Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  Hiding out in her room seemed logical, but with my stomach growling and my mouth parched, I knew I would have to make my way to the kitchen eventually. And most importantly—I had to tell Mom I was heading back home early. I needed a distraction. Something to occupy my mind and push away the pain even if only for a few moments.

  “Can I borrow your computer?” I ask, mindful that she had property of Tayla Chase stickered all over her electronics.

  “Sure,” she replies, moving off the bed and towards me. She leans over and types in the password, quickly, like I was spying.

  I thank her kindly with a trace of sarcasm, then proceed to log into my account and check my unread emails. Nina sent another long email. Apparently, she was in full damage-control mode and the network execs were beyond pissed. Wesley was being flown back to the States for an emergency meeting. They requested that I be there to discuss the future of the show. It seemed unnatural to sit in a boardroom and discuss how to fix our relationship. The thought of being in the same room with him made my skin crawl. To think he could do that and expect me to carry on like nothing happened.

  Yet once again, without any warning, my heart sank as the love I felt for this man could not easily dissolve. With a quiet sniff, I hold back the tears, tired of crying over something I had no control over.

  The damage was done—he broke us.

  Exiting out of that email, I run the mouse along the other highlighted items. I went by an alias name on my email: Jane Smith. The plainest name that one could think of. Using my real name was not an option with all the hackers that stalked the Internet.

  There was a lot of junk; emails from retailers with the latest purchases, and offers to inherit money from dying widows in Africa. My eyes immediately stop scrolling when I see a new email come in from John Smith.

  Avoidance can only get you so far.

  I checked my contact lists to see who John Smith was until it clicked—Logan. Jane, John, and Joe—the three Smiths. We did this so we could communicate with each other and keep our lives private but had been using text more recently. Ash sent me links to stupid videos of animals doing crazy things and occasionally he would send an article worth reading. Logan rarely emailed me unless we were in a group email.

  My fingers rest on the keyboard, not sure how to respond. Tayla busied herself watching some hair tutorial on YouTube while I just stared at the screen. Slowly, at a snail’s pace, my fingers begin to move on their own accord.

  Same with cockiness. Don’t you have another notch to make on your ever-growing belt?

  I contemplated shutting down my email, but something made me keep it open, almost waiting to see how he could possibly respond to that. I swivel around the chair and see Tayla smiling at something on her screen.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She looks up, unaware that I had been watching her. “Oh, just a comment this guy left.”

  “Oh,” I acknowledge with a grin “A guy?”

  She nods, still smiling. “Yeah, we’re not dating. He has a girlfriend, I think. He leaves comments here and there and they are just funny.”

  “Young love. I remember those days. Except we didn’t have cells so it was all about passing a note.”

  “A note? That’s so old school.”

  “You’re telling me. It would have been so much fun messaging a boy rather than passing a note down the classroom hoping that gossip queen Rosie Peach wouldn’t sneak a look at it.”

  The sound of a faint ding catches my attention. Turning back around to face the screen, I see another email from John Smith. Anxiously, I open it, not realizing I am holding my breath.

  I think I might hang the belt for a while. A wise woman once told me I was just like the rest of them. I’m out to prove her wrong.

  My eyes dart over the email, and for some reason, I can’t hold back the smile. My words sunk in. I think of a witty response, only to come up with nothing but lame replies. I log out of my email and turn back around.

  “Should we talk about what happened in the hall?” I raise the topic, wanting to clear the air and ease the guilt that is plaguing me.

  “I think it was pretty self-explanatory. You screwed Logan. Ash, Mom, and Dad will kill you.”

  “I . . . I didn’t screw him,” I stammer.

  “Potato, po-tah-toe.”

  Was this a potato, po-tah-toe situation? My crazy brain is justifying what happened as a slip of a finger. Maybe it accidently made its way around the groove and just got lost.

  Okay, your brain is stupid . . . and on some sort of crack. Accidental ‘slips’ don’t result in such an intense orgasm.

  “I really don’t want to delve into the semantics but it was a mistake. Can we move on? I’ve had a shitty twenty-four hours.”

  Raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, she’s quick to remind me, “Sure, you brought it up you know?”

  “I know,” I say lightly, desperate to switch topics and blaming myself for bringing it up in the first place. “Do you want to go for swim?”

  “Yeah, why not.” Tayla hops off the bed, disappearing into her wardrobe. I tell her I’ll be back, sneaking out of her room and bolting to mine like a fugitive on the run.

  “We rarely get to do the girl thing anymore.”

  Mom is dressed in a white caftan and oversized sun hat, applying lotion as Tayla lays beside her drenched in oil. Mom hands the bottle to her, motioning for her to put some on or out comes the story of Uncle Larry and his mystery mole that developed into skin cancer.

  “We should do a girls’ trip. No men, or boys. No cells,” Mom suggests, getting comfortable on the large cabana lounge.

  “You lost me at no cells,” Tayla mumbles with closed eyes.

  “I’m in. But it’ll have to be between filming . . .” I trail off, almost revealing my doubts of the show continuing. I was grateful that Logan hadn’t said anything. At least, if he did, Mom would be quick to mention it.

  The sun is out in full glory; the hot rays piercing my pale skin. I grab some lotion and rub it all over my body before closing my eyes underneath my sunglasses. Lasting only a few minutes, the heat becomes unbearable so I dive into the pool for a quick splash. The water is extremely cold against my hot skin, and with my entire body wet, I climb onto the large pink flamingo and lay across it, attempting to relax my mind and body.

  I drift in and out of thoughts as Tayla cranks up the latest Bruno Mars album. It doesn’t seem to bother Mom; her hooker book in hand and iced tea in the other. I contemplate getting out of the pool, but the serenity and company ease my apprehension. I felt confident that perhaps in an hour, I could find the strength to talk to Mom and tell her what Wes had done.

  I tell myself another five more minutes, until that five minutes passes and I make another excuse. On my fourth five-minute pep talk, the sudden sound of a splash followed by the cold water hitting my heated skin, startles me to the point that I almost fall off the flamingo in shock.

  Fuck. Ash and Logan. If I ignore them, I could float away. I also hated the fact that Logan was right—avoidance could only get you so far.

  Alessandra is courteous; taking slow steps into the pool, careful not to lose the skimpy gold bikini that barely covers her body. Tayla follows behind her, admiring her bikini and asking her where it’s from. They seem to bond instantly over fashion, and somewhere deep inside, I curb the teeny tiny jealousy that begins to form because Tayla never asks me what I am wearing. Unless, of course, it was to tell me my outfit was so last year.

  With Ash, Alessandra, and Tayla swimming in the pool, Logan stands on the edge watching us with a sly expression. His black swimming shorts sit mid-thigh, enhancing his toned legs. Surprisingly, he wears a tan despite living in a country that rarely sees sun. The self-absorbed bastard probably hits the tanning salon. His eyes dart back and forth until they’re locked onto mine, and reminiscent of when we were kids, he winks before diving into the pool heading straight towards me.

  I don’t have enough time to do
anything, and within a second, I fall into the cold water barely able to catch my breath swallowing a mouthful of water. Asshole! The water accidently travels up my nose and when I make it up for air, I ignore the pain that shoots to my temple and unleash my thoughts with a mouthful of profanities.

  “You fucking jerk! What kind of asshole planet are you from to fucking do that?!”

  “You looked hot,” he points out, complacent and keeping his jaw firm. “Plus, I wanted to lay on your pink flamingo.”

  Ash snorts, pathetically trying to hide his laugh. I let out a huff, swimming away from them, annoyed at their childish behavior. The step of the pool is beneath my feet, and I turn around to sit down, catching my breath and controlling my erratic heartbeat.

  Despite Mom being poolside, Ash is busy making Alessandra giggle. From where I sat, it looks inappropriate with his hands beneath the water, doing something that I would rather not know.

  Logan is leaning on my flamingo with his arms crossed and shades on. My eyes wander along the water dripping off his burly arms to the way his hands rested on the floatie. The same hands that are connected to the fingers that entered me. Fingers that made you weak in the knees. Jesus, I need to stop staring. It was like arm and hand porn at its finest, and only minutes ago, you were hating on him so bad.

  “Alright, how about I make us some lunch? Daddy will be back soon and you need to get to the airport Emmy,” Mom reminds me, standing up from the cabana and dusting the back of her caftan while adjusting her sunglasses.

  “You’re leaving already?” Logan questions, eyes hidden beneath his shades.

  “I changed my flight. I need to attend to some stuff back home. Avoidance only gets you so far,” I cite, purposely avoiding eye contact with him.

  I knew he understood, knowing no one else would. Mom was shocked that I was leaving early, but didn’t pry as to what specifically I needed to take care of, assuming the network needed me for filming.

  “C’mon Emmy,” Ash complains shortly after. “We never get to hang out anymore.”

  Bowing my head, I apologize and climb out of the water, walking towards the pool house. With Mom making her way to the kitchen, I welcomed the quiet with the intention of showering and changing into something less revealing for lunch.

  Outside—where they all remain—the laughter continues. The noise is muffled as I close the door behind me and enter the bathroom looking for a spare towel. The pool house is small: made up of a sitting area with a corner white lounge facing a flat screen TV, and off to the right is a bedroom with a queen-sized bed. Everything is decorated in white and teal, matching the artwork on the wall.

  A gush of wind graces my skin, followed by Logan calling my name. I exit the bathroom to find him standing in the entrance with the door shut behind him. I throw him my towel and grab another, hoping he uses it to cover his half-naked body.

  I was done avoiding the topic. Wanting to clear the air between us, I open my mouth quickly. “Listen, thanks for not saying anything to Ash or Mom. I’m not ready to talk to them about what happened with Wes.”

  Leaning down, he dries his legs with the large towel before throwing it over his shoulder. Why did his body need to look so good wet?

  “You need to tell them. Especially your mom. Abbi would be upset if she knew you hid that from her. You never hide anything from her.”

  He was right. Mom needed to know. I just didn’t want to tell her I failed . . . again. Also, add that burden after she was already feeling like a bad mom because of what Ash did. I was always that kid that felt people would judge my mistakes on how I was raised. It saddened me to think that people would be quick to point blame on Mom and Dad—terrible parents that raised a woman that got cheated on by her fiancé. Of course, they had nothing to do with Wes being a dickhead, but society had an unusual way of tying blame to those innocent.

  “I know.” I pause, treading carefully on the giant elephant gracing the room. “About what happened, Logan. I don’t know what came over me and we need to take this to the grave. Yes, I tell Mom everything, but not this.”

  Bowing his head, his mouth widens with a grin as he lets out a loose chuckle, clutching his stomach with his hand. Oh, why did he have to go and do that . . . make me look at his abs.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, avoiding the rush of excitement that comes from looking at the most simplest body part—his stomach.

  “That you didn’t know what came over you.”

  I could feel the heat rising beneath my skin, the embarrassment of him witnessing a very intimate moment that I had only shared with a handful of men. I had two choices here: spin through the door like the Tasmanian Devil or take the mickey out of the situation.

  “I’m usually not so quick.” The moment it left my mouth, I smack my forehead as Logan laughs. “I mean. God, this is embarrassing.”

  “I get it.” He bursts mid-laugh. “You’re usually not an early shooter.”

  “I’m not exactly shooting anything, I think. That’s a guy thing.”

  “Women can shoot.”

  “What exactly are they shooting?” Curious, I cross my arms beneath my breasts, waiting on his response.

  With his eyebrow raised, he rubs his chin, delighted at the choice of topic.

  “You want the medical explanation?”

  “You know what?” I shake my head unable to hide my grin. “Never mind. I’m sure if the questions persist, I will find my answer on Google along with a hundred horrid sexual facts that I did not know existed.”

  “I’m happy to explain, perhaps, educate you if needed.”

  The corner of his mouth curves upwards, wickedly teasing and coaxing me to say yes. Yet I knew, from years of experience, that Logan Carrington knew how to manipulate me. Whether it be for the good or bad.

  “I’m set.” I laugh. “So, we’re good?”

  “We’re good.”

  I contemplate hugging it out, but with my bikini on and his bare chest, I decide against it. Saying goodbye, I leave him standing alone in the pool house with the intention of going home and forgetting our moment in the lake. I wasn’t sure if it was the shooting talk or our pact to forget what happened. Either way, the guilt was no longer there.

  Our secret would remain our secret.

  “I don’t ask for much. Except my freedom.”

  ~ Emerson Chase

  The flight from home was turbulent and long.

  After several delays—due to some bad weather—the plane was diverted and landed in Burbank. I was glad to get off; my stomach queasy from the bumpy flight. I had barely made the flight to begin with; caught up at the repair store that replaced the battery of my cell. Apparently, it needed a charge and then would be good to go. Thank god—I felt naked without it.

  Jimmy, my occasional driver/bodyguard, greets me at the terminal. Jimmy is six-foot-two, built like a soldier and could probably beat the shit out of anyone. Nina scheduled him for events or times when she worried about my safety. I only noticed a few paparazzi in the terminal; dressed in their usual attire and snapping pictures hoping for some scandal. I wasn’t sure why she was worried now but nevertheless, I greeted him hello and walked alongside to the black SUV parked curb side.

  We drove straight into traffic; a sea of tail lights that seemed never-ending. As I lay back into the leather seats, attempting to cure my stiff neck from the awkward position I fell asleep in on the plane, the constant vibration of my cell disrupts my struggle to get comfortable.

  I close my eyes, which lasts a minute before my hand moves on its own accord and I’m reading a text from Nina.

  Meeting scheduled with the board tomorrow morning. I’m pretty certain we can fight to have you end your contract. Don’t stress Emerson—I’ve got this.

  Finally, something that would go my way. I had faith in Nina to follow through with what I requested: terminating the contract so I didn’t have to work with Wes. I had many hours to think about what I would say to Wes when I saw him, yet a few blocks from
home, I am left with nothing to say. Instead, my focus had been on Logan and the way we left things off, amicable and friendly.

  We agreed to remain friends, and with friendship comes the expectation that I could text him. Quickly typing a message, I hit send before changing my mind.

  This guy on the plane smelled like weed. Remember the time I smoked it and you gave me a lecture of how it would stunt my growth? Such a lie. What did you do with the bag you stole off me?

  I didn’t expect him to respond, knowing they were on a plane back to England and probably out of cell service. With the apartment only a block away, I throw my cell back into my purse and straighten my posture, staring out the window at the familiar houses that line the street.

  Jimmy enters the code into our garage, parking his SUV in the same spot near the stairwell. The apartment block had four units: all overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Ours is located on the top level, beside an entrepreneur that divided her time between LA and Boston.

  Jimmy takes my luggage upstairs, and with my feet dragging, I follow until we’re inside the living room. He places the suitcase down and quietly exits the apartment, leaving me alone with Wes, who is sitting on the sofa.

  This apartment used to be home—only days ago. A place that the both of us purchased and made it ours. I remember the moment we got the keys; Wes carrying me through the door to an empty apartment. We both screamed with joy before making love on the cold tiles in the middle of the living room. Our bodies were covered in sweat, clothes surrounding us as he cradled me in his arms while we stared at the ocean, talking for hours on end about our childhood.

  It felt like such a lifetime ago, not the reality that is sitting on the sofa in grey sweats with a black Nike jumper to match. In front of him is his cell, a bottle of rum and a pack of cigarettes. I didn’t allow anyone to smoke in our apartment, and when I go to open my mouth and tell him my thoughts, the sounds of a tiny bell with gentle pitter-patters distract me until George is rubbing his face against my leg.