by S. E. Hall
She nods, and despite myself, I kiss her forehead before bolting into the bathroom and locking the door. What happens next, happens by itself, some weird sixth-sense shit I guess. Out of nowhere — okay, maybe not nowhere, she did just grace my doorstep, out of nowhere — gut instinct takes over, and not only do I know just the person to ask for advice — without actually asking for specific advice, of course — but I’m already typing out a text.
Me: You don’t have a dog, right?
That’s good stuff, Sutton… a subtle hint where you’re headed… that, if this explodes in your face, there’s a small chance of arguing was merely a random question sprung from boredom. Except, she’ll never fall for it.
Like a fucking champ, she responds instantly.
Hot Shot: You’ve been to my place. Did you see a dog?
Me: That’s why I said right. If you did, what would you name it?
Hot Shot: Boy or girl?
Hailey called him “Mister” Bagel or whatever…
Me: Boy
Hot Shot: What kind/breed?
Me: IDFK. Does it matter?
Hot Shot: Of course it matters. P.S. you don’t get to text me dumb shit this early in the morning then whine like a pussy if the necessary follow-up questions are too hard for you. What. Kind. Of. Dog?
“Hailey?” I yell through the door. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“Cocker Spaniel, why?”
“Just wondering.”
Me: Cocker Spaniel.
Hot Shot: As if I didn’t already know what this was about… I see you finally spotted the picture. Nothing gets past you. LMAO. Anyway, that’d be a HELL NO for me. Those bastards turn mean on a dime and bite. And their eyes constantly leak, look all wet and gooky in the corners. Make it a mutt and you have a deal.
I mean fuck… this unique, unexpected, fascinating woman. Only she would answer like that — even though she knows exactly why I’m asking — turning my shitastic morning completely upside down.
Me: Okay, it’s a boy mutt. What would you name him?
Hot Shot: He’s adopted from the pound?
I chuckle as I type.
Me: Sure.
“Sutton, what’s taking you so long? Are you sick?” Hailey asks.
“Yep, I’m sick. My stomach’s messed up bad, it’s diarrhea, won’t stop,” I fake a loud groan, “might be a while.”
“My poor baby,” she coos. “Can I get you anything?”
Why yes, an escape route and new lock for my front door.
“No, that’s okay.” What the fuck? I bet I could invite her in to watch, help wipe my ass, and she still wouldn’t leave. Is diarrhea not an automatic turn-off anymore?
Hot Shot: Did you or your phone die?
Me: Neither, sorry. So?
Hot Shot: My male mutt from the pound would be named Castello.
Hot Shot: And IF you can guess why, not only will I be impressed, I’ll give you a pass and won’t ask if your girlfriend knows you’re texting me.
Castello? I Google it real quick, interrupted by…
Hot Shot: I said GUESS, not GOOGLE. You lose. So, does your gf know you’re texting me?
Me: Honestly?
Hot Shot: No, Sutton. Entertain me with some elaborate fairytale. Cause I’m not a human lie detector test or anything and I adore fairytales, even more than I like being fed bullshit for breakfast before I’m even out of bed!
Me: NOT MY GIRLFRIEND. FAR FROM IT. And she thinks I’m in the bathroom w/ chronic diarrhea.
Hot, Sutton. Good call sending that part.
Hot Shot: I believe you. I feel sorry for you, I’m laughing at you, but I believe you. So, you’re hiding in your bathroom, w/ pretend diarrhea, texting ME of all people bc you don’t know how to get rid of the clinger?
Me: Pretty much.
Hot Shot: And?
Me: And, WHAT DO I DO?
Hot Shot: Tell her to leave?
Me: I have! Many times! She made herself a key and was waiting for me. Redecorated my apartment. She’s CRAZY.
Hot Shot: FFS. Hold on, no sudden movements, I got you. AND I AM NOW FORGIVEN FOR IGNORING YOUR CALLS. You can never throw it in my face again. Btw, Margaret Castello was the disabled, Catholic patron of “the unwanted.” Can’t name HIM Margaret, so Castello it’d be for my mutt.
Me: Cool, but… you’re not Catholic?
Hot Shot: You’re being held hostage by a psychotic fairy, so maybe STFU? And you’re welcome. TTYL.
She’s ‘got me?’ With Presley, that could mean anything, nothing, or everything in between… but damn if I’m not excited to find out. I tame my grin, take a collective breath, and open the door to face Hailey.
“Feeling any better?” She jumps up and asks.
“I was lying. There’s nothing wrong with me. I was taking a minute to get my head straight. You’ve been freaking me the fuck out lately, and well, I’m out of ideas on how to make you understand… we’re done, Hailey.”
Chapter 5
Sutton
“What?” She sounds confused… how is that possible?
“What the hell do you mean ‘what?’ I don’t know how else to say it, Hailey. I’ve tried being nice, but damn, you aren’t making it easy. I want you to leave, and…” this part sucks, but I’m out of options, “never come back.”
I’m braced for tears, screeching, ready to dodge whatever she throws at my head. I am not, however, prepared for what happens next.
There’s a knock at the front door — I’m guessing it’s Presley, come to execute “her plan” — and I teeter between relief and ‘oh shit, this is gonna get ugly, fast.’ But the scariest part, truly scary, as in, I’m standing in the same room with a sociopath, is the complete one-eighty Hailey pulls.
“I’ll get it,” she chirps and takes off running down the hall… because why wouldn’t she be the chipper welcome wagon, right? It’s not like I just told her to get out and never return.
Scary crazy.
“Well hello there, is Sutton home?” I hear JT’s voice and sigh in conflicted relief that it’s not Presley.
“He is. And you are?” She asks.
“JT Kendrick. Can you let him know I’m here?”
“Why are you knocking?” I yell loud enough for him to hear me. “This is your place too, dumbass. I’m in my room, come on back.”
Actually, I should go to them — Hailey by the exit is a good thing — but I don’t think fast enough, and they’re already here.
“Hey.” He appears in the doorway, doing a piss-poor job of hiding his amused grin. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Especially that bed of yours, Suzy Sunshine. And I knocked because I don’t exactly live here anymore, thank God. Knew you had company too. It’s called having manners, Bellamy’s influence.”
“Oh, I’m not company. I’m his girlfriend, Hailey.” She pushes past him to be in the room, then turns to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, JT. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Very nice to meet you, Hailey,” he almost laughs. “So, you like to decorate I see?”
“It’s my specialty.”
“I’d have to agree.” Fucker’s getting way too much enjoyment at my expense.
“What’re you doing here?” I interrupt their lil’ tea party. “Besides being a pain in my ass.”
“Not sure why, but a little birdie called and asked me to remind you that we have that thing today and see if you wanted a ride.”
Presley. She sent him to rescue me. Despite our… whatever, she helped me out. Which does not help me out with my whole “stay away from Presley” strategy.
“What thing?” Hailey snaps her head toward me, eyes narrowed with accusation. “We have a thing?”
JT covers his mouth, head already ducked, but the shaking shoulders he can’t control give away his silent laughter. Bastard. I’m not sure what he finds the funniest — the fact that my bedroom looks like that of a sorority girl’s, Presley let him know my situation’s so dire that I needed bac
k-up, or, and this is probably it — he knows how I feel about Presley… no matter how many times I’ve denied it and assured him I’m over her.
“Hailey, I don’t want to rehash the fact there is no we, so let me put it this way. If JT’s family is having a thing, Presley will be there.”
“Well then, I’m definitely going with you,” she crosses her arms over her chest, eyes daring me to argue.
“No, you’re not. Jesus, just stop, and leave. For real!”
“I’ll give you two a minute,” JT mumbles, backing out of the room.
“Hailey,” I groan, rubbing my head as it droops. “You’re a sweet girl, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m so fucking done trying to be a good guy. Get whatever shit you want back, pillows, pictures, all of it, and leave. JT and I will pack it in your car for you, and keep the key, I’ll have the locks changed. Let’s go, you’ve got ten minutes.”
“I knew it! Nothing between us,” it’s the sound of pure demented, evil, “I won’t be played, Sutton! You and that girl, you just watch!”
“Not a fan of threats, Hailey. And I won’t tolerate ones made against Presley. Ten minutes are up, get the fuck out, now!”
“Right this way,” JT rejoins us, scowl and tone proof he’s barely able to contain his anger. “I own this property, and you’re not welcome on it. And hear me on this part, you go near my cousin, and you’ll be sorry. I don’t make a habit of threatening women, so consider this a warning.” He matches her earlier noise of menace. “Presley will give you a lot more than you bargained for, and a fuck ton more than you want. Trust me.”
She snaps, finally, fucking finally, stomping toward the front door… and slamming it behind her.
“Where the hell’d ya find that one?” JT mutters, pale with shock. “No, never mind, forget I asked. Pretty sure it’s a felony to break chicks out of institutions, and I don’t wanna have to testify against you. Now move your ass, Bellamy’s been waiting out in the car way too long already.”
“Wait, there’s really a thing? Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “I’m not actually going with you if so. Positive that wasn’t part of Presley’s plan. You created the diversion, got her out of here, we’re good. Thanks, by the way.”
“I drove over here, left my woman sitting in the car to watch your woman,” he has to laugh, “lose all her shit, all of it, and you think you have a choice? Funny. Yes, there’s a thing, and you’re fuckin’ going, my friend. Like I said, move your big ass.”
This day just keeps getting better.
*****
Dead. Man. Walking. That’s what JT is — I’m just waiting ‘til this fuckfest is over, and then… I have every intention of killing him with my bare hands.
There is, indeed, a barbeque at his parent’s house today. But he forgot to mention, amidst me telling him I shouldn’t go, that the get-together’s sole purpose is to give Presley a relaxed setting for her blind date!
Rescued me outta a trap only to set me up for another, much worse, one.
He’s. A. Dead. Man.
And just as I know, and told him, Presley’s no happier about me being here than I am. If her scathing glares — as if this was my idea — didn’t clue me in, the punch she landed in JT’s gut did. Guess she figured she’d cover both bases, unsure which one of us was the real mastermind behind the shitty scheme that is my presence.
The only consolation I’ve found thus far? Presley couldn’t be less interested in her “date.”
Who’s also a dead man.
“Come eat,” Mrs. Kendrick yells, everyone gravitating toward the table covered in food.
With all the hysterics, I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, so… another consolation.
But, I can wait a little longer. I grab JT’s arm and hold him back. “What the hell, man? You really thought I’d want to be here for Presley’s date?” I growl lowly. “No, you knew I wouldn’t, dragged me here anyway. Why?”
“Because, you’re my friend, and she’s, she’s Presley. I’m not sure what is going on with you two now, but whatever it is, y’all will need help. Last I heard, you’d moved on, and when she showed up at my door, after a visit to yours, I told her to leave you be. Next thing I know, she’s calling me to go save you. No telling with the two of your dumb, stubborn asses, so I didn’t even bother asking questions, just did what I was told. But P wouldn’t issue an “SOS” for just anyone, so here you are.”
“Whatever.” I turn to walk away; this time he stops me.
“No, not whatever. Figure it the fuck out, and fast. I’d like to see you happy, sure, but I’ll kill to ensure Presley is. You feel me?”
“I don’t feel you, but I feel the same way. You know that, so stop puffin’, badass. Let’s just get through today and see what happens. I can’t predict any better than… anyone,” I laugh, “so cut me some slack. Come on, my stomach’s eating itself.”
Good talk… or so I thought. The shithead just doesn’t know when to quit, trying yet again to force my hand. It would appear JT had been further scheming even before our sidebar, enlisting a few recruits as well, because he, Skylar, and Judd, tap-dance around taking a seat until everyone else has, placing me beside Presley… and directly across from new guy — Presley’s “shit-out-of-luck-because-she-doesn’t-fucking-want-you” date.
Isn’t this fucking cozy.
Date McDickless and I both reach for the bowl of potato salad at the same time… guess who lets go first. “Sorry, man,” he chuckles, going for the baked beans instead. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Camden Dean. I go to school with Brynn and Bellamy.”
“Sutton Ellis,” I grit past a clenched jaw. “So do I.”
“I heard that. Finishing up a Bachelor’s in Business if I’m not mistaken,” Mr. Kendrick comments.
“Yes, sir. With an emphasis in Accounting,” I reply.
“Good for you, son. Come and see me about a job, when you get the degree.”
“Eyes on your own paper, Daney!” Sawyer Beckett, my current boss yells. “Don’t be sniffin’ on my best employee.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” Presley sasses.
“Princess, you’re not an employee, you’re my baby girl. No comparison,” he covers quickly. “Speaking of you though, what a small world. Sutton, did you know Presley’s degree is in Accounting too?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye… to catch her doing the same.
“Zach’s a numbers man too.” Bennett beams and rubs her man’s back. “And Ryder, right, Brynn?”
“Yes,” Brynn mutters, staring at her plate.
“Where is Ryder today?” Presley leans forward to look down the table and ask Brynn, the mischievous gleam in her eyes as she does so, not going unnoticed by me.
“He had something to do with his family.”
“So, young man,” Sawyer gruffly changes the subject, and focus, to Camden, “what are you studying?”
Please let him say Fashion Design.
“History.” That’s it, one word from the conversationalist.
“And what do you plan to do with that?” Everyone’s dead silent, not so much as a fork clinking against a plate. But a few of the women fidget in their chairs, no doubt uncomfortable because Sawyer’s begun “the inquisition,” in a tone that clearly says as much.
I never got put through that. Probably because he, along with everyone but me, knew I had no “staying power.” Sure wish I’d have gotten that memo.
“Nothing, I hope,” Camden answers. “It’s a safeguard really, for if I need a job after my Major League days are over.”
“Major League you say? Do you know the odds on making it to the pros?” Sawyer seems to have tried to tame the condescension in his voice, but anyone who’s ever spoken to him can still hear it.
“About ten-percent,” Brynn pipes up. “But there’s always the chance of starting in the minors, and if you perform well there, your odds only increase. No disrespect, Uncle Sawyer,
but true athletes, born with it in their blood, love the game enough to strive against the odds.”
“That’s my girl,” Zach praises, smiling at Brynn as though she hung the moon. “Anyone wanna tell my baby she’s wrong? Maybe spout off some statistics on playing softball professionally?” He makes sure each and every person at the table gets their own deadly glare. “Say that all her hard work’s in vain and squash her dreams? Spirit? Dedication? Anyone?”
“Or Camden’s,” Brynn mumbles to her uncle.
“Or Camden’s?” He parrots, even louder… because Brynny asked him to.
It’s pretty cool, their bond. Zach Reece would die for any of his nieces or nephews, of that I have no doubt, but Brynn? She’s his number one, right or wrong, unhidden, unapologetically.
“Of course not, calm down, Killer. Oh, and that’s my baby, in case you’ve forgotten,” Mr. Kendrick half-growls with propriety, but more so grins, in appreciation that his daughter is adored I’m sure.
“I have a wonderful idea!” Laney suddenly squeals. “All this talk about ball, let’s play a friendly game! It’ll be fun, everyone finish eating!”
The masses collectively groan… including the two true athletes.
“Baby,” Mr. Kendrick reaches over to cover his wife’s hand with his own, “can we keep it low-key today? No blood sport?”
She ignores him, busy doing a head-count. “We have sixteen people. Two teams of e-”
“I’m sitting out!” Whitley screams, waving her hand in the air with desperate gusto.
“Me too. You hosted, the least I can do is help.” Emmett’s already standing, starting to clear the table.
Laney actually claps… and it takes herculean effort to stop my laugh. “Two down, still leaves us even! Teams of seven it is! Last thing before we get started, are we pitching baseball or softball style?”
“Not to speak out of turn, ma’am, but can anyone besides Brynn pitch that style? It’s pretty hard to do, even harder to hit,” Camden interjects.