by Shandi Boyes
She wants to play as much as I plan to win.
With that in mind, I yank my keys out of my pocket and hotfoot it to my borrowed ride. After pushing on the start button, I chase down the Aston Martin that left the parking lot at a speed its back tires lifted from the pavement. She said if I tracked her down in a sea of millions, she’d be open to the idea of a date. She didn’t mention a timeframe, freeing me to follow their dangerous travels through a town I have no idea about.
When they dart through a light switching from green to amber, I floor the gas.
If I lose them now, I lose.
That’s not acceptable.
My ass cheeks clench together when my excessive speed has my car getting airborne over the T intersection. The light is still amber when I whizz past the line the vehicle next to me comes to rest at, but it switches to red halfway through.
She’ll be worth the ticket. I’m certain of it.
I almost come into a bender a quarter of a mile down. My excessive speed isn’t to blame for my brutal yank on the steering wheel. It’s from catching up to the Aston Martin in enough time to see the blonde yanking her shirt over her head. It is quickly replaced with the shirt the smiling brunette hands her, but still, Italian men aren’t known for sharing. We are as possessive as it comes, and she’s five minutes from discovering that herself.
Chapter Five
Skylar
Elvis inches off the gas pedal when the performing arts center comes into view. The dusty lot is packed with cars, but since their owners are inside enjoying the recital, I’m minus additional witnesses to Willow’s and my quick swap of clothes. The routine she’s planning to perform needed a risqué, football ensemble. My 69ers’ jersey was a perfect match for the pleated skirt she’s wearing.
Elvis’s dark eyes stray to the rearview mirror when I say, “Park near the entrance. Danny and I will find a spot while you get Willow onto the stage, then we’ll meet you inside.”
He nods a mere second before skidding to a stop at the front of the side entrance. After throwing open the driver’s side door, he hotfoots it to the other side to help Willow out. She’s complaining about the ability to breathe through the firm hold of my jersey. She’s being dramatic. We have similar-size chests, but her boobs are just au naturel.
Once Willow and Elvis dart into the building thrumming with music, Danny slides back into the driver’s seat. With the passenger seat empty, I hook my leg over the middle console to fill the spot. My change in position is neither tactful nor discreet. My ass is thrust into Danny’s face, my boobs are squashed against the frosty window, and my face represents a bird sliding down glass after it flew into a spotlessly clean window—embarrassing squeaks and all.
“You okay?” Danny’s question would sound sincere if he weren’t chuckling while asking it. “I’m pleased your butt-wiping skills are better than Poopy Pace’s, but a little warning wouldn’t go astray next time.”
I plop into my seat with a huff. “Shut up and drive, Danny-boy. We’ve got a dance recital to watch.”
As my eyes scan the packed lot for a spare space, they almost pop out of my head from spying something I never anticipated. Shortie J is in a top-of-the-line Maserati idling at the entrance of the performance center. The top of his flashy car is up, but I still know it’s him. His eyes are holding the same amount of heat they held in the seconds leading to our kiss. Except now, he’s angry.
I think I underestimated him. Not only can he stretch his modest budget to lease a sleek-looking ride, but he also took my playful jest as literal.
In all honesty, I don’t know whether to be excited by the idea or petrified. After watching two seasons of You on Netflix, it could be a combination of both.
“You coming?”
I peer at Danny in shock, wondering what the hell he’s doing on the outside of the car. Isn’t he still driving it?
The truth smacks into me when I peel my eyes away from Shortie J. Danny found a spot in the packed lot. It’s not really a car space, more a spot for bikes, but when you are desperate, you’re desperate.
“Hey, Danny…” I grunt as I climb over the console for the second time in five minutes to exit via the driver’s side door. There’s no way my airbags and I will make it out of the minute gap between me and the car next to my door. “Can I ask a favor?”
Danny’s blond brow quirks high on his adorable face. “Does it have anything to do with complimenting your boobs?”
“Nope. Not right now, anyway.” I join him by the side of Elvis’s car. “Someone’s following me.” I grab his chin, forcefully demanding his eyes back to mine when he attempts to scan them over the lot. If he spots Shortie J, my ruse won’t work. “What’s rule one in the girl code?”
“That you have to be a girl to join?”
He has me there, but I act obtuse. “No matter how perverse the target, you never leave a woman behind.”
“Our target is perverse?” His flaring eyes reveal he’s more excited than scared.
I nod. “Very. So, I need you at your best, Danny. You can’t let the team down.”
For a man I only met not even an hour ago, he has my back as tenaciously as Willow forever will. “What do you need me to do?”
“Walk normal,” I answer without a snippet of hesitation.
His outrageous step back isn’t close to normal. “Whatever do you mean? I do walk normal.”
“No,” I overemphasize the word as if it’s an entire sentence. “You walk like a gay man.”
“That’s because I am gay.”
I pretend as if he never interrupted me. “I need you to walk like him.” I twist him to face a man entering the dance recital fashionably late. He has the alpha-male strut down pat. His strides are long and efficient but with an edge of sophistication that secures the admired eye of women of all ages.
“You want me to walk like a rooster?”
“If that’s how he’s walking, yes!”
Danny looks like he seconds from vomiting. “Why?”
After undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to expose the smooth, creamy skin on his chest, I lock my eyes with his. “Because if Shortie J thinks I’m taken, he might back off.”
Blond hair falls in front of Danny’s eye when he slants his head to the side. “Who’s Shortie J?”
My shoulders slump as a sigh ruffles my lips. “He’s the guy following me. The one you’re going to get off my tail.”
His eyes light up like a light bulb switched on in his head. “Oh, you want me to pretend I’m your boyfriend?” When I make a duh face, he adds, “Then why didn’t you just say that?”
Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t wait for me to answer him. He just loops his arm around my waist before making a beeline for the entrance of the hall.
Within four strides, I realize how stupid it was of me to ask a man wearing a satin shirt for help. Don’t get me wrong, Danny’s walk replicates a rooster, thrusting chest and all, but the rest of his body didn’t get the memo to stay still.
“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be a rooster, not a pigeon. What’s with the head bob?”
“Is it not right?” As he tries to subdue the rocking motion of his head, his legs take up the campaign. Imagine Mr. Spaghetti on crack. That’s what I’m dealing with right now—all wobbly and lanky. “Is this better?”
“If you’re legs are made out of Jell-O… yeah, much!”
I don’t know whether to burst out laughing or crying when he adds a roll to his hips. The flick of his midsection is so blunt, my fucked-up head inserts whip-cracking noises with every step he takes.
“What about this? I’ve seen Elvis walk like this many times before.”
Laughter chops up my reply. “Elvis, the football star? Or the deceased one after he ate too many cheeseburgers and was rushing to use the bathroom?”
I realize it’s the latter when he makes a noise I’m assuming is an attempt to impersonate Elvis’s legendary grunt. “Uh-huh-huh.”
“It’s not a stick I want up there…” The rest of Danny’s reply is gobbled up by ‘Hey Mickey’ blaring out of the speakers when we break through the entrance of the performance center.
Goosebumps cover every inch of me when Willow commences twirling, flipping, and tumbling over the stage. I’ve seen her dance before, but the smile on her face when she uses Elvis’s thick thighs as a balance beam skyrockets her performance from good to out-fucking-standing. Her moves are better than any of the cheerleaders I’ve seen take the 69ers’ field. She makes me wish I could lift my leg over my head.
I’ve trialed to become a cheerleader many times the past six years, but I’ve not yet made the cut. I’m about as uncoordinated as Danny’s ability to walk like a straight man.
“Wow. Elvis said she could dance. I had no clue how well.”
I snuggle into Danny’s side, proud of my friend. “Perfection isn’t attainable, but if we chase perfection, we can catch excellence.”
When Willow’s performance ends with her straddling Elvis’s lap like they’re not being gawked at by three thousand horny spectators, I stomp my feet and catcall loudly. My cheers are barely heard over the uproars of the crowd.
After sucking in some big breaths, Willow un-straddles Elvis’s lap then pivots around to face the crowd cheering loudly for her. My eyes suffer their third bulging for the night when she drags Elvis center stage to soak up the praise with her. Even from this distance, I plan to give Willow a pamphlet on perineal stretching. She may not have a bun in the oven, but taking the monster in Elvis’s pants would be about the same.
My neck cranks to Danny when he murmurs, “Hello, everyone, my name is Danny, and I’m a penis-o-holic.”
“Join the club, Danny-boy. Join the club.”
After looping my arm around Danny’s elbow, I walk him toward the wings of the stage. Since his legs are the weight of concrete, most likely compliments to all the blood in his body rushing to his lower extremities, he pulls off the walk I was aiming for earlier.
I’m not surprised to find Willow and Elvis locked in a lip-consuming embrace. Her dance was hot.
After snatching Elvis’s keys from Danny’s hand, I slip them into the pocket of Willow’s skirt. Since Elvis’s gigantic hands have her backside taken care of, she doesn’t notice my sneaky moves until I press my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper, “Stay safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She jumps so far out of her skin, her lips are dislodged from Elvis’s. Once she has her heart gathered from the floor, her sparkling eyes dance between Danny and me. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, Danny and I are going to try out a Chinese restaurant we saw a few blocks back. We’d invite you, but we all know what happens when you two eat Chinese.”
Danny and I have no such plans. However, he plays along with my ruse, aware of Willow and Elvis’s desperate bid to be alone. “If you think a moldy potato chip sandwich is bad, you should have heard the noises coming out of Elvis’s bathroom that night. I was convinced I had entered a warzone.” He mimics a machine gun in action before backing it up with grenades plopping into water. “And don’t get me started on the smell. I was about to call maintenance to advise them of a sewage leak.” He steps back with a squeal when Elvis lunges for him. “Don’t bruise my face! I have a date.”
“You have a date?” Willow and Elvis mutter at the same time, notifying me dating must be a rarity for Danny.
“Well… not technically.” Once he stops cowering behind me, he straightens his once-again buttoned shirt with a pompous flare I’m growing to adore. “But I won’t have the possibility if you ruin the goods.”
Elvis rolls his eyes like Danny’s dramatics are nothing new to him. “How will you get home from the restaurant if we leave you here?”
“We’ll find a way. You two aren’t the only smart people here.” With my nose held as high as Danny’s, we make our way to the exit three thousand people are vying to squeeze through. It looks like a human jungle but smells more like a pig’s sty.
“Are we really going to grab something to eat?”
I stray my eyes to Danny, hiding my dislike of the unease in his tone. “Yeah, if you want? I’ve got no plans and two thousand calories to burn.”
“Two thousand calories?”
I clasp my hand around his before barging us through the human stampede. “I do a boxing class every morning with Hottie McTwattie. You should come. It’s a great way to burn calories.”
“Do I need to have a twat to attend?”
I twist my lips. “If his lack of interest the past four months is any indication, you’ll probably fair better than the rest of us.”
That piques his interests. “Forward me the dets. I’ll check my schedule.”
We break into the parking lot at the front of the pack. I’m not surprised. I’m an extremely competitive person.
Clearly, I’m not the only one.
Shortie J is here—still. He’s no longer sitting in the driver’s seat of his sleek ride, though. The scrumptious ass I tasted earlier is propped against the hood of his sports car. His thick arms are folded in front of his chest, and his eyes are rapt on Danny and me.
“Kiss me.”
Danny’s attempt to flee my puckered lips would replicate newborn foul learning to walk—if it had chicken wings for arms. “W-w-what?”
“Your alpha walk didn’t pass the test, so now you need to up the game. Kiss me.” I keep my demand at a whispered roar so Shortie J won’t hear me.
“Oh, no, no, no. I complimented your boobs. That’s as far straight as I go.” Danny’s impersonation of Ducky from The Land Before Time is super cute, but it doesn’t stop me from begging.
“Please, Danny,” I plead without shame. “I’m not studying sports journalism for no reason. It’s a gateway into a world without short people.”
“No.” His tone is sterner than a man as carefree as him should be able to pull off. “If you want to scare away Shortie J, you’ll need another black duck as this one is cooked.”
When he strays his eyes in the direction Shortie J is standing, I grab his face as I did earlier.
Regrettably, it comes too late. Danny has spotted him. “Oh, dear God, he found me.”
Before I can inform him Shortie J isn’t here for him, Danny breaks away from my side. He prances across the dusty lot like three dozen dancers did on the stage earlier, his steps more dramatic.
After taking a few minutes to settle my erratic heart rate, I begrudgingly join them. I’m anticipating for Danny to be devastated at the discovery Shortie J isn’t gay, so you can imagine my surprise when he smiles a big beaming grin before curling his arm around my waist.
“Skylar, please meet my dear friend, Lorenzo.” The R of Lorenzo’s name rolls off his tongue in a long, prolonged purr. “He’s kindly offered us a ride home.” Danny scans the crowd still breaking out of the hotbox we escaped earlier due to my tenacity. “Then, you won’t need to worry about running into Shortie J.”
When his eyes return to mine at the same time as Lorenzo’s dark brow arches in suspicion, the hope in them has my plan altering. He’s so excited by Lorenzo’s interest, I don’t have the heart to tell him Lorenzo is Shortie J.
“That’ll be great. Why don’t you ride shotgun, Danny, and I’ll take the back seat?”
Danny’s smile would have people mistakenly believing my plan is foolproof. I did as well until I realize the scope of a Maserati’s rearview mirror, and we’re not going to mention the near pretzel-like twist I had to do to get in the back seat. If Lorenzo was unaware of the color of my panties, he’s not now.
I should have taken my mother’s advice and went sans underwear. Women who don’t wear underwear never get their panties in a twist.
Chapter Si
x
Skylar
My frosted loaded fork freezes an inch between the full-size cake I’m halfway through eating and my mouth when Willow enters our dorm. She’s walking funny like she burned more calories last night than I have in a year.
“You all right?”
She pulls a face. Don’t ask me if it’s a pleasurable one or one laced with horror. Her facial expressions all look the same. “I think I broke something. Listen.”
When she walks three paces toward me, I hear nothing but the grumblings of my greedy tummy demanding another mouthful of cake. “What am I supposed to be hearing?” I ask before shoveling another forkful of moist goodness into my mouth.
Chocolate spit rolls down my chin when Willow answers, “My broken vagina.”
“You can break your vagina?” I must be seeking my answer from half the school population as I’m sure everyone in our dorm just heard me.
“I didn’t think so, but I’m reasonably sure I broke something.” She dumps her backpack onto her bed before spinning around to face me, her grimace picking up. “It’s a good break but still a break, nonetheless.” She drops her eyes to the cake I’m devouring like a piggy. “What’s the go? The last time I saw you with an entire cake was when Leicester signed with the Devils.”
The cake gurgles in my stomach. “The 69ers were his family. You don’t turn your back on family.”
After snatching the fork from my hand, Willow takes a seat next to me on my bed. We take turn for turn on the cake until we’ve demolished another quarter of it.
Once I’m confident I am on the verge of a sugar coma, I murmur, “Danny invited Lorenzo to boxing class.”
Willow sighs loudly. “You’re upset about a boy? I thought you queefed again while doing sit-ups at the gym.”
“Again? I’ve never… queefed to begin with.”
Willow arches a dark brow. “Then what do you call fanny farting in the US as the noise that came out of your va-jay-jay last year wasn’t a cranberry puff.” Her Australian accent is more pronounced from the laughter her words arrive with. “It smelled like an unwrapped lamb kebab, just fishier… like your fish-taco burped.”