by P. Dangelico
“Waiting for your lazy ass,” Dallas tells Cole.
“We’re all a little spent from your bullshit. You happy about being benched this weekend?”
Dallas shrugs. Though it doesn’t hide his thoughts. Or the way his amusement dims. Typical Dallas. He’d rather cut his arm off than admit he’s upset.
His attention returns to Alice. “You didn’t tell us she’s hot, Rea. I’d do her.”
I knew it was too much to ask that he drop it. “Keep your voice down, dickhead.” All the guys turn to stare at her and a feeling of hyper-awareness creeps up my neck. “And you’d do anyone,” I point out the obvious.
“Erroneous,” Dallas fires back, pretending to be offended. “Erroneous fucking assumption. Did I do that UCLA Kappa chick that was all over me last year? No, I did not.”
“Only because Calvert warned you she’d gone fatal attraction on him,” Brock rebuts.
“This one definitely kicks it old school which means she’s off-limits to you savages. Mitts. Off––you feel me?” I warn and mean it. The thought of any of these guys touching Bailey makes my blood curdle.
“What about you, Rea?” Dallas chimes in. “She off-limits to you too?”
I shrug, not giving him the satisfaction. “I’m not in the market for a girlfriend.” And that’s the absolute truth. No matter how cute she is when she laughs and that she gets all my movie references. This year is about some well-earned fun, and a girlfriend doesn’t belong anywhere near that equation.
“I kick it old school.” Brock’s deep voice slices into the conversation like a hot knife into butter. Every head on the team swivels in the big guy’s direction. To call him quiet is a serious understatement. So when he does speak, people tend to pay attention. “Does that mean she’s not off-limits to me?”
“Ho-ly shit. Could this be the angel sent from heaven to finally steal your cherry, B?” Dallas stands on the bench with a hand over his heart. “Because if you’ve got your sweet feelings set on her, who am I to stand in the way of a brother entering into manhood.”
Brock’s mouth tilts in a wry smile. That’s all the reaction Dallas’s ball busting gets. Brock’s one of those rare individuals who’s immune to other people’s opinions. “Fucking doesn’t make me a man, bro. If that were the case, you’d be ten times the man you are.”
“Oooo…Dayum…Dallie, he murdered your ass,” the chorus shouts, one over the other.
Grinning, Dallas opens his arms wide and advances on Brock. “I hate it when we fight, sugar bear. Let’s kiss and make up.” Brock pushes him off as Dallas attempts to throw his arms around his neck.
“I’ll give ya a kiss, Dallie.” Quinn leans back in his seat on the bench, arms crossed. He’s wearing the same sly look I’ve seen on him when he’s baiting an opposing team’s player. This usually precedes one, or more of us, getting thrown out of the pool for a foul.
“Smith––” I shake my head. “Give it a rest, man,” I beg before it goes any further. I swear he loves to get under D’s skin.
Dallas flips him off and returns a similar smirk. “Fuck you, Quinn, you fucking slut. If I was bent, you wouldn’t be my type.”
Quinn snickers. It’s common knowledge that he burned through the West Hollywood scene as soon as he stepped foot in Southern California––something he openly brags about.
And since Quinn literally fought his way out of the slums of Liverpool, having his nose broken three times and losing a spleen before his fourteenth birthday because it “didn’t feel right” to hide his sexuality, he now does whatever the hell he wants, with whomever he wants, whenever he wants. And don’t get in his way, or pay the consequences in blood.
He’s also ranked best goalie in the league so none of us give a single shit what he does in his spare time. Or how many.
“Pot, meet kettle, wanker,” is his quick response to that.
While that goes on, Brock’s attention returns to me as if to say, well? A flare of heat shoots up my neck. Shit. Am I attracted to her? She’s got curves in all the right places. That heart-shaped ass would make a man a nice soft place to land. I’d have to be gay not to notice. But is it more than that?
It can’t be.
B watches me intently. As much as I want to deny it, I just can’t seem to form the words. A slow cat-that-ate-the-canary smile grows on his face. “Thought so.”
I get up, rake my fingers through my hair, stretch out my back.
“Rea! Where are you going?” Dallas shouts from somewhere behind me.
My feet carry me away before I even know how to answer.
Alice
“Jersey,” I hear while I’m in line to pay for my turkey sandwich.
I’m starving. Having both crutches tucked under one arm and the food tray in the other is a gamble. Considering the hole in my gut, however, it’s one I’m willing to take.
Reagan walks up to me wearing a lopsided grin, the plate tectonics of his face shifting to render him even more tediously handsome. All over the cafeteria, heads lift. Gazes sharpen. It’s a given that wherever Reagan Reynolds goes so do eyeballs. Case in point, most of the people in this joint are watching us. Which makes my skin crawl.
There’s a good reason I live behind the camera: I’m a natural-born observer. All my instincts rebel at the notion of being on the receiving end of any attention and this is a lot of attention.
“Well if it isn’t the Reagan Reynolds.”
The flash in his eyes has an involuntary smile sneaking up on me. There’s something innately smile-inducing about Reagan. Gorgeous face not included.
He takes inventory of my situation––the tray I’m holding, the crutches––and frowns. Then, ever the gentleman, he reaches out for my food tray and practically knocks me to the ground in the process.
The crutches clatter loudly. I wobble, on the verge of face-planting. But right before that can happen, a muscular arm wraps around my waist and saves me.
“Is someone paying you to maim me? Or are you really this sloppy out of the water?” While the people in line behind me graciously pick up my crutches and hand them to me, he pulls me closer. A smirk already in place.
“Trust me, I’ve got rhythm where it counts,” he murmurs quietly for my ears only. His eyes move over my face and pause on my lips.
He’s an unapologetic flirt, that’s for sure. “You did not just say that.”
“I think I did––”
“What a cheeseball you turned out to be.”
On a deep inhale, I catch a whiff of him. The subtle scent of laundry detergent, a trace of chlorine, and a hint of eau de stud muffin. I waste no time sucking in more of it.
He pulls away, helps me find my balance on the crutches, and gently lets go. I feel strangely bereft without the hard, steady presence of his body anchoring me down. This friends-only thing sucks.
And to add insult to injury I haven’t been on a date in forever. And when I say been on a date, I mean I haven’t had sex since senior year in high school. That’s embarrassing! But I won’t apologize for being choosy about my sexual partners. The sizzle hardly ever happens to me and I need sizzle to sleep with someone. Otherwise, what’s the point? I’ll satisfy my own needs.
Problem is, I’m currently experiencing sizzle with the wrong person. One that’s not interested in anything sizzle related with me. Like I said, this friends-only thing sucks.
“Mind if I eat with you? I have an hour before my next class.”
I peek around his shoulder, and through the glass-paned wall that overlooks the quad, I spot his teammates still out there.
Every single one of them is tall, tan, armed with a thousand-watt smile and the confidence to flaunt it. It’s not fair. And a hazard to the general public. Traveling in a pack of guys that smoking hot should be criminalized. People could injure themselves rubbernecking to stare.
The reckless blond, Dallas, catches sight of us and alarm bells ring. It’s only a matter of time before they all migrate over here and if one likes
to fly under the radar like I do it’s enough to make one want to run.
“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” Fingers crossed he gets the hint that I don’t want to be around when they do.
He follows my gaze over his shoulder and pauses at the sight of his friends. When his attention returns to me, he’s wearing a teasing smile. “They know how to feed themselves. Come on, let’s grab a table and I’ll get our food.”
Without waiting for a reply, he escorts me to an empty one and leaves. Ten minutes later he’s placing a tray in front of me with the same turkey sandwich, Terra chips, and bottle of water I was about to buy before he crashed into me.
“Did you find a new job yet?” he says as he bites into the first of his turkey sandwich. There’s two of them on his tray. Plus a large bag of chips, yogurt, and an apple. Can one human actually consume this much food? I’m about to find out.
“Bailey? I said, did you find another job yet?”
My eyes widen, the question catching me off guard. I spent hours last night scouring the campus job listings for something office related that wouldn’t require me to stand and once again I came up with zilch.
“No.” I shake my head and take a big bite of my sandwich to hide my rising anxiety. If I don’t find something soon, I won’t have any choice other than to do the unthinkable.
“If I can’t find anything by the end of the week, I’ll have to put my camera up for sale.”
I don’t know what to make of his expression. Contemplative maybe? Yeah, that’s it. He nods slowly as he chews his food.
“Hey, Reagan,” a small, curvy girl with shiny black hair says as she walks up to the table. Her face and all the perfect makeup she’s wearing look like they both stepped out of a YouTube beauty channel. She checks me out––dismisses me just as quickly. Heat ramps up my neck and paints my cheeks.
“Hi, Layla.” Reagan smiles. One of his well-oiled ones. The one he uses for cover. I don’t know who he’s fooling with that smile.
Layla’s dark almond-shaped eyes dart between me and him. She’s late to realize he doesn’t intend to say more. “I guess I’ll see you in class.”
“Yeah, see you later.”
Layla reluctantly leaves and a few taut minutes of silence happen. I’m about to speak when he beats me to it.
“I think I have something for you.”
I’m immediately suspicious. And although I’m endeavoring not to jump to the wrong conclusion, we’ve already established that it’s not so easy for me. That said, I trust Reagan. He’s proven himself worthy.
Saturday night was…heavy. A turning point for us, I think.
He shared very personal information with me. I did the same with him. I still can’t believe I did that. It’s way out of character for me to speak about myself. And yet with Reagan it felt natural. Unforced. The definition of which completely escaped Jack, my one and only relationship.
“Umm, okay…like a job?” I get out between sips of water.
“No. A puppy.”
At my blank stare, he grins. “Yes, a job. Jesus, don’t look so suspicious. I’m not going to ask you to blow the entire water polo team.”
Water comes shooting out of my nose. I nearly cough up a lung. He gets up, his chair scraping back loudly, and starts pounding on my back.
Once my coughing fit ends he sits back down and explains. “Coach is looking for someone to take pictures and some video…maybe even tape an interview or two for a recruiting campaign.”
I take a gulp of water and exhale. Work? Work that has me filming? Holy crap, I really did fall down a rabbit hole.
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, clear-eyed, earnest.
The heavens part. I’m on the verge of happy tears. But then old instincts die hard. Grim-faced, I ask, “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing––except your eternal gratitude.”
My smile is back. I want to launch myself at him, hug his beautiful face. I really wish I could. But…friends only. Which is why I say, “Deal.”
Chapter 13
Alice
“So what does this new job pay?” Even Nance can’t contain her excitement. A day later and I’m still doing backflips in my mind.
After Reagan got done with his last class, he picked me up in front of the library and drove me to meet his coach, a stern man who closely resembles an elderly Viking.
Coach Becker explained what his needs are, what he requires of me, and what he considers is the best time for me to film the team. Which is when I explained to him that light would be a critical factor as far as best time of day to film was concerned.
He cracked a small, painful-looking smile––this man does not look like he smiles a whole lot––turned to Reagan and said, “I’m satisfied.” And that was that.
“Two grand! Two freaking grand to film and take pictures. Isn’t that amazing!”
I’m officially the new videographer and photographer of the Malibu University men’s water polo team. Well, according to his coach, I am until I have enough footage for the athletics department to produce a recruiting video for high school prospects.
For now, they’re paying me for the raw footage. A professional production company is supposed to put together the finished product. But I figure this is my big chance, dropped from the heavens into my lap, and I’m not about to squander it.
I have the software on my Mac to produce it myself. If Coach Becker likes it, the athletics department might pay me for the finished product instead of outsourcing it. And if they don’t I can use it as my sample submission for the internship. Either way, it’s a win. I have a source of income––and Reagan to thank for it.
“It’s so exciting. And you said a boy got you the job?”
Boy? Yeah, no. There’s nothing boyish about Reagan. Except for the occasional regrettable Anchorman reference. Notice how I also don’t mention that the boy who got me the job is also the one who played a part in my ankle being injured.
Speaking of the man/boy, I step outside my dorm to find him waiting for me in the Jeep, crooked smile already in place. It’s Thursday night and I’m headed to study group, the one he insisted he drive me to.
He jumps out and opens the passenger side door for me. I wasn’t aware that men still did that sort of stuff, and I gotta say, I love it.
I mean, I’m all for women’s lib. Hell, I’m as liberated as they come, but chivalry should never ever die. Let’s go ahead and put that in the Constitution. Only a monster would object.
“I gotta go, Mom,” I say to her while he looks down at me with smiling green eyes. “My ride is here.”
“All right. Call me tomorrow. Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I get in, slip my cracked iPhone into my messenger bag. The crutches go in the back and the Jeep pulls away from the curb.
“My stepmom,” I say because after our talk on Saturday I know he’s wondering.
“Do you speak to her every day?”
“Sometimes.” Knowing what a delicate subject this is I don’t chase any of the questions I’m dying to ask him.
He nods, looking pensive and a little forlorn. My heart knots, a painful reminder that things are rarely what they seem. That even the ones we assume are living the life we covet, without a care in the world, are dealing with their own little shopping cart full of issues.
I’m ashamed to say I’m one of those people falsely assuming his life was perfect because he’s beautiful and privileged. Because his parents are still together. Knowing what I know now I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything.
“You’re close, huh?”
“She raised me.” A smile stretches my face every time I recall the story of how they met. “When I was seven I got the flu. It was really bad––my temperature was close to 104. Dad took me to the ER and Nancy was the emergency room nurse that night. She took care of me.”
Reagan’s attention shifts between me and the road. “After I was sent home, once t
he fever broke, Nancy showed up at the house and unleashed hell on my father, shouting about how irresponsible it was for him to wait till my fever was out of control to seek help. He said he fell in love with her that second. Two years later they were married.”
A strong gust of hot air invades the car and Reagan’s hair gets ruffled. It’s been like this the last few weeks. Crazy hot winds picking up now and then. Mine is literally standing on end. I’m forced to hold it down with both hands.
“The Santa Anas,” he says as if reading my mind. I look over and find him smiling at me. “The hot wind.” He swirls his index finger.
I let go of my hair, close my eyes, and let it have its way with me. It stands instantly upright, like I stuck my finger in a socket. I’m sure I look like an idiot but it makes me laugh, a burst of pure joy emanating from my chest that can’t be contained any more than the wind can.
“Nice hair,” he mocks with a teasing smile.
“Thanks, Flipper.”
“I thought we established that it’s not a dolphin.”
“You’re not going to like me saying this, but you’re more dolphin than shark,” I happily point out. He’s always perky and upbeat, likes to socialize, loves all the attention. He’s a dolphin––whether he likes it or not.
He levels narrowed green vengeance on me, offset by a sly smile. “I’m the top of the food chain, babe. I’m all shark.”
“That’s adorable. Especially coming from someone that wears a swim cap like my nana used to wear. Except yours has those darling cinnamon buns over the ears. Like Princess Leia.”
He fights his amusement. “Those cinnamon buns are meant to protect my ears from all the rough, manly activity. And I’m tellin’ on you. I’m tellin’ all the guys you said that.”
The Jeep comes to an abrupt stop. Only then do I realize we’re parked in front of the apartment building where my study group is being held. Scanning the parking lot, I see people I recognize from class pouring out of a car.
My attention returns to Reagan and I find him watching me. His smile melts. His expression grows serious like he rarely ever is. I rake my hair down and get my fingers snagged on a few knots. Unfortunately I’m not the comb-carrying type.