Come on, Brett, I’ll show you out,” he says instead, forcing a grin from me.
He’s a really good friend, even if he is lame.
I nod to Brick and flip off Mav. “Don’t cancel on me, bitch, or I’ll bring Monopoly, and we can all sit around and be a family.”
It’s an empty threat. I don’t own a game of Monopoly, but even if I did, I wouldn’t crash on Maverick’s time with his girl. I’m not that shitty of a friend.
Maverick ignores me—like usual—shoving Brick forward and out of my life for the next fifteen hours. I release a big breath. I finally hired a cameraman. That’s one obstacle down and one step in recovering my views and sponsored ads on MyView.