Okay, I know there are guy dancers. But when I initially said she could dance with a friend in the living room, I was definitely picturing two girls.
Her blue eyes meet mine, her gaze hard. “What do you mean ‘he?’ My friend Lance. He’s one of the dancers.”
As she gets up off the couch and calls on her cell phone down to the front desk, for some odd reason I have to stifle a rush of adrenaline that comes over me. She stands there in a white tank top and pink booty shorts that say ‘dancer’ on one cheek and ‘pink,’ on the other, and I feel my jaw twitch.
First of all, why the hell do they keep making those booty shorts that just say the color? It has never made any sense to me. But I’m not one to make a cause out of protesting girls in hot short-shorts.
Second of all, and more importantly—just two minutes ago I was picturing some sort of double hot girl dance session taking place as I watch TV.
My dreams are tarnished when Lacy opens the door to my penthouse and—very clearly—a man appears.
“Hey Lance!” she says. She hugs and kisses him.
On the lips.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
One day in, and she’s bringing a . . . a date to my place?
“Hey there,” the guy says as he comes on in.
He’s probably six foot two. He’s got long brown hair, and, shit—I’m man enough to admit the guy looks a lot like that Fabio guy from the old romance novels. His hand rests on the small of Lacy’s back.
“Thanks so much for letting us use your place to practice our routine. I’m Lance, by the way.”
He sticks a hand out, and I try to mask how begrudgingly I’m shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you Lance.” I can’t avoid the vitriol that comes out as I say his name.
What kind of fucking name is Lance anyway? Sounds like a kid I played t-ball with who could never hit the fucking ball. Larry would even be a better name. Larry, the name of a guy who loves to wear leotards.
I clench and unclench my fists as I watch them. Why am I letting these two get in my head??
“I think we should stretch it out, first,” she says in a sultry voice, taking Lance by the hand to the living room, just to the right of the television.
I plop back on the couch and try to focus again on the classic game I’m watching, the Michael Jordan versus Charles Barkley matchup of 1993. But Lance is bending Lacy’s legs behind her back—literally.
And I can’t help where my mind goes.
Lacy has definitely come into her figure over the last few years. I give her that.
Have I thought about her romantically?
Sure, a few times, maybe.
Is it anything serious? No.
My coveting gaze drifts to Lance as he presses her legs wide apart, helping her stretch.
And pangs of jealousy flare through me.
I’m not about to watch her get worked out by some other guy.
I consider my plays here. I could kick them out. I could continue watching this sideshow.
Instead, I call up my teammate Chandler and arrange to meet up in my building’s gym for a night-time workout.
Chandler is as big of a gym rat as I am, so it works out.
“I’m gonna jet out of here for a little. You guys do your thing,” I say, and head out.
6
Carter
While I’m waiting for Chandler to arrive, I crank the treadmill up to six-minute mile pace and run.
I put my headphones in and listen to Rage Against the Machine Killing in the Name as I pump my arms and legs. Rage fills my heart—the real kind. I sadistically enjoy the pain I get from running so fast. I learned a long time ago not to fight pain.
Seeing Lacy with that long-haired dancer made me feel cut down in a way I can’t explain.
I growl and crank the speed up another notch on the treadmill.
I’m pouring sweat, about to start growling just to freak out the guy on the treadmill next to me when I hear yelling and take off my headphones.
My teammate Chandler is standing next to me, off the treadmill, yelling at me.
“Jesus, buddy!” he yells as I slip one of my headphones off. He glances down at the stats from my run, and shoots me a weird look. “Are you training for a fucking eight-hundred meter dash? Why the fuck are you running a five minute, forty-five second mile?”
I shrug as I press the button to turn off the treadmill.
“I was in the mood to run fast.”
He shakes his head at me.
“You’ve got issues, dude. Fucking masochist.”
“Don’t we all? At least my issues will help me come basketball season when it’s time to channel this energy sprint up and down the court for forty-eight minutes.”
“Right.” He nods. “Shoot around first?”
“Absolutely,” I agree, stepping off the treadmill.
We head to the basketball gym to get a few practice shots in. I turn on the stereo system—some delta notch techno this time—and pass to Chandler while he shoots three pointers.
“Seriously. What are your issues?”
I snort as I pass him the ball. “Long fucking story.”
“I got time.”
“They’re personal. “
“Hey, I’ve got issues too,” he says and takes a shot.
“Yeah. Not like mine.”
“Try me.”
“My new roommate—who I hate—is dancing around my living room with some fucking Fabio-looking douchebag.”
Chandler shoots—and drains—another three pointer. The guy is good.
“I don’t get it. Why in God’s name do you have a roommate? I thought you were pumped about this being the ‘summer of Carter?’”
I heave a sigh as I pass him another. “Basically our mothers are best friends. They went to high school together. So ipso facto, Lacy’s a family friend. I’ve never had the heart to inform my mom how much I hate her. Neither has she. So we’ve kept up this little game of liking each other over the years. When my mom called me to beg to let her crash here—I couldn’t say no. It’s my mom, dude.”
“I get it.” He shoots and follows the ball as it swishes into the basket again.“Your turn.”
He points to me, and I run behind the three point line so he can pass to me.
“So this begs the question,” Chandler says as he sends me a perfect pass, “Why do you hate her so much? You’re twenty-seven years old. You’re crushing life. Why would you want to keep holding a grudge?”
“There’s some things in life you just don’t forget.”
Gripping the ball to shoot, I eye the rim, but my balance feels off. My stomach clenches up like I’m carrying a brick. In a flash, I remember what good friends Lacy and I were in our early years. Those golden years, when we were just two silly kids whose moms were friends. She was the dancer, I was the basketball player.
A memory comes to mind of us playing on the court in the park halfway between our houses in Blackwell the summer I was thirteen, and she was twelve. I was heading into eighth grade, I think, and she was going into seventh.
Ever since I was ten years old, I’d looked forward to going to play basketball at the park in the summer and after school.
The truth of the matter, though, was that I didn’t start out wanting to go to the park to play ball, as much as I went because I knew Lacy would be there, one of only a couple girls playing with the guys.
I’d always pick her to be on my team when I could. On the court, she moved with this smooth grace. We made a great team.
I shudder, wobbling a little as my gaze unfocuses. Lacy was so bright and cheery-eyed every time I saw her. I’d catch glimpses of her dancing in the park when she thought no one was watching.
Growing up without a father—I’d felt bitter to an extent, like I was gypped of something all the other kids had. But Lacy’s dad had went downhill, too, and she still had a sparkle and a smile in her eye every time I saw her. Her optimism gave me the fuel I needed at
that time to be hopeful. She showed me what it meant to disregard obstacles and ram right through them.
The truth, something I’d long kept hidden from even myself, was that she was the one who inspired me to treat basketball with finesse—like a dance with a ball on the court.
Until she lied to me with a straight face for an entire year and changed everything.
The hair stands up on the back of my neck as I remember what she kept from me, even when we were dating for half that year.
“Bro. You gonna shoot?” Chandler quips with his hands on his hips.
Refocusing my gaze on the hoop, I launch the ball.
The shot clanks on the rim, missing badly. Chandler grabs the rebound and holds onto the ball. “You never answered my question. What could be so bad that you can’t be civil with each other?”
“She fucked my best friend.”
His mouth drops open. “Oh.”
I smirk as he tosses me another pass. “Just kidding. She kept a secret from me.”
“What secret?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m over it—there’s no point in digging up those old skeletons.” I shoot and miss badly again.
“Yeah. You are totally over it,” Chandler says, passing me the ball. “You’re the second best three-point shooter in the league and you just bricked two. I’m sure this has nothing to do with you focusing on something you’re completely, totally over.”
I shoot again, and I can practically feel my blood coursing with the anger. The shot is too strong, and I miss long.
“Forget this,” I quip. “Let’s go inside and hit some weights.”
“Whatever, man.” Chandler shrugs. “I’m not asking for your life story. It’s just a question.”
I clam up, not wanting to go on about this.
Once we’re in the weight room, I throw plates on the bench press and get ready to lift.
Chandler helps me with a lift-off, and I pump out eleven repetitions with ease. On the last one, I can’t get it off my chest.
Chandler, spotting me, goes to grab the weights. “No help!” I yell. “Don’t touch.”
He backs off.
I scream as I try to push the weights up.
Even Chandler gets a worried look on his face as I let out my gorilla yell. And he is used to my antics from practice.
I can’t lift the weight.
He leans down and helps me get the bar off my chest. “What the hell has gotten into you, man?” he shakes his head.
Breathing hard as I sit up, I say nothing. I let the painful burn in my chest muscles throb through my body as I stand up. I’m not in the mood to talk about Lacy and I right now.
“Not gonna talk? Okay. The stoic masculine, that’s you. I used to be like you before I met Amy. So no comment?” Chandler continues. “My turn, then.” I stand up and he sits on the bench. “Thanks for the late night lift session, anyway, bro. I love getting pumped up late. I hope Amy is ready for a session later though. I always have to blow off extra steam after these.”
“A session?”
“Yeah. A session. With my fiancée.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I get the innuendo.
Whipping out his phone, he fires off a text. A few moments later, I see a selfie in lingerie show up on his phone and I lean in to see close up.
“Nah ah ah!” Chandler says, closing out his messenger before I can get a good look. “My eyes only.”
* * *
We lift for about another hour, and then I head back to my apartment, hoping Fabio and Lacy are done with their godforsaken dance session by about now.
I shut the door, and I don’t see or hear anything. Thank God.
Then, I do a double take when I see a half-full bottle of wine on the coffee table, along with two empty wine glasses.
My nostrils flare, that same rage surging through my heart. But this feeling is nothing compared to a few seconds later, when I hear screaming.
Lacy’s voice. “Oh God, yes, just like that!” she yells.
What. The. Actual. FUCK.
My heart pounds as I hear an assortment of noises coming from her room.
I pour myself a glass of water, but I can barely drink it my mouth is so wide open in disbelief.
It’s like listening to a bad porno en vivo.
Lacy’s voice. “Fuck me just like that!”
Slap slap slap. The sound of skin on skin.
Leotard’s voice. “Yeah, oh God, yeah, you’re so tight!”
Slap slap slap.
“Oh my gosh you’re so big!”
My blood bakes. I poke my tongue lightly into my cheek and inhale a long breath.
In my. Fucking. House.
If I were a tea kettle right now, I’d be boiling over and spewing steam everywhere. I chug my water, lift up my glass, and consider chucking it against the ground.
My breath heavy, and my hands shaking, I slip my noise-blocking headphones over my head, and crank up a song by Disturbed.
I switch to my messenger, and run down the list of girls who have sent me messages today. Somehow, I know calling a girl over isn’t going to fix the hole in my heart. It’s something I’ve felt for many years, though I can’t put my finger on its origin.
The summer I found out about my father, is the summer my bitterness took hold.
My cat follows me as I walk out onto the balcony and the hot summer night air hits my face.
When the song hits the chorus, I scream loud enough for the whole damn city to hear.
7
Carter
The next morning, I wake up in a cold sweat from a dream I’ve had.
In the dream, I’m sleeping when Lacy walks into my room.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m scared in my bed by myself. Can I get into bed with you?”
“Sure,” I say in my dream, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“I don’t understand why we can’t just be friends,” she says as she slips under the covers with me. “I’ll forgive you for what you did if you forgive me.”
My stomach clenches up. “I’m still not over that.”
Her face puffs up, and she starts to cry. “I don’t understand you insist on carrying on this grudge.”
I clench my jaw, and even in my dream I feel my chest vibrate with raw anger.
“It’s your fault. You should never keep things from me.”
“I can make it up to you,” she says, licking her lips.
She’s never looked as sexy as she does in my dream. Her big, baby blue eyes look up at me like a puppy dog who just got caught on the couch, but will do anything it takes to get back in my good graces.
I’m so damn aroused as she slips her hand down my abs, and farther, until she’s inches—no, millimeters from gripping my cock, her gaze fully focused on mine.
I’m rock hard, at full attention. But before she can lower her hand, the door swings open, and a monster of a man stands in the archway.
In the way only a dream can manifest, the man is a hybrid mixture of my father and Leotard Larry.
Hence the cold sweat when I wake up.
My cock is as hard as I am confused by this dream.
Extremely.
My erection points straight up at the ceiling mirror, standing at attention.
I rub my eyes, put two feet on the floor, then get down to do some pushups to get this hard-on to disappear. In just my basketball shorts, I head to the dining room to start some coffee.
But as I approach the dining room, I smell something odd.
The place already smells of coffee, eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns.
To my goddamn surprise, Leotard Larry is already up, smiling as he cooks up a storm in my kitchen.
I clench my fists for a moment, then let the tension drop.
Because he’s got a big, warm smile on his face. And it appears to be genuine.
“Good morning!” he sings.
I blink a few times. He’s got on shorts that are way too short even if this man
is a dancer, a lime green tank top, and he’s wearing my ‘kiss the cook here’ apron, with a down arrow pointing to the crotch.
He’s got bacon frying up in one pan, eggs in another, and the oven is preheating, probably so he can throw in the hashbrowns which are resting atop the stove.
Jesus. This guy certainly knows his way around the kitchen.
“Morning,” I growl back. I’ve always been suspicious of nice people. What kind of guy makes eggs in the morning for his one-night-stand?
“Oh my. Did you sleep okay?” he asks, leaning in. “I’ve got some coffee here for you. Cream or no? Well, you know the way around your own kitchen. Silly me. I hope it’s okay I’m making breakfast for everyone.”
I’m still groggy, and in a haze of disbelief that Leotard is making breakfast.
Lacy really knows how to pick them.
I pour myself a cup of black coffee and take a seat on a stool next to the island counter, watching him work the pan. He seems like a damn expert.
“So. Good night last night?” I arch an eyebrow at him, panning for information.
He turns and winks, still with that same sly smile that still leaves me wondering what the hell is going on with him.
“How about you, how was your workout last night, big guy?”
Big guy? The last time I got called that was by my mom. When I was seven.
“Fine,” I say gruffly.
“It really shows. You probably eat a lot of protein, though. How many eggs for you?”
“Four,” I say.
“Oh wow,” he says. “I’ll have to throw in another one on for you. Is scrambled okay?”
I nod slowly as I take a sip of my coffee. Footsteps pitter patter down the hallway, and Lacy comes toward the kitchen. Her shoulder length hair is all messed up.
Sex hair.
I’ve seen it too many times not to recognize it. I open my mouth to make a comment, but then think better of it.
Might as well not show my cards. I don’t want her having the tiniest inkling that I actually give a shit what she does. I attempt to pry my eyes away from her, but it’s impossible. She’s got on tiny short shorts and a tank top that shows off her belly button. And slippers.
The Lying Game Page 4