“It’s already fading,” she quietly observes, at the same time pointing in my direction.
Looking down, I find the hickey she put there has started to change in color. When I first caught a glimpse of it in the bathroom mirror, I laughed. I haven’t had a hickey since high school—junior prom to be exact. Normally, at my age, I’d find the notion of a blood blotch repulsive. Carrying Brooke’s mark, though, hasn’t been so bad.
“Bloodsucking temptress,” I call her as I turn around to remove the condom. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Once inside the bathroom, I get a good look at myself in the mirror. My lips are red and swollen. My chest has her fingernail marks everywhere. As tired as I am, my just-fucked appearance shouldn’t be a green light, but the recollections of Brooke in my bed have recently been the cause for my cock standing at attention all the time.
Discarding the condom and closing up the bathroom, I return to the bed to find she’s adjusted herself on her side, looking absolutely sexy and completely sated.
Once our heads are to the pillows, neither of us are able to sleep. Everything between us is different and new. The idea of sleeping through any of it doesn’t appeal to me.
“So, if you had to choose one, who would it be?” She starts in with conversation, as if we’re in the middle of it. “Adam Levine or Keith Urban?”
“What?”
Brooke pushes, “If you had to pick a guy crush, which one would it be?”
“I don’t have crushes on guys. Sorry to disappoint.”
Smirking, she lifts her hand to her face to move the hair that’s fallen. I lift mine, swatting hers away to finish what she started.
“I love Sam Hunt,” she tells me. “His voice, his eyes, his—”
“No,” I clip. My voice isn’t nearly as irritated as I am in joining this insane conversation, but my words are direct. “Don’t talk about another man in this bed.”
Turning to her back, she rests her arm over her eyes and sighs. “Come on. Play the game.”
If she wants to play the game, I’ll be sure we’re on the same playing field.
“Taylor Swift,” I answer at random.
I don’t give two shits about Taylor Swift, other than I like her voice. However, Brooke’s knee-jerk reaction is amusing. Sitting straight up in bed, she tosses out an overly dramatic sigh, coupled with a look of disgust.
“She’s still a kid!” she dramatically accuses. “What’s the matter with you?”
Trying not to laugh at her ridiculous and very ignorant observation, I barely hold myself together.
“What do you mean what’s the matter with me? She’s hot.”
Lifting a spare pillow, she throws it at me. She’s not strong by any means, but fueled by anger, I’d bet had that been her fist, I’d be bruised by morning.
“Brock. She’s like what, seventeen?”
“Twenty-six,” I correct, then note, “She’s your age.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Taylor Swift is twenty-six?”
“Yep, and she’s a hot as fuck twenty-six-year old, too,” I poke. “So, there’s my pick. You have it now. What else you got?”
The narrowing of her eyes tells me I’ve not made her happy with my chosen celebrity. However, the words she used earlier to describe Sam Hunt, a country artist I’ve only listened to a few times, were equally as outrageous, but also annoyed the fuck out of me. I have nice eyes and a good voice. She can admire those.
Slamming her head back down on the pillow, she looks to the ceiling and crosses her hands over her stomach.
“You disappoint me, Brock LaDuece.”
“How so?”
“Taylor is rich, blonde, and has a great voice.”
Now she’s jealous. This, I revel in because I like it.
Turning to face her, my finger traces slowly down her temple, then down to rest at the bottom of her cheek.
She doesn’t give me the attention I’m silently asking for, so I prod, “Brooke?”
When her head turns to look at me, her expression is blank.
“You’re jealous,” I accuse.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I like it.”
Sighing, she concedes, but not completely. “While you’re off in your imagination with Taylor, you should know I’ll be off with Sam in mine.”
This I do not like. Not the image, thought, reason, or the remotest possibility.
“Tell me about your sister.” She’s maneuvering toward a subject change.
I’d talk about anything else if it got her to stop imagining Sam Hunt so soon after we’ve had sex.
Lying on my back, I rest my arm under my head and my hand on my chest. I’m not touching Brooke, which is good, considering she may be pretty sore.
“Tate’s a tyrant.”
She laughs. “She’s not.”
At the same time, I turn to her and lift my eyebrows. “In every way. She’s spoiled rotten, has a sailor’s mouth that’ll put most truckers to shame, and lives every day to drive me nuts. I’m convinced.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Brooke jests at my expense. “She’s sixteen?”
“Yeah, newly sixteen at that. She was my parents’ late-in-life mistake.”
“Harsh,” she remarks, regarding the label.
“I’m their disappointment.” I shrug. “Guess that makes us even.”
“I have a brother. His name is Ashton. He’s not a tyrant, and he’s not spoiled. He’s a good guy.”
“You two are close?”
“Very,” she expands. “Our whole family is. I’m probably closest with my dad.”
This is the second time, in the short amount of time we’ve spent together, where she’s mentioned her family and how tight they are. I’m glad she has this. I didn’t know my own father, and Martin and I aren’t as close as we used to be. I’m still hopeful to change that.
“Why’d you come here? To L.A.,” I probe. She’s already told me she’s not looking to get married, so I’m guessing there’s another reason.
Her short answer doesn’t lend much information. “Bored, I guess. Addie pushed, so did my dad.”
“Do you have anyone waiting for you to get back?”
Shaking her head, she understands what I’m asking. “No. I did, but not anymore. You?”
“Nope,” I confirm.
“How long was your last relationship?”
Now that’s a pointed question with no real answer. The longest relationship I’ve ever been in was in part what got me into this mess.
“A few months. I work a lot.”
“A few months?” she questions, but lightheartedly so. Her small smirk does a shit job in hiding her sarcasm. “You’re like what? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty,” I defend. “I haven’t found the right girl.”
Laughing out loud, she adds, “So you came here to find her? I would think there would’ve been less dramatic ways.”
Shrugging, I admit, “I was coerced. My dad helped make this decision for me.”
“I understand,” she assures, “completely.”
“What will you do after this is over?”
“Not sure.”
“What do you want to do?”
Shaking her head, she says, “No clue, really.”
“Kids?”
“Yeah. Later, though. I’m staying at my parents’ until I can get another place. My roommate and I had a disagreement. I left without much notice.”
I don’t fault her for living with her parents. There have been times in my adult life I’ve actually missed living at home, Tate the Tyrant or not.
“I’m tired,” she puts in while rubbing her eyes.
“Sleep,” I suggest, pulling her into me before draping my arm around her waist and sliding my thigh between her legs.
To say I’ve never actually ‘slept’ with a woman would be true. I’m not so much the sleepover type of guy, as much as I am the
sleep-with-and-go type of guy. The last two nights with her in my bed has all been new, and so far it’s not as bad as I imagined it to be.
Not even close.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kylee Simmons is the head bitch of the reality show cheerleading squad.
Brooke
-
“I haven’t heard if he nixed her yet or not.” Leslie Miles, one of Brock’s soon-to-be dates, sneers her gossip to Kylee Simmons. “But I bet he does.”
I’m standing in the dining room of the hotel lounge holding a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast. At the same time, I’m wishing I were anywhere else but here.
“She’s too...” Kylee pauses, and I assume it’s to lower her voice, but she doesn’t. Instead, she raises it and continues with, “Plain. He’ll choose someone more suited for him.”
In high school, my friends and I had a few run-ins with girls who were a lot like Leslie and Kylee. We called them bitches.
We all know those women who challenge others behind their backs in order to lift themselves higher or bring themselves further into the spotlight. Those same girls often got pregnant as teenagers and became cashiers at Dollar General because they’d given away the goods too early and had pissed off every vendor on the block with their holier than thou teenage attitudes. I’m not sure if this is exactly how Leslie or Kylee are, but no matter—bitches are bitches.
“Whatever,” Kylee snaps, turning around to find me at her side. As she continues with her rant, she looks me up and down, and her lip curls up in disgust. “In the end, he’ll see each little girl for who she really is.”
“Right,” Leslie adds, now looking at me and mirroring Kylee’s snobbish pose.
Sniveling bitches.
“You agree, don’t you, Brooke?” Kylee fakes a smile, clearing away all traces of nasty from her face. “Most of these women are still young girls.”
“I think it’s up to Brock to decide what most of these women are,” I reply, feigning a smile for her, too.
Surprised by my response, Kylee’s façade of friendship quickly fades. I’m not a member of her Barbie club, nor do I have any desire to be.
Tilting her head to the side, she states, “You seem to know Brock. I’m curious how that’s possible.”
Nodding, I agree, but not entirely. “I met him here, just like everyone else.”
Leslie, chiming in with her absurdity, advises, “You’d be good to remember we have weeks to go. We’re all in this together.”
Right.
“If you two will excuse me,” I nod in the direction of the exit. “I’ll see you both later.”
“You will,” Kylee surmises, her eyes narrowing as she does. “Good luck with that.” She points to my plate and smirks before turning in place to give me her back.
Such a bitch.
“Hi, Brooke,” Ryleigh cheerfully greets, walking in front of me and making it so I can no longer see the Barbie Doll duo. “I’m not an early riser,” she explains.
Unsure as to how she can say this, considering she looks absolutely adorable in her small green and white sundress. The ties at her golden shoulders accentuate every curve of her oh-so-perfect body.
“I am,” I admit.
“Your girl, Addie, is definitely not. She slept through my shower and panic of what to wear.”
She’s right about that. Addie hates mornings more than most. She’s not a nice person if she’s woken up a single second before she needs to be.
“Are you eating down here?” I ask. The white to-go box in her hands dashes my hope of finding anyone to sit with. This is so much like high school.
“No, I’m eating with Mary Ann. I’m taking this to her room. She’s upset.”
I’ll bet she is.
Ryleigh looks to her left, then right, to ensure the coast is clear. Leaning down to my height, she whispers, “Mary Ann said the date last night didn’t go so good.”
“No?” I passively inquire.
Shaking her head, she continues in a rush, “No. She said Brock’s a really nice guy. Raved about him, too.”
Green jealous hate for Mary Ann bubbles inside of me, but I tap it down enough to keep listening.
“She said he was distracted.”
“Distracted?” I question with too much enthusiasm. Saving face, I tone it down. “Distracted by what?”
“No idea. But Mary Ann heard an earful this morning from some of the others that Kylee had a lot to say about her inability to catch a man like Brock.”
Witch!
“So between her date not going as she’d hoped, then all she heard today, Mary Ann’s not having a good start to this.”
“It’s sweet of you to be there for her,” I advise, truly appreciating what a great friend Ryleigh appears to be.
“Yeah, I’ll do what I can. Catch you later.” Ryleigh turns and walks away.
As I scan the room, looking for Leslie Dee and Kylee Doo, I catch Emilee near the coffee machine. She’s standing alone and staring at it as if she’s confused to how it works. Her long, dark hair hangs straight at her back. She too is wearing an adorable dress. Hers is white, accenting her naturally bronzed complexion.
“Good morning, Brooke,” she greets me as I get close, then reaches to grab her own plate of food.
The bright colors of the fruit she’s carefully chosen stare back at me. I second guess the helping of hash browns I was looking forward to when I woke up in Brock’s bed an hour ago.
After our small talk last night, followed by this morning’s semi-platonic shower, where I found he’s not much of a morning person either, I told him I really needed to go. My suggestion of a quick departure led to a speedy, but frenzied make-out session before he walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye.
Looking at Emilee, I note she looks flustered. “Hey, Em. How are you?”
“Nervous,” she replies, looking down and moving her hair from her eyes.
I’ve found the woman to be painfully shy, and I’ve wondered why she ever came to a place like this. L.A. is a big city.
“Nervous about what?”
“Brock had his first date last night,” she tells me, though I already knew.
Everyone knew because it was announced at the end of the day yesterday. Also, I already knew because he was texting me during said date, following up with having sex with me after, twice.
I’m a terrible person.
“I heard it ended well, too. Very well.”
My eyes narrow. “How so?”
“Some of the girls...um...they kind of heard things.”
Christ. Please tell me they weren’t loitering around his room. If so, they heard my things. My one-time, ever-epic, mind blowing, double penetration orgasm was the shout heard round the world. Suddenly, I look to my food and am no longer hungry.
“I heard from Joelle that Brock looks worn out and tired this morning.”
A sad and pathetic satisfaction is taken from this. If the other girls think Brock’s already swooning over someone, I suppose it doesn’t have to be me who takes the fall.
Damn it. I’m a terrible person.
“Joelle said Willow knocked on his door this morning and he didn’t answer. She said Willow wasn’t happy and went screaming in a rant to find Matt.”
Joelle, I’m quickly finding, is also a gossip. Unfortunately for Emilee, she got stuck with her as a roommate.
“Jo is ticked because her date with him is next week. She doesn’t want him thinking about Mary Ann while his attention is supposed to be on her.”
God, all my assumptions are correct. I’ve just travelled back ten years. I’m not only back in high school, but Brock is the captain of the football team and we’re all the makeshift cheerleaders who are cattily scheming for his attention.
I’ll say now, I hated high school for this very reason.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Em. Truly. There’s still weeks to go.”
Surprisingly, Emilee confesses, “I don’t want Brock to p
ick me.”
Turning my eyes to hers, I find her no longer leveling me with her undivided attention. She’s lost in her own head.
“Why do you say that?”
Emilee’s eyes change from sweet to semi-glossy before she says, “I came out here from Arizona because my boyfriend dumped me a couple months ago. He called me a boring cow. He said a wet blanket had more elasticity.”
Damn.
“So, you’re here to prove to him you’re not?”
“Yes,” she quietly confirms. “I’m not a cow,” she bravely snips. “Or a wet blanket.”
“Come on, Em. Eat breakfast with me. I’ll take some food up to Addie, and we’ll hang out in my room until it’s time for the bus to take us to the studio. How’s that?”
She smiles, and it’s genuine. “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Step away from the makeup brushes, Taylor Van Buren.
Brock
-
“How are things going for you so far, Brock?” Matt inquires as he walks into the men’s dressing room, where we both now wait for the makeup crew to arrive.
I’ve never, not once in my life, held any sort of appreciation for women having to wear all this shit.
Shine-free powder, lip balm, and Vaseline over my teeth to ‘ease my smile’ has shed enough light on what women go through that I’ve mentally noted to forbid Tate from wasting her life applying it.
When Taylor, the guy in charge of wardrobe and makeup, came at me with a sharp pencil of black eyeliner, too happy to advise the coal in the stick would bring out my eyes in front of the camera, I uncompromisingly called foul.
Powder to avoid a glare, fine.
Lip balm to smooth my lips, okay.
Even the Vaseline held its purpose.
But eyeliner? That was an immediate fuck no.
Matt laughed at my reaction. Taylor hasn’t spoken to me since. I must’ve hurt his feelings.
“Things are going good, I think,” I answer. “Maybe a little exhausting.”
Matt shrugs and smiles at me in the reflection of the mirror we’re both now sitting in front of. His chair is black, mine’s gold. Both are cushioned and comfortable.
“Has Jerry gotten with you yet this morning?”
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