Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  And I got this . . . all from this one stare.

  “That’s better.” I smile.

  “Now you.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “Now stop being a baby and pick a wig.”

  Considering I’d never worn a wig in my life, the choice seemed overwhelming. I settle for a dark blond wig that made me look like Justin Timberlake from his NSYNC days. It was either that or a badly cut piece that would made me a dead ringer for Ozzy Osbourne.

  “Great! Now you need facial hair.”

  I point to my chin. “I have facial hair.”

  “Hmm yeah but not hairy enough. You need to look like a man enjoying a Saturday night in Hollywood. Not like Logan Carrington—soccer extraordinaire taking Emerson Chase out on some wild sex ride.”

  I can’t hide the smirk. “We’re going on a wild sex ride?”

  “Does it look like I’m dressed for a wild sex ride?” She pauses. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

  I could see the blush, yet she’s quick to busy herself, picking up a mustache that would make me look like an aging porn star.

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask for the final time.

  Ignoring my question, she finds a hideous-looking pair of reading glasses, thrown into a clearance bin. She also pulls out a bow tie.

  “We’re set!” she beams, deliriously happy for someone that looked like she should have teleported back to the seventies with her glasses.

  “I have never looked more ridiculous.”

  “I’ll argue that. Remember that Christmas jumper you used to wear that our neighbor knitted for all of us but your snowmen looked like two giant dicks?”

  She had to bring it up. The jumper that still gives me the chills yet my mom insists on keeping the photos of me posing in front of our barely decorated tree. The snowmen did look like two giant dicks. The neighbor had dick on her mind when she was knitting that piece of shit.

  “Point taken. Where to now?”

  “It’s a surprise . . . you’ll love it.”

  The bar is full of people; groups that had empty glasses on their tables, laughing heavily as their waiter brings a fresh round. There were a few couples; keeping quiet but engaging in conversation. The music is loud and streaming through the giant speakers; an R&B remix with some “Country Grammar” to start it off. It is rather busy but expected for a Saturday night in LA.

  There’s one small table available in the middle. We squash through the crowd, quickly securing the table that remained dirty with unused glasses. The bar stools are high, giving us an advantage and bringing us to eye level with those dancing.

  Aside from the dirty glasses, there’s a menu in the middle of the table. I was starving, till I realize the menu is of songs . . . karaoke songs.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  “On no you don’t.” I pull the song list out of her hands, demanding she think of something else to do.

  “We need more booze. Loosen your panties mister because karaoke is fun. It’s something I never get to do. Look at all these people!” She lowers her voice while leaning in. “They have no clue who we are. We can do anything we want.”

  Emmy had a point. Not one person had recognized us, or at least her, and everyone kept to themselves. Everywhere you turned, someone had a cell out taking selfies or photos of their friends. This place was like a minefield for the both us.

  “But it involves singing,” I complain.

  “Please?” Pouting her lips, and with eyes wide begging without shame, I finally give in.

  “Fine. But stop giving me the puppy-dog look. Order a round of drinks so I can gear myself up and don’t pull any girly shit out like Abba or something.”

  She whistles for the bartender, looking awfully pleased with herself when he comes over quick. I can’t hear what she’s ordering but it didn’t matter. I would drink whatever to lessen the embarrassing performance about to happen.

  “Alright.” She raises her cocktail and presents her toast. “To fun times! Let’s go wild and live life to the fullest if only for tonight.”

  We clink glasses, the both of us drinking in one hit.

  “Damn woman . . .” I almost choke back the burn. “You could drink me under the table.”

  “I could also fuck you under the table,” she suggests with a straight face. “Or both.”

  I fucking loved her boldness; never wanting to admit to her that her smart mouth challenged me like no other woman had. When Emerson Chase came out to play, you better have your A game on because she never ever backed down.

  I lean forward, bring my face close to hers. “You’re a fucking tease. Always have been.”

  “Whatever.” She grins, pushing another glass in front of me. Did she want me to be legless tomorrow? I could hold a decent amount of alcohol but I started to feel the effects. “You never looked at me that way.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh yeah? Like when?”

  “Graduation day,” I tell her. “You wore this pink dress underneath your gown. When the strap of your shoe came undone, you leaned forward to fix it. I saw your white laced panties peeking through.”

  She laughs, her beautiful smile unable to hide. “So, you caught a peek at my panties? You really were deprived.”

  “You were bare.”

  “Was I? I don’t remember.”

  “I do.” Raising my glass to my mouth, I hide my smirk. “I just wanted to fucking eat it.”

  Her laughs slow down, becoming serious and heavy pants. Mirroring my moves, she hides behind the glass while gazing at me longingly. I wanted to kiss her mouth. Tease her lips with my tongue and fucking taste her. Beneath my shorts, my dick rages hard and all it wants is her.

  “Is it hot in here?” She fans herself with a napkin, breaking my gaze.

  “You tell me.” I graze her arm with my fingers. “How wet are you?”

  Her foot travels up my leg, resting between my crotch. She pushes against my cock; my body jerking forward at how sensitive it is to touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her in the restroom.

  “Jane Smith!” The name is called, Emerson pulling away reluctantly.

  “Okay I’m up next. Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck.” I force a smile; not sure this is the greatest plan in the world. For one: I couldn’t sing. Two: I hated singing. Karaoke bars are for the brave. Those willing to make an absolute fool out of themselves and continue to go back for more.

  That, and everyone would see my cock standing proud because I had no chance of taming this wild boy.

  She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With the microphone in hand, she sways slightly, unable to contain her energy. “This performance is dedicated to all the women in the room that just want to be free. Screw men . . . we don’t need them!”

  There’s a cheer from the crowd—mainly women of course. Some that turn to look at me wondering why she would say that if I was her boyfriend, or, they spotted the fake mustache.

  I find myself sinking into the seat, taking the remaining glasses with me and downing them in one go. The music begins and I don’t recognize the song until the fourth line.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she sings loudly, drawing the crowd in. “And don’t tell me what to say . . .”

  The fire in her tune makes her belt out the song in a pleasant voice. I didn’t think she could sing well. Why I hadn’t noticed before? It made me think, there were so many things about Emmy that I never noticed before, or at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in any way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.

  Like how she twists the ends of her hair when she’s telling a story or how when she laughs, her eyes light up and you find yourself smiling even if the story isn’t funny. How she crosses her legs and tucks her foot behind her leg, and how when she leans forward, the view of her tits is fucking magical.

  The song
wraps up and she gets a standing ovation; people yelling “Girl Power!” and fist-pumping the air. On her way back to the table, women stop her and give her a hug—an odd sentiment from a stranger. She lingers and gets caught in conversation, enjoying her newfound freedom as a nobody.

  I stand up, clapping my hands as she walks back—the sweat glistening against her pale skin. Fanning her face again with a napkin, she can’t hide the smile while trying to catch her breath.

  “You were amazing. Too amazing. I think they all think I’m the douche you need to dump. Who needs dick? Girl power all the way.”

  She clutches her stomach, laughing. “That was so . . .” I wait for her to finish, realizing her smile begins to disappear and worry clouds her beautiful face. “I felt free.”

  I pull on her hand, motioning for her to sit down. This mood shift annoys the fuck out of me. One minute she’s Miss Confident and the next, she’s controlled by that fucking moron Wesley Rich. I saw it in the limo, the way he manipulates her and she justifies it by saying it’s all for the cameras. Their relationship was nothing like mine and Louisa’s. Fuck, don’t even think about her now. You can’t compare Emmy and Louisa.

  “Why do you constantly remind yourself that you are trapped? What’s a piece of paper, Emmy? A contract means nothing if you’re unhappy. I don’t fucking get it.”

  “Out of all people, Logan, you should understand. Your life revolves around your name signed on the dotted line. You’re bound, legally, to the Royal Kings. Imagine if your coach started treating you like shit and you had no way of getting out?”

  “He does treat me like shit. I just suck it up,” I tell her, firmly. “The difference is that I want to play. I wouldn’t know how to exist without that name on the dotted line.”

  “Well, lucky you.” Her sarcasm becomes bitter. “Why can’t we all live like Logan Carrington!”

  I remind her to keep her voice down; the mention of my name could alert people to our presence. The last thing we needed was to be caught.

  “This is who I’ve become. I’m not like you and Ash, I don’t have a passion that is my reason for living. I wake up every morning thinking what have I gotten myself into? The fame and money got to me.”

  “It did,” I admit.

  “I was like the popular kid in school except with a ton of money. I was really caught up in being bigger than the rest of them.”

  “You were.”

  “Will you stop agreeing with me?” she complains, disappointed the glasses are empty when she checks each one.

  “You want the cold hard truth?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “You have changed. You’re not the same and the fame did get to your head. But it’s gotten to me too, and to Ash. We’re no longer kids from Green Meadows. People depend on us.” I maintain my focus on her, trying to make some sense with what I’m trying to get at. “If this isn’t the life for you then move on. Tell the networks you’re done and move out of your apartment. Why you’re still with him is beyond me.”

  The last comment only riled me; my blood pumping furiously as I am reminded that tonight, we’ll go our separate ways and her direction was to someone else’s dick. Maybe it’s an unfair assumption but still fucking pissed me off that she went home to him despite what excuse she laid on me.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

  “Yeah,” I drag, leaning back in my chair.

  “I’m sorry Logan.” She straightens her posture. “How about you get up and sing now?”

  “About that . . .” I think of a valid excuse. “How about we mark this as an IOU?”

  “That never works,” she huffs. “You used to do that in Monopoly until you were so broke that you had nothing left and still forced us to play because you thought you could make a comeback.”

  I smile, purposely playing with my mustache to annoy her. “Would a man with a mustache make false promises?”

  She laughs, tossing her hair to the side and leaning forward. “A man with a mustache is a sign of false promises but I’ll believe you . . . on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We ditch this place and find something else fun to do.”

  I smile back. “Deal.”

  On the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, we cross the lights and follow the stars on the pavement. I had visited this place a few times but didn’t see the big deal. The street is full of tourists—snapping away as they capture this once-in-a-lifetime moment. They’re rowdy and loud for such a late time in the night. Aside from taking pictures, a few homeless people walked up and down the pavement; talking to themselves and a few begging for money. I reach out of my wallet and pull out a few bills, handing it to an older lady with a shopping cart and a half-knitted hat.

  “You know she’ll probably spent that on a bottle of Jack?” Emmy tells me.

  “Well so be it. If it makes her happy then let her live for one night.”

  In front of the Chinese Theatre, we both notice a few paparazzi lingering near the street post. Emmy pulls my arm, looking left and right before crossing the street and dragging me with her. When our feet hit the footpath, she turns to me with fire in her eyes and asks, “What name suits a man with a mustache?”

  “Huh?”

  “Burt,” she says confusing me even further.

  Her hand is buried into mine; the touch of her skin electrifying mine though I try to ignore the way it’s igniting my whole body.

  She leads me to where the paparazzi stand, and begins talking to them.

  “Hi. You look like you can take a great photo.” She smiles innocently. “My husband Burt and I would love a photo just there in front of the Theatre. Would you mind taking one for us?”

  He shrugs, barely speaking a word as he takes the cell off Emmy’s hands. What the fuck is she doing?! Did she just seriously ask the paparazzi to take a photo of us? Why the hell did she always want to play with fire!

  We both walk towards the spot that she mentioned. A few smiles and it’s over—no biggie.

  “Turn around, Burt,” she whispers.

  I turn around without thinking. The palms of her hands grace my cheeks, pulling them down until our lips are touching. I should be shocked. But instead, I move my tongue against hers as if I have waited a whole lifetime to kiss her. Even with the mustache in the way, the sensations that barrel through me are foreign. I’d kissed many women in my lifetime but none that made me question my entire life as much as this moment.

  It could have been seconds yet it felt longer; her tongue pressuring mine with a forceful wrestle that left my cock stirring beneath my pants. Fuck. We shouldn’t be doing this.

  I pull back, holding her arms at bay. “Emmy, we can’t do this. Look around us.” I motion my eyes towards the paparazzi that begins walking towards us, phone in hand and looking equally annoyed for taking up his precious time. She takes it from him, giving thanks before opening her mouth.

  “Just live a little, Burt. I bet all you do is play soccer then go home and watch porn, then wake up and play soccer.”

  Confused by her mention of porn, I furrow my brows and purse my lips waiting on a further explanation which never happens.

  “Yeah, I live and breathe soccer. I do watch porn on occasion but the real thing is much better.”

  “And I bet you don’t have time for relationships?” She stands tall, straightening her posture as if she had a hidden agenda.

  I didn’t want to mention Louisa. It was still a wound cut fresh and open, not up for discussion by anyone.

  “What’s your point, Chase?” I ask, annoyed.

  “We’ve always had fun together even when he hated each other, right?”

  I nod, waiting for her to continue. “So, let’s have fun, Burt. No strings attached. I promise. I don’t need strings . . . trust me. I just don’t want to think about anything but the moment I’m living in and if you happen to be there . . . well then hip
hip hooray.”

  “You want to have fun without strings?” I repeat. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  This time, she smiles, nodding. “Yep.”

  In a lifetime full of propositions, I never expected Emerson Chase to propose this. She was hurting, drunk on revenge and making Wesley’s life equally painful. I knew that, I wasn’t stupid. I’m the pawn in her game and when she’s done playing, I’ll be on the sideline watching her live her life with someone else.

  I needed her.

  Regardless of the conditions.

  Keep the emotions away, take what you want, and reap the benefits from the scorned.

  “On one condition,” I tell her, plotting it out so I get what I want. “You stop calling me Burt. This mustache needs to go.”

  “Deal. But it stays on until we’re back at your hotel.”

  “Hotel . . .” I repeat, caught off guard for second.

  Running her hands along the front buttons of my shirt, she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear and maybe I underestimated your ability to read between the lines, Carrington.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Sex. Fucking. That’s what I’m talking about. Are you in?”

  She wanted me as much as I wanted her.

  There were no more questions, no more rules, no more anything.

  I was in—all in.

  “A fuck buddy. The best idea ever or a recipe for disaster?”

  ~ Emerson Chase

  “About last night, Em . . .”

  Wesley corners me in the kitchen on my hunt for the Advil. It’s quarter past seven in the morning and I’m running on two hours’ sleep. When my alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, I had completely forgotten about a photoshoot scheduled this morning down at Venice Beach. I prided myself on being punctual and reliable, not wanting to let down the photoshoot crew. The old me would have been up at four AM, doing sprints on the beach to get myself looking as best as I could for the shoot.