Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  “Yeah he does. He’s part of my family. That’s what family does, they stick together. Not get married to some billionaire and run off leaving their kids to fend for themselves in boarding school.” I get off the sofa, grabbing my cell and move past the cameras, demanding Karl and Josie to stop filming.

  “Emerson,” Karl shouts across the room. “I need more footage.”

  I wave my hand in the air, ignoring his plea, and head straight to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me with a loud bang. It would only be a matter of time before someone would find me and try to talk me back into living room. But I was pissed off. At Wesley for disrespecting my wishes and as much as I hated to admit it, at Logan for being such a sleaze.

  The anger rages and I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell Logan my thoughts given we hadn’t spoken for weeks.

  Filled up your belt yet? I hear you’ve been busy.

  The second I hit send, I want to retract the message. Why the fuck is there no recall button? Did Apple not understand that during heated moments, one could so easily mouth off based on unstable emotions?!

  Nice to see you online. Your hair looks good in purple. But then again, I watched last week’s episode and I would compare my full belt to your engagement. When’s the lucky day?

  I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. What did that mean? Comparing his belt to my engagement? This wasn’t a contest. And if it was, what the fuck would be the prize at the end? Who became the most miserable because they lived a life they didn’t want? I would win that in a heartbeat.

  You’re still the same Carrington. An asshole.

  Frustrated at myself for feeling this way, I look up and see George walk out of my closet. He has the guilty face. The same face he has when he’s been chewing on something pricey. My feet move forward towards the closet where I see my vintage Chanel purse that Mom gave me a few years back—chewed at the sides.

  “GEORGE!” I cry, falling to the floor and picking up the remnants of the bag. He had really gotten into the beading, tearing it apart with his canine teeth.

  I storm out of the closet, searching for him around the room. He is sitting in the corner, already in timeout with his head down and eyes conveniently avoiding me.

  “Are you kidding me? George Puggington! How dare you eat my vintage Chanel? Go for Wes’s shit, not mine!”

  He knows he’s in trouble, and with my day already gone bad, I fall onto the bed, accidently knocking my cell beside me. I hold it up in front of face as I lay on my back reading the text from Logan.

  A beautiful asshole, right?

  His cockiness makes me smile, and without thinking too much, I type the first thing that comes to mind.

  You do know how weird that sounds right? I’m literally visualizing assholes and I think I’m a little scared. Women aren’t programmed like men. You’re all about the tits and ass.

  Ass being assholes.

  I knew that would challenge him but I only stated the truth. We didn’t care about cocks as much as men were obsessed with female anatomy and big juicy asses that they can slap. Boo-tay.

  And what is Emerson Chase all about?

  I read his question carefully and it got me thinking about what I wanted. Did I even know what I wanted? No, because I no longer thought about myself. It didn’t matter anyway, at least, for this season. Signing on the dotted line meant I signed the rights to my freedom. With that morbid thought, I do what I do best—act like a smartass to avoid reality.

  I’m all about hot soccer players that appear in Sports Illustrated and OMG the abs . . . like literally can you even DEAL with such hotness???

  In the confinement of my room, I laugh to myself when I read the text back. Logan is a womanizer and women were drawn to him. He knew that, they knew that, and I should have known that. Well, I do know that . . . stupid brain just forgot for a while.

  I don’t think a man like that exists. Maybe you need to bat for the same side. Now THAT would make for some great reality TV.

  Smartass. I can hear the voices coming close to the bedroom, so I type fast before they find me in here grinning like a fool over a stupid conversation.

  You wear a kitty dress once and it’s all about the pussy with you. MAN. ALL MAN. I need a man not a woman. Take your lesbian fantasy elsewhere. That boat has no chance of docking at my wharf.

  My name is being called and Josie walks in with her camera faced down and headphones resting on her neck. She is much older than me; a hopeless romantic that only ever sees the good in people despite what they have done. God love her.

  “You okay Emerson?”

  “Sorry. Just having one of those days.”

  “Listen, we can cut that footage and re-shoot? I won’t tell Cliff.”

  “I would appreciate that.” I smile. “Can you give me a minute and I’ll be out?”

  She nods, closing the door behind her.

  I quickly read Logan’s message before heading to the bathroom to fix my hair.

  I’ve got this sudden urge to go sailing. I’m glad you need a man . . . and I’m sure you’ve got a line waiting to dock at your wharf.

  You can tell me more this weekend when I’m in town.

  He’ll be in town? I press dial, suddenly wanting to speak to him before I headed outside. I didn’t expect him to answer first ring.

  “You’re coming to LA?” I ask without greeting him.

  “I don’t even get a hello?” I can hear him teasing me with his smile. “Yes. For two days. We have a meeting with the US Soccer officials.”

  “We as in you and Ash?”

  “No, we as in me and my female posse.” There’s a quick pause before his laugh filters through. “Yes me and Ash. He’s leaving Alessandra behind. Thank god.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Not sure. They’ve booked us somewhere.”

  I hear my name being called again. If I didn’t hang up now, Wes would walk in and all hell would break loose.

  “Listen, I have to go. We’re in the middle of filming. I kinda stormed off set. Then George ate my bag. Long story. I guess I’ll see you next week.”

  “Till then.”

  We hang up, and without knowing it, I pull my phone towards my chest and smile. Jumping off the bed, I skip outside with a brighter attitude and make myself comfortable on the sofa. Wes picks up on my improved mood, and begins the same conversation we had started earlier.

  “So, a winter wedding. In Paris?”

  Resting my hand on his knee, I smile back with my heart in a much better place. “Sounds beautiful.”

  “It all begins with something small.

  A trigger; warning us that something dangerous lies ahead.”

  ~ Logan Carrington

  Flying with Ash was never easy.

  He fidgeted constantly, annoyed you by beginning a conversation when you’ve just placed your headphones on, then forced to remove it only to have him ask if he could eat your fucking pretzels.

  He went on about Alessandra. Complaining about how she made him throw his dirty clothes into the hamper rather than leave them on the floor or how she scolded him for dumping wet towels on the bed. That was something I couldn’t fault Alessandra on—Ash is a fucking slob and no woman has ever been successful in changing him no matter how much pussy they gave up.

  We flew first class to the States with the US Soccer officials wanting to meet to discuss the team they were putting together for the World Cup trials. Chris had a lengthy conversation with Coach and there was talk about Ash and I playing for the US team. I couldn’t believe the news. World Cup—a fucking dream. Representing our country meant everything to me so I was extremely keen to get onto US soil and possibly get picked.

  That, and one other thing—Emerson.

  Weeks had gone past without any contact and just like we said we would, we kept it our secret. It didn’t erase the constant reminder of that night. Fuck—I can’t even think about it now sitting next to Ash. Removing my headphones, I excuse myse
lf to use the restroom, leaving Ash to watch some movie with subtitles because the fucker thought there would be porn in it.

  It’s a short walk to the main restroom, passing the other passengers that slept comfortably in their sleepers or busy typing away on their laptops. The hostess greets me, offering me a beverage. I tell her I’ll take a beer back at my chair.

  Inside the tiny cubicle, I take a piss then wash my hands thoroughly. Goddamn germs were everywhere and I hated sharing such a small space. The quiet, confined area gets me thinking about Emmy again and the way we left things off.

  It was never my intention to finger her fucking pussy in the lake. I was angry. At her for being such a bitch and turning into one of those Hollywood divas. At Ash for marrying the first girl to suck his dick that night, and most importantly myself—for letting Louisa go.

  I wasn’t thinking. Something about Emmy did that do me. She always had since we were kids, riled me up until I burst into flames and did something stupid just to prove a point. But we weren’t kids anymore. We were adults.

  I had touched her to shut her up. To get back at Ash for being a hypocrite and making me choose between him and Louisa. I wasn’t myself that night; the anger had been bottled up for a while and coincidently quadrupled when the tabloids announced Manchester’s top player, Jared Carr, dating Louisa Hemmings.

  My Louisa Hemmings.

  Past. Fucking. Tense.

  Louisa wanted a life with me: marriage, babies, the big fucking castle outside London where she would make us drive past every weekend. It was a relationship I never expected to last that long—a whole two years. Majority of that time was spent hiding it from the media and with her traveling globally for work, most of it was through text messages and video chatting.

  She was switched on; a career in marketing with her own firm set up in London. She thrived on schedules, routine, and planning. Everything had to be planned. Ash hated her, voicing his opinion on more than one occasion.

  “Does she plan when you fuck too?” he asked once when we were out drinking with the boys. “Monday: you get blown, Tuesday: she likes a tittie fuck, and Friday night, you take her in the ass?”

  He knew I hated discussing my personal life and that ‘joke’ took it over the line; my fist almost smacking him in the face if it weren’t for Jerry—a teammate—holding me back.

  We didn’t talk for weeks; I crashed at Louisa’s apartment until Coach pulled us in for a meeting. He warned the both of us that our three straight losses were not unfortunate, rather lack of teamwork. We had to choose what was more important: soccer or women.

  I thought long and hard about what Louisa meant to me and if it was worth the fight. That was until Ash gave me another ultimatum: him or her.

  Ash had been my best friend since I could remember—my brother. She was in my life for two years. I loved her but it wasn’t enough to give up everything I had worked so hard for, and so, I ended our relationship thinking it wouldn’t be so hard. I would find someone else.

  It was harder than I thought. I missed the sex and her companionship. Despite her need to plan everything, I felt lost without someone nagging me and getting me off my ass when I felt like doing nothing. I never let it affect my game, training harder during the day and partying well into the nights on the weekends.

  I wasn’t prepared the night I ran into Louisa at that party. Her body wrapped around another man. She tried to be polite, apologizing for bringing this stranger to a mutual friend’s apartment. The manipulative bitch knew she got under my skin, and to pay her back, I fucked her assistant against the brand-new Porsche that Daddy bought her.

  It was the same night that Ash changed everything between us.

  “Bro, I gotta tell you something but you can’t flip okay?”

  Ashley Chase had said this to me only once in the entire time I knew him, the time he accidently rode my BMX into the lake and couldn’t retrieve it because it had sunk to the bottom. The important thing was that he survived.

  “I know you’ll be angry but hear me out. That woman last night, with the long dark brown hair . . . I . . . I married her.”

  There were no words left to say. He married her, he was forced to go back home to tell Chris and Abbi, and I tagged along to reap joy in the fact that he would be crucified.

  Then Emmy . . .

  Emerson Chase was never someone I considered jumping into bed with. I had my moments where I found myself infatuated with her but then I would get distracted by someone else. I enjoyed tormenting her—an easy target. Yet this trip back home was different. She changed. Even before she told me what happened, I could see she was troubled.

  Pushing her buttons was easy but she always gave it back. She hated losing. Claimed she wasn’t competitive but I had never met a more competitive, and stubborn, woman.

  And sexy, hot . . .

  I can’t rid my mind of the image of her buried into me while we floated in the water. The way her body moved and so quickly peaked from the simple touch of my finger gliding in and out of her tight pussy. I wanted to stick my cock in her. Give her a taste of what a real man is all about. But I didn’t—our ties were too great and there was too much at stake.

  I blame it all on her. She dared me, like she had always done. I wanted an escape just as much as she did but I thought she would have pushed me away. Tell me how disgusting I am and how dare I touch her. Yet she didn’t. She couldn’t stop staring at me, even when we were standing in the kitchen. Eyes trailing my body like a hungry beast.

  It started something bad.

  I just didn’t know exactly what that was yet. I knew it would be awkward but only if we allowed it to be and knowing the type of person Emmy was, plus the fact she had no interest in me whatsoever, I was happy to brush it off like nothing happened between us. Take the memory of her and store it for times when I needed to jerk off and had no one sucking my cock.

  Until I watched her show—for the first time.

  We had just flown back into London and I was eager to get into training again. It pissed me off that Ash busied himself fucking Alessandra every night and so with a few minutes to spare, I did what I promised myself I wouldn’t do: I streamed the last episode of Generation Next—the proposal episode.

  I couldn’t fault the episode. As far as my eyes were concerned, this shit looked real. Not two people acting in love. It was almost too perfect and I had known Emmy for as long as I had known Ash, and not one boyfriend or guy, had ever made her smile that way.

  She fucking loved him or should I say still loves him. They were still living together.

  The dick fucks two whores then he expects to marry Emmy? You’re damn right it pissed me off.

  It’s the reason why I stopped contacting her. She enabled his poor behavior and in my eyes—that made her weak.

  That whole family fucked me off right now. Chris was also on my back about training harder, constantly pointing out my weaknesses and giving me a massive complex. Abbi kept pushing me to call my mom. Why couldn’t Mom call me? Was it that hard to pick up the phone and call your only son? Obviously, she never cared when I was a kid so why start caring now?

  I didn’t need anyone. Just someone occasionally to suck me off and that wouldn’t be Emmy. At least, I didn’t think it would be her.

  Until she texted me.

  As much as I wanted to ignore her—I couldn’t.

  I just couldn’t stop myself.

  We landed just before midday and made a quick dash to the hotel to freshen up. It wasn’t as smooth as I liked it, spotted by some fans in LAX where we were asked for some pics. Being that they were girls, Ash lapped it up and grabbed the number of the blonde with the bouncing tits. I just wanted to shower, get the grime and grease off me, then meet with the officials—not think about pussy.

  “You want the blonde’s number?” Ash hands the paper over in the limo.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you score a blowey off any of the girl
s at the apartment last week?”

  The girls that hung around our apartment were the same old leeches that followed us at each game and hung around the entrance of the locker rooms hoping to score some dick. The older one, a Scandinavian woman, sucked me off with no happy ending. I wasn’t into it. When I started to chafe, I politely told her to leave. It was the oddest thing ever. I’d normally be pulling her hair tight and watching her eyes bulge from my cock going down her throat.

  “Yeah, I did,” I say, to shut him up.

  He doesn’t press further, busying himself with his cell.

  “Emmy is taking us out for a late lunch after the meeting. You got plans?”

  It catches my attention yet I’m quick to keep my smile hidden. “Nope, where at?”

  “Hold on.” He types quickly and responds a couple of seconds later. “Some Indian place near Melrose.”

  I hide the smile on my face, grabbing my cell and typing a message to her.

  Indian? You know what happens to Ash when he eats Indian? Burning assholes.

  I see the bubble before her response appears on the screen. Ash has taken the moment to call Alessandra and already, they had gotten into a fight over him being photographed with his arm around some woman at Heathrow.

  Burning assholes. Great visual yet funny at the same time. I’ll make sure I order him the vindaloo.

  I sit back into the chair and stare out the window. Emmy was never on my mind before our trip back home, I guess since she announced her engagement on TV I figured she would forever be gone from our lives. We rarely saw each other and every time we did, it stirred this weird emotion—like nostalgia. She was always around us as kids, annoying the fuck out of me and Ash. Third wheel as I liked to call it. It wasn’t until we left to train for the leagues did I think—thank God—we got rid of her.