by Kat T. Masen
“But it involves singing,” I complain.
“Please?” Pouting her lips, and with eyes wide begging without shame, I finally give in.
“Fine. But stop giving me the puppy-dog look. Order a round of drinks so I can gear myself up, and don’t pull any girly shit out like Abba or something.”
She whistles for the bartender, looking terribly pleased with herself when he comes over quickly. I can’t hear what she’s ordering but it doesn’t matter. I’ll drink whatever to lessen the embarrassing performance which is about to happen.
“All right…” she raises her cocktail and presents her toast, “… to fun times. Let’s go wild and live life to the fullest, if only for tonight.”
We clink glasses, the both of us drinking it in one hit.
“Damn, woman...” I almost choke back the burn, “… you could drink me under the table.”
“I could also fuck you under the table,” she suggests with a straight face. “Or both.”
I fucking love her boldness. Never wanting to admit to her that her smart mouth challenges me like no other woman has. When Emerson Chase comes out to play, you better have you’re A-game on because she never, ever, backs down.
I lean forward, bringing my face close to hers. “You’re a fucking tease. Always have been.”
“Whatever.” She grins, pushing another glass in front of me. Does she want me to be legless tomorrow? I can hold a decent amount of alcohol but I’ve started to feel the effects. “You never look at me that way.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, yeah… like when?”
“Graduation day,” I tell her. “You wore this pink dress underneath your gown. When the strap of your shoe came undone you leaned forward to fix it. I saw your white lace panties peeking through.”
She laughs, her beautiful smile unable to hide. “So, you caught a peek at my panties? You really were deprived.”
“You were bare.”
“Was I? I don’t remember.”
“I do.” Raising my glass to my mouth, I hide my smirk. “I wanted to fucking eat it.”
Her laughter slows down, becoming serious with heavy pants. Mirroring my moves, she hides behind her glass while gazing at me longingly. I want to kiss her mouth, tease her lips with my tongue and fucking taste her. Beneath my shorts my dick rages hard because all it wants is her.
“Is it hot in here?” She fans herself with a napkin, breaking my gaze.
“You tell me.” I graze her arm with my fingers. “How wet are you?”
Her foot travels up my leg, resting in between on my crotch. She pushes against my cock, hard. My body jerks forward at how sensitive it is to her touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her senseless in the restroom.
“Jane Smith…” The name is called, Emerson pulls away reluctantly.
“Okay, I’m up next. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.” I force a smile, not being too sure this is the greatest plan in the world.
For one—I can’t sing.
And two—I hate singing.
Karaoke bars are for the brave. Those willing to make an absolute fool out of themselves and continue to go back for more. That, and everyone will be able see my cock standing proud because I have no chance of taming this wild boy.
She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With microphone in hand, she sways slightly, unable to contain her energy. “This performance is dedicated to all the women in the room that just want to be free. Screw men... we don’t need them.”
There’s a loud cheer from the crowd—mainly women, of course. Some of whom turn to look at me wondering why she’d say that if I’m her boyfriend, or they’ve spotted the fake mustache which isn’t hard to do. I find myself sinking into the seat, taking the remaining glasses with me and downing them in one go.
The music begins and I don’t recognize the song until the fourth line. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she sings loudly, drawing the crowd in. “And don’t tell me what to say...”
The fire in her tune makes her belt out the song in a pleasant voice. I didn’t think she could sing this well. Why haven’t I noticed before? It makes me feel like there are so many things about Emmy I’ve never noticed before or, at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in any way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.
Things like, how she twists the ends of her hair when she’s telling a story, or how when she laughs her eyes light up and you find yourself smiling even if the story isn’t funny. How she crosses her legs and tucks her foot behind her leg, and how when she leans forward the view of her tits is fucking magical.
The song wraps up and she receives a standing ovation. People yell “Girl Power,” and fist-pump the air. On her way back to the table women stop her and give her a hug—an odd sentiment from a stranger. She lingers and gets caught in conversation enjoying her newfound freedom as a nobody.
I stand up, clapping my hands as she walks back while I notice the sweat glistening against her pale skin. Fanning her face again with a napkin, she can’t hide the smile while trying to catch her breath.
“You were amazing. Too amazing. I think they all think I’m the douche you need to dump. Who needs dick? Girl power all the way.”
She clutches her stomach, laughing. “That was so...” I wait for her to finish, realizing her smile begins to disappear and worry lines cloud her beautiful face. “I felt free.”
I pull on her hand, motioning for her to sit down. This mood shift annoys the fuck out of me. One minute she’s Miss Confident and the next she’s controlled by that fucking moron, Wesley Rich. I saw it in the limo the way he manipulates her, and she justifies it by saying it’s all for the cameras. Their relationship is nothing like mine and Louisa’s.
Fuck, don’t even think about her now.
You can’t compare Emmy and Louisa.
“Why do you constantly remind yourself that you’re trapped? What’s a piece of paper, Emmy? A contract means nothing if you’re unhappy. I don’t fucking get it.”
“Out of all people, Logan, you should understand. Your life revolves around your name signed on the dotted line. You’re bound, legally, to the Royal Kings. Imagine if your coach started treating you like shit and you had no way of getting out?”
“He does treat me like shit. I just suck it up,” I tell her, firmly. “The difference is, that I want to play. I wouldn’t know how to exist without my name on the dotted line.”
“Well, lucky you.” Her sarcasm becomes bitter. “Why can’t we all live like Logan Carrington?”
I remind her to keep her voice down, the mere mention of my name could alert people to our presence. The last thing we need is to be caught out.
“This is who I’ve become. I’m not like you and Ash, I don’t have a passion that is my reason for living. I wake up every morning thinking what have I gotten myself into? The fame and money got to me.”
“It did,” I admit.
“I was like the popular kid in school except with a ton of money. Somehow I got caught up in being bigger than the rest of them.”
“You are.”
“Will you stop agreeing with me?” she complains, disappointed the glasses are empty when she checks each one.
“You want the cold, hard truth?”
“Maybe... I don’t know.”
“You have changed. You’re not the same, and the fame did get to your head. But it’s gotten to me, too, and to Ash. We’re no longer kids from Green Meadows. People depend on us.” I maintain my focus on her, trying to make some sense with what I’m attempting to get at. “If this isn’t the life for you then move on. Tell the network you’re done and shift out of your apartment. Why you’re still with him is beyond me.”
My last comment only riles me up further. My blood is pumping furiously as I’m reminded that after tonight we’ll go our separate ways and her direction is toward someone else’s dick. Maybe it’s an unfair assumption, but
it still fucking pisses me off that she goes home to him despite what excuse she lays on me.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re supposed to be having fun.”
“Yeah,” I drag, leaning back on my chair.
“I’m sorry, Logan.” She straightens her posture. “How about you get up and sing now?”
“About that...” I attempt to think of a valid excuse. “How about we mark this as an IOU?”
“That never works,” she huffs. “You used to do that in Monopoly until you were so broke you had nothing left, and still forced us to play because you thought you could make a comeback.”
I smile, purposely playing with my mustache to annoy her. “Would a man with a mustache make false promises?”
She laughs, tossing her hair to the side and leaning forward. “A man with a mustache is a sign of false promises, but I’ll believe you... on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We ditch this place and find something else fun to do.”
I smile. “Deal.”
***
On the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, we cross the lights and follow the stars embedded in the pavement. I’ve visited this place a few times but don’t see the big deal. The street’s full of tourists who are snapping away as they capture this once-in-a-lifetime moment. They’re rowdy and loud for being so late at night. Aside from taking pictures, a few homeless people walk up and down the pavement talking to themselves, and a few begging for money. I reach out of my wallet and pull out a few bills, handing it to an older lady with a shopping cart and a half-knitted hat.
“You know she’ll probably spent that on a bottle of Jack?” Emmy tells me.
“Well, so be it. If it makes her happy then let her live for one night.”
In front of the Chinese Theatre, we both notice a few paparazzi lingering near the street post. Emmy pulls my arm, looking left and right before crossing the street and dragging me with her. When our feet hit the footpath, she turns to me with fire in her eyes and asks, “What name suits a man with a mustache?”
“Huh?”
“Burt,” she says confusing me even further.
Her hand is buried in mine—the touch of her skin electrifying me though I try to ignore the way it’s igniting my whole body.
She leads me to where the paparazzi stand and begins talking to them. “Hi. You look like you can take a great photo.” She smiles innocently. “My husband Burt and I would love a photo just there in front of the Theatre. Would you mind taking one for us?”
He shrugs, barely speaking a word as he takes the cell from Emmy’s hand. What the fuck is she doing? Has she seriously asked the paparazzi to snap a photo of us? Why the hell does she always want to play with fire?
We both walk to the spot she mentioned.
A few smiles and it’s over—no biggie.
“Turn around, Burt,” she whispers.
I spin around without thinking. The palms of her hands grace my cheeks, pulling them down until our lips are touching. I should be shocked. But instead, I move my tongue against hers as if I’ve waited a whole lifetime to kiss her. Even with the mustache in the way, the sensations which barrel through me are foreign. I’ve kissed many women in my lifetime, but none that make me question my entire life as much as this moment.
It could be seconds, yet it feels longer. Her tongue pressuring mine in a forceful wrestle that leaves my cock stirring inside my pants.
Fuck. We shouldn’t be doing this.
I pull back, holding her arms at bay. “Emmy, we can’t do this. Look around…” I motion my eyes to the paparazzi who begin walking toward us, phone in hand and looking equally annoyed for taking up his precious time.
She takes it from him, giving thanks before opening her mouth. “Just live a little, Burt. I bet all you do is play soccer then go home and watch porn, then wake up and play more soccer.”
Confused by her mention of porn, I furrow my brows and purse my lips waiting on a further explanation which never eventuates.
“Yeah, I live and breathe soccer. I do watch porn on occasion but the real thing is much better.”
“And, I bet you don’t have time for relationships?” She stands tall, straightening her posture as if she has a hidden agenda.
I don’t want to mention Louisa. It’s still a wound that’s fresh and open, and not up for discussion by anyone. “What’s your point, Chase?” I ask, annoyed.
“We’ve always had fun together even when we hated each other, right?”
I nod, waiting for her to continue.
“So, let’s have fun, Burt. No strings attached, I promise. I don’t need strings... trust me. I just don’t want to think about anything but the moment I’m living in, and if you happen to be there... well, then hip hip, hooray.”
“You want to have fun without strings?” I repeat. “Is that what you’re saying?”
This time, she smiles. “Yep.”
In a lifetime full of propositions, I’ve never expected Emerson Chase to propose something like this. She’s hurting, drunk on revenge, and out to make Wesley’s life equally painful. I know that I’m not stupid. I’m the pawn in her game and when she’s done playing, I’ll be on the sideline watching her live her life with someone else.
I need her. Regardless of her conditions.
Keep the emotions away, take what you want, and reap the benefits from the scorned.
“On one condition,” I tell her, plotting it out so I get what I want. “You stop calling me Burt… and this mustache needs to go.”
“Deal. But it stays on until we’re back at your hotel.”
“Hotel...” I repeat, caught off guard.
Running her hands along the front buttons of my shirt, she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough, and maybe I underestimate your ability to read between the lines, Carrington…” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Sex. Fucking. That’s what I’m talking about. Are you in?”
She wants me as much as I want her.
There are no more questions, no more rules, no more anything.
I’m in—all in.
Chapter Thirteen
“A fuck buddy. The best idea ever,
or a recipe for disaster?”
~ Emerson Chase
“About last night, Em...” Wesley corners me in the kitchen on my hunt for Advil. It’s 7:15 a.m. and I’m running on two hours sleep.
When my alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, I’d completely forgotten about a photoshoot which was scheduled this morning at Venice Beach. I pride myself on being punctual and reliable, not wanting to let down the photoshoot crew. The old me would have been up at 4:00 a.m. doing sprints on the beach to get myself looking the best as I can for the shoot.
The new me wants to crawl into a hole and die.
“I’m sorry, Em. I was drinking and shouldn’t have been so forceful. I know you’re angry, I mean fuck, you didn’t get home till after four,” he says in desperation, pacing up and down the kitchen, stopping only to shove a bagel in his mouth.
I’m listening attentively allowing him to speak, but my head is pounding like a bitch and I’m ready to call quits on life and climb back into bed.
“I was angry,” I tell him in a hoarse voice. “Not just at you.”
“Your brother?”
I nod, keeping my words to a minimum. Talking hurts my brain.
He continues to speak but I’m only half listening.
Last night was... I don’t know.
I was bold, brave, something I hadn’t been in a long time. I took that bold me and pretty much offered to be Logan’s fuck buddy.
What was I thinking? Like he needs a fuck buddy.
I know enough that he pretty much fucks whoever and whenever he likes. There’s no shortage of fucking. Probably what happens when you’re crowned the hottest athlete? I hate to admit I’ve sold myself short, desperate for anything to make me wild and careless.
Kissing Logan is something else. I’m not the biggest fan of kissing. I mean, it’s nice and everything, but I guess after years of being in a relationship you avoid the warmup and head straight for the main show. Yet, something about him is different. It’s intense. Several times I found myself pulling back because he’d almost dry-humped me into an orgasm. This coming from the guy who had zero appeal to me a few weeks ago, and now, I want him naked underneath me while I ride him like a cowgirl hitching a ride to town.
Stop thinking about riding him. You know he’s well endowed. It practically poked your eye out in the cab.
“He’s a guy, Em. Men are programmed differently than women.”
I focus on Wesley, unsure of what we’re talking about. Taking a punt, I comment, “Yeah, I know. But vows are vows regardless of how long you’ve known the person.”
“You’re right.”
“You’re agreeing with me?” I answer in shock, wishing I didn’t stretch my eyebrows because the pain is unbearable.
“Yeah, marriage is sacred. People fuck up. Don’t punish them for a lifetime because mistakes are just that… mistakes.”
I can see he’s still trying to justify his behavior in Amsterdam. If I had more energy, I would debate this topic and leave a very negative vibe in the room. But George walked in moments earlier, sniffing at his bowl and he’s staring at me with pitiful eyes because I haven’t put out his kibble. I know what he’s thinking, There they go again, fighting over the same thing. Why is Daddy such a douchebag?
Opening the bottom cupboard, I take out the bag and pour a small amount into his bowl. Even then, George sniffs the bowl and holds back his need to snack on the dry food. George is a peculiar dog, he only eats food when everyone leaves the room, and even then, he waits a few minutes not wanting to be caught.