The Enemy Trap

by Maren Moore

  I can't help the laugh that escapes—she looks absurd singing into a microphone made of air, like she's center stage in a sold-out arena.

  "Get up, come dance, c'mon."

  "Absolutely not, St. James. The show's perfect from right here in this chair."

  Her cheeks warm with my compliment. Truth is, if I stand from this chair, I’m going to lace my hands in her long, honey locks, pull her to me, and kiss her until she can't fucking breathe.

  Call it what you want. Maybe it's the liquor that courses through my veins, or the dips of her hips that beg for bad decisions, but I've been sitting in this chair with a hard on for the past thirty minutes. With each shot we take, I find her less annoying and more attractive. Actually, that's a lie. She's always been fucking gorgeous. But without her attitude, I find myself more attracted to her than I’ve ever been.

  "Fine. Your loss." She sings along to another boy band while I chuckle, sipping on my drink. Thunder claps in the distance, and the yacht lurches seconds later, just before the power goes out.

  Sophia shrieks and darts towards me, jumping into my lap. Her arms fly to my neck, where she clutches on for dear life. Drunk Sophia is a carefree Sophia.

  "What the fuck," she whispers.

  I laugh. "Storm’s coming. We're on a yacht, St. James. What do you expect? Generator will kick on in a minute."

  Her eyes, deep blue pools, are wide as they stare back into mine. The air in the room shifts, and it isn't because of the storm outside. There's a storm brewing in this room, and the way that her fingers absentmindedly run through the hair at the nape of my neck does nothing but push me further and further toward the edge that we're dangling over. An edge we have no business walking on.

  The tension is palpable. I want to grab hold of it, manipulate it, and make it—make her— fucking mine, right now. Tequila or not; doesn’t matter. My heart speeds up in my chest at the thought of having her beneath me, squirming with desire.

  The last thing Sophia and I need is something messy that has no way to be repaired. We share best friends and godchildren, and we have lives that are entangled. We don’t need another reason to hate each other. Or yet another reason to make things weird when we’re forced to be around each other.

  Right now, I don’t hate Sophia St. James and her mouth at all. Instead, I want it wrapped around my dick, her plump, pink lips in a perfect O shape as she takes me down her throat.

  God bless America.

  I know she can feel how hard I am, but I don't give one shit right now. I’m lost in her ocean eyes. I’m in the middle of the ocean with the girl who is my enemy, and now I want her, and I don’t care about the aftermath or the consequences.

  "Hayes..." Her tone is a warning, firm, yet not at all. There's not a hint of conviction in her words. It's a warning that she's just as far gone as I am. Because this isn’t what either of us would really want if we were sober.

  Is that the truth though? Would I no longer want St. James if I didn't have an entire bottle of bourbon in my system?

  I place my hands on her small waist and pick her up, setting her on her feet.

  "I'm going to check outside and make sure everything's good."

  She nods, biting the inside of her cheek but saying nothing. I feel her eyes on me as I walk up the stairs and, only once the door slams behind me do I feel the tension dissolve.

  Jesus, Hayes. Calm the fuck down. This shit is exactly what Holly and Scott wanted, and I refuse to give them the satisfaction after the sneaky shit they pulled to get us here.

  Once I'm outside, the sideways rain assaults me the second I open the door. The wind is blowing so hard I have to hold on to the railing so I don’t lose my footing on the slick, rain-soaked deck.

  Woah.

  It's so dark I can't see much around the yacht, but the thunder claps and lightning lights up the sky. All I can see for miles is pitch black. The waves are rocking and sloshing back and forth, pulling the boat in different directions. It's a bad storm, but not one that would require me to call in on the radio.

  I've been sailing since I was a kid. I can handle this. If, for one second, I didn't think that I could, I'd turn us to shore, but part of me wants to wait the night out and see where it takes us. For whatever reason. I'm blaming it on the level of intoxicated I am, and not at all on the fact that my dick has taken a liking to Sophia St. James.

  Once back inside, I unbutton the white, no longer starched button down and shrug it off. It falls into a soaked pile on the floor. There are some battery-operated lamps that we've turned on throughout the suite, but the generator hasn't kicked on. Fuck, my shoulder is aching. Must be the storm.

  "You'd think that before our best friends decided to leave us stranded, parent-trapped on a yacht in the middle of the Atlantic, they'd check the freaking weather!" Sophia screeches, pacing back and forth on the plush carpet. She's obviously frazzled and, even in her drunken state, uptight and anxious.

  "Sophia," I walk over until I'm directly in front of her and place my hands on her arms to stop her pacing. "You're going to wear a hole in the carpet. Everything is fine. It's just a storm, and it'll pass, and you'll still be able to hate me tomorrow."

  That makes her grin, her plump lips lifting at the corner while she tries to tamp the smile back down.

  "For now, there's still an entire bottle of tequila that has our names on it. I, Hayes Davis, am challenging THE Sophia St. James to a tequila competition. Loser has to go outside and check on the generator."

  Her eyes widen, and a shudder passes through her body. "I am not going up there, Davis."

  I shrug, "Well, better sit your hot little ass right there and grab a lime, because I'm gonna drink you under this table."

  She giggles, then skips over to the chair and sits down, slapping her hands on the table.

  "You asked for it."

  An hour later, we are both completely shit-faced drunk.

  "Another!" she demands, tossing back the clear liquid without even making a face and slamming the shot glass down on the table.

  "Fuck, you win," I lie, pushing away the last shot. First of all, I don't trust her drunk ass not to go overboard on the deck even without a storm like this raging on, and I do not feel like going in after her.

  Secondly, I've had enough tequila to last a lifetime. My eyes go to the now-empty bottle, and I realize how much of a fucking hangover we're both going to have tomorrow. The last thing I want to do is clean up puke tonight.

  "Told you I'd win. You're the loser! Up and at ‘em." She ambles over to where I'm sitting and tugs on my arm, trying to pull me up from the chair. It’s comical, seeing as how I have a good foot and some inches on her.

  A particularly large wave hits, causing the boat to lurch and Sophia to stumble, pulling me with her. Thankfully. I've got the grace of a fucking ballerina and my hands catch the floor. Sophia's now panting chest touches my own bare chest, my body hovering over hers. I can feel the heat from her body and the pants of her breath against my lips. Another inch, and I can close the distance, taking her sweet fucking lips like I've been dying to all night.

  I wait for a sign, a signal, anything from her showing that she wants this as bad as I do, and when her hips swivel against me, I give in.

  "Fuck it."

  I slam my lips onto hers and taste her mouth, the tequila bitter on her lips as I slip my tongue into her mouth and suck the sweetness on her tongue. Sophia’s hands fist my sides, and I drop down further, pressing every hard plane of myself into her. I break free to drop my head to her neck, sucking, biting, and tasting the salty skin there.

  "Hayes," she moans, her voice breathy and full of lust. Our kisses become a fumbled, teeth clanking together, noses bumping frenzy that can only be a result of the pent-up aggression and tension that have finally broken free.

  When her hand slips into the waistband of my pants and she wraps her small fist around me, it’s over.

  We’ll deal with the fall out tomorrow, but tonight…tonight, Sop
hia St. James is mine.

  Seven

  Sophia

  I may be having the best dream of my life. It seems so real—I can practically feel the sun kissing my skin in the most delicious way, wrapping around me like a warm, sweaty blanket.

  Wait, sweaty?

  My eyes pop open when I realize it's not a dream. The sun is so bright I have to squint with one eye to even hold them open.

  Oh god, my head. It hurts. Pain shoots from one side to the other as I struggle to lift myself from the cloud of cotton I'm sleeping on. A snore sounds from behind me, and I scream, scrambling from the bed and pulling the sheet with me, struggling to get the satin around me since I'm as naked as the day I was born.

  Surprisingly, my nakedness is the last thing on my mind when I spot a very, very naked Hayes in the bed I just scrambled from. His hair is sticking up in twelve different directions, and he looks at me through one small, squinted eye. He’s ridiculously handsome, even with bed hair and—I'm sure—morning breath, and I can't help that my eyes drift down his chest to the smattering of hair there that goes lower and lower and...

  Oh god. Hayes, naked, in the same bed with me...naked.

  Suddenly, I remember bits of last night like a bad dream. A vivid, very bad dream.

  There's no way that I had sex with Hayes. No way.

  I would never. I hate him. He hates me. It’s just what we do.

  "Do you mind?" he asks, nodding towards the sheet I'm clutching to my body.

  "No, oh god no!" I cry, holding onto the sheet like it’s going to somehow erase the memory of my naked body from his mind. "Please, please tell me we did not…that I didn't actually..."

  "What? Have the best sex of your life?" he says, a wide grin gracing his lips. His perfect white teeth gleam back at me, and his attractiveness only makes me more flustered.

  "No, that's impossible. No, absolutely not. No," I repeat, shaking my head vehemently.

  "Very possible, St. James. I'm pretty sure I fucked you on every surface of this yacht, and that's not counting the places that you fucked me...." His grin makes me want to slap it right off his smug, arrogant face.

  I'm going to throw up. Right here. I did not...sleep with this douchebag. The biggest playboy in the entire NHL. Probably the biggest womanizer in the entire state. My number one enemy. I’d literally rather have sex with a cactus then come within five feet of his…

  I groan.

  "Don't look so upset, I’m sure you came more times than you ever have. Although, it’s hazy for me too."

  That's it.

  I reach behind me and chuck the first thing my fingers touch at him. The small vase barely misses his head, and he laughs—a deep, belly laugh that does things inside my chest that it shouldn't. Absentmindedly, I shuffle from one foot to the other, and my heart stops in my chest. I feel the undeniable ache between my thighs and the stickiness that can only come from a night of lots of sex.

  I had sex with Hayes Davis, and there's evidence between my thighs. Jesus, Sophia, how careless could you be?

  "Hayes..." I whisper, suddenly more worried than pissed that I made this colossal mistake.

  His eyes meet mine, and a concerned look replaces the teasing one that was there only seconds before.

  "What?"

  "Did you use a condom?"

  An unreadable look crosses his face, then his eyes widen.

  "Goddamnit," he says. "Sophia, I'm sorry...I don’t think so, but I don’t really remember much after…"

  I hold my hand up, stopping him. "Are you clean?"

  He scoffs, "Of course I'm fucking clean. Do you really think I'd be out here having sex with countless women without a condom?" He runs his hand through his already disheveled hair exasperatedly.

  Of course that's what I think! He's America's fucking sweetheart. Everyone loves him. Women throw themselves at his feet, and he works his way through each one of them.

  "That's exactly what I think, Hayes."

  "You're ridiculous. Stop believing everything that you read, Sophia. I will give you a copy of my latest test results. I have never not used a condom. You’d be the first."

  My stomach turns at the thought of him with another woman after what we've just done.

  "Are you on the pill?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.

  Oh god.

  I drop my head into my hands, careful not to let the sheet drop free. I walk over to the bed and sit as far from him as I can without falling off the bed.

  "No."

  There's a sharp intake of breath, like he wasn't expecting that to be my answer, but I won't lie.

  "Birth control makes me fat. And crazy. And gives me uncontrollable periods. Plus, I just got cheated on by an asshole with a small dick and have sworn off all men, so I haven't exactly needed it."

  "Wait, he cheated on you?"

  I look up from my hands and see his brow furrowed in confusion.

  "Can we not talk about this? We have bigger things to worry about."

  He looks away, clenching his jaw, to the huge window of the yacht, which offers a sunny view of the sea. The waves are calm and nothing like the storm that blew through last night. Literally and figuratively.

  "Maybe...maybe since it was only once, we will be okay. I don't think I'm ovulating."

  "Fuck, my head’s pounding,” he groans, still squinting in the bright stream of sunlight. “I hardly remember falling asleep last night."

  I shake my head, rubbing my fingers across my aching forehead and willing myself to remember something, anything from my romp in the sheets with THE Hayes Davis.

  "The last things I remember are the tequila shots at the table and falling onto the floor when a wave hit."

  "With how sore my shoulder is, I think it must’ve been more than once, St. James."

  I whip my head towards him and tighten the sheet around my torso, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever under his gaze.

  "What do you mean?"

  He stands, grabbing his boxers—which somehow ended up on top of the lamp—and putting them on, but not before my eyes get their fill of his strong, muscular body that should not look so good. It's a sin to look so good and be this much of an egotistical dickhead. An egotistical dickhead that I slept with, apparently more than once. He walks over to the fridge and grabs water for us both. I don't let my eyes drift to his stomach and that thin line of hair that disappears behind the band of his tight black boxer briefs.

  Stop, Sophia. That's what got you into this mess in the first place.

  "My shoulder’s fucked. I’ve got a torn rotator cuff, and it’s sore as fuck this morning, meaning I must have lifted stuff last night…meaning..."

  I wince, scared of the next thing that will leave his mouth.

  "You. I vaguely remember my head between your legs,” he pauses, shaking his head then scratching it, “You on top of me, maybe? Maybe that was just a dream." He smirks.

  "Stop," I screech, dropping my head into my hands once more. God, I am such an idiot. A naive, silly, stupid girl.

  "Sorry.” He walks over to the table, where the completely empty bottle of tequila sits. “Seems like we both drank way too much.”

  "We have to talk about this, Hayes. We had sex without protection. I know you wouldn't have to raise a baby, but I would."

  "What's that supposed to mean? You think I wouldn't take care of my child?"

  His face morphs into anger, and I feel guilty for saying that, even if I think it would be the truth.

  "No, I just...God, maybe you at least…pulled out?"

  My cheeks heat. I'm so embarrassed to be having this conversation after the fact. This should have been discussed prior to all of the antics around this stupid yacht, but both of us were completely past the point of making any sound, reasonable decisions.

  "I’m sorry, Sophia. I can’t remember. My brain is just as hazy as yours right now. I feel like an asshole, but we were both caught up in the moment."

  My stomach gurgles and bottoms out, the conten
ts lurching to my throat. I run to the bathroom and fall over the toilet just in time to empty the contents—mostly tequila—into the basin. As I retch, I feel Hayes’ fingers lace in my hair, pulling it off my neck and rubbing soothingly along my back.

  Jesus, this is the worst day of my life. By far.

  "You don't have to do that," I sniffle, rubbing the back of my hand along my nose.

  "I know."

  I lean back and sit against the wall, letting my head rest there while I squeeze my eyes shut.

  "Look, if it makes you feel any better, we can get a Plan B pill. And if push comes to shove, I'll pay for an abortion."

  My eyes fly open and meet his.

  "Don't you dare say that. If I'm pregnant from a night of carelessness with the world's biggest man-whore, then I'll be responsible and raise my baby. I won't need your help."

  I stand and brush past him, finding my discarded clothing around the bedroom. He follows me from the bathroom.

  "I wasn't being an asshole, Sophia. I'm just letting you know that if it came to that, I would support you. Whatever you need."

  "How valiant of you. How about next time you have a drunken one-night stand, you think with your head, not your dick, and use protection," I spit, pulling my leggings up and discarding the sheet back onto the bed.

  His eyes flit to my chest and back away when I catch him, and he expels a breath. "That's not fair. We were both shit-faced. We made a dumb decision and now, if there are consequences, we deal with them.

  "Right, you deal with it all the way in Seattle, living your professional athlete life, and I'll stay here in my one-bedroom apartment and raise a child."

  Once I'm finally dressed, I stalk towards him until I'm chest to chest with him. "This was a mistake. The last thing I should've ever done is let you touch me." I try not to notice how his mask slips ever so slightly with the assault of my words, "All I want to do is forget that I ever let you and move on with my life. You go back to Seattle, and I'll go back to my perfectly normal, boring life."

  "You pursued me just as much, Sophia. Don’t place all of the blame on me. You’re just as responsible for this as I am. “