Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  “It’s good to see you happy sis, even if it’s with him.” Ashley smiles through the screen. “You’ll always be my bro. Just make it official already. If you like it then you should have put a ring on it,” he chants, mimicking Beyoncé.

  Logan grins, kissing my finger and leaning into the call as if it was only him and Ash.

  “Soon bro . . .”

  One week later—they won their premiership. And when the crowds cheered like maniacs, there, in the middle of the stadium, covered in mud and sweat, Logan pulled out a ring and asked me to marry him.

  Fireworks and all.

  My brother’s best friend, my rival, my lover.

  The man who was always meant to be mine.

  “Lights, camera, action!”

  Season three aired and the ratings soared with the drama that had unfolded.

  It had been a difficult six months, and this was the final wrap-up—the live reunion show.

  Kyle and Kelly were the first to be interviewed in front of a live audience. Anthony Carron hosted all the reunion shows on the network. An over-the-top host with a vivacious attitude and thirst for gossip. He flaunted his homosexuality like a pair of new shoes; never one to shy away from drama in his own life. He knew how to bring out the real stories, make light of situations that appeared too heavy, and stood center ring when the boxing gloves came out.

  I had been too wrapped up in my own scandal to see what others around me had been going through. Kyle and Kelly focused on a business venture this season that went horribly wrong. Their partner had bailed, taking all their life savings and investments. Luckily, the camera caught some of the fraudulent activity and now it was with the courts to decide what would happen.

  Harley’s sexuality finally came out. A surprise to many including myself but nevertheless, a positive step forward. He spoke about his battle with depression and how coming out has helped him deal with that. When the cameras rolled back and showed some of the pivotal scenes in this season when Harley broke down, it was difficult to watch and even more difficult when he fought to hold back the tears on stage. Poppy and I intervened, joining him on the couch and holding his hand while he openly spoke about his struggle to finally accept himself.

  There was a short interlude until Poppy came on. I loved how excited she was, dressed in a yellow and white polka dot 1950s-styled dress with white wedges. Her bright smile lit up the room, and when they called Ash out to join her, the two of them sat on the couch like lovesick fools.

  “This season had lots of drama and we can’t forget the moment in London when Ash takes Poppy to the Royal Kings stadium and she kicks the ball in . . . how about we watch this clip.” Anthony points to the camera and footage of the two of them roll.

  I remembered that Poppy switched flights, leaving later which she said was because she wanted to spend more time with her family. I had no idea this went on, and when Ash gave Poppy a lesson on how to kick the ball in the net, she kicks the ball accidently too hard and straight in his nuts.

  Every male in the room cringes at the sight, squeezing their thighs as the women laugh in hysterics.

  “Have you recovered?” Anthony manages to question through his fit of laughter.

  “Yes, the boys are back to normal.” Ash grins.

  Jesus. Did he have to talk about his boys? I’m grossed out, too much information that makes my stomach queasy.

  “Explains why Poppy is always smiling,” Anthony quips, the audience following with a short chuckle. “What’s happening now, with the both of you?”

  “Ash is training here in the States so we get to spend a lot of time together.” Poppy smiles.

  “Is this serious?”

  “C’mon Anthony, silly question. I love this chick.” Ash moves off the sofa and gets down on one knee, in front of the audience, and pulls out a small box. Oh my god! I didn’t even think his divorce was final. I’m glued to the screen like watching a train wreck just about to happen. I can’t turn away—eager to know what happens next.

  “Poppy Rose Clark. You’re the craziest woman I’ve ever met. When I’m with you, life is just better—it’s perfect. No one else can kick me in the nuts and make me smile at the same time.”

  And there it is . . . classic Ash with non-filtered words.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Poppy’s face lights up with utter delight, extending her hand as he slides a unique pink diamond ring on it. The two of them kiss at the same time my cell buzzes in my hand.

  FYI. Dad and I already knew this would happen. Calm your titties, we love Poppy.

  I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more, the fact that I didn’t know Ash would propose or that Mom told me to calm my titties.

  “Did you know?” I question Logan as he stands beside me.

  He bites his lip, keeping quiet, then caves when I use my whiney voice and tell him to answer me.

  “Yes. He is my best friend. I promised not to tell anyone.”

  I exhale, annoyed. “Nice to know where your loyalty lies.”

  Their segment lasts longer than scheduled, and when they walk off the set, Poppy runs into my arms as I wait for her long-awaited embrace.

  “Jesus, Pop.” I grin. “Are you sure you wanna marry that dork?”

  “I have never been so sure.”

  Ash follows, elated, hugging me with a small sniff.

  “Are you crying, Ashley?”

  “Just glad she said yes.”

  “You better treat her right or you have me to answer to,” I warn him gently, hugging my brother before I’m called onto the set.

  Nervous about appearing in front of a live audience, my hands repeatedly pat my thighs while I breathe in and out to curb the anxiety that follows me. Nausea lingers in the pit of my stomach, only adding more stress to the situation.

  Logan senses my trepidation, rubbing my shoulders to calm my nerves.

  “You’ll do great. I’m here, okay?”

  I nod, wanting to get this over with. I hadn’t seen Wes since the day I left the apartment but according to the tabloids, he did a stint in rehab and had moved in with another actress.

  I step onto the stage, dressed head to toe in designer labels. The wardrobe crew wanted me in a similar dress to the one I wore when Wes and I first went to dinner. I told them no, settling for a white off-the-shoulder blouse and black pants. My shoes were Louboutins—a pair I wanted to steal and take home.

  Wesley follows onto the stage and sits beside me on the sofa, keeping his distance. He looks much better, tanned and with his hair slightly longer. Rehab agreed with him, his eyes no longer clouded by dark circles.

  “This was an explosive season for the two of you. Let’s watch some of the highlights from season three.”

  The footage rolls of our many moments. Some sweet, and some of our brawls. I knew Logan wouldn’t take kindly to seeing this again—he already watched season three despite me warning him not to. It only angered him and sent him on a jealous hissy fit but the positive came from the extremely heated sex that followed.

  “How do you feel watching these moments?” Anthony asks, crossing his legs with his cue cards in hand.

  “It’s not easy. It was a difficult time for both of us,” I answer honestly.

  “And for you, Wesley?”

  “The writing was on the wall.”

  It never leaked out about Wesley’s night in Amsterdam. As much as it hurt me at the time, I understood how damaging it could be for him and his career. I didn’t breathe a word of it, allowing people to conjure up their own theories as to why we started to fall apart.

  “You and Logan Carrington had quite an affair,” Anthony says with a wicked smile. “We’ve got some unseen footage of the two of you.”

  They showed the party at Scarlett’s house; the two of us leaving in the limousine together. Then they showed some paparazzi shots of us in the Indian restaurant with Ash, us in London leaving the pub, and then they show footage from afar of us arguing on the street of London whe
n I had just found out about Louisa. The network never asked my permission to show this footage, but I didn’t care, it was all out in the open anyway.

  “And Logan’s here?”

  I nod. “Backstage.”

  The producers asked if Logan could sit in but I refused and said no. I didn’t want him dragged into this any further, we had moved on and that was that. The media already followed us like crazy wherever we went. We kept a low profile, but they would come up with ridiculous stories and publish them time and time again for attention.

  “Wesley, you had a difficult time this season and ended up in rehab. Are you out now?”

  “Yes, clean and sober.”

  “There’s also been some other controversy following you. Can we bring out Farrah?”

  Farrah walks onstage dressed in gold skinny number with matching heels. Her hair is platinum blond, styled in heavy curls that sit at her waistline.

  She sits on the other side of Wesley, away from me.

  “Welcome Farrah,” Anthony greets her. “On several occasions this season, you were filmed talking about their relationship. It’s clear that you had an issue with Emerson which could be taken as jealousy.”

  “You’re wrong, Anthony. I wasn’t jealous of her. What’s there to be jealous about?”

  Bitch. What a low blow. The words are desperate to leave my tongue, but I cross my legs and look away from her—ignoring her childish comment.

  “You were also seen out with Wesley quite a bit. Was something going on there?”

  “Yes,” she admits as the audience gasps. “We had something on the side.”

  Wesley shakes his head, disapproving. “One time doesn’t count as something on the side. I was drunk and high, clearly my judgment was clouded.”

  The two of them get into a heated exchange which Anthony diffuses. I didn’t know what to say, still trying to control my emotions. I knew he cheated on me, it was impossible for Wesley to go without sex for such a long time. I just thought he had better taste than Farrah Beaumont.

  “What do you think of this?” Anthony directs the question at me.

  “Wesley and I had an agreement. He was free to do whatever he pleases. If you lay with dogs, you’re going to catch fleas”

  “You fucking bitch,” Farrah swears, raising her voice. “Did you know your fiancé knocked me up? Huh? Yeah, right in your bed.”

  “Jesus Christ, Farrah.” Wesley bows his head, between his knees.

  “I lost that baby. So call me whatever you want. At the end of the day, I carried his child, not you.”

  Wesley raises his head and begs me to look at him, apologizing through a single stare. No matter what happened, it was still irrelevant. It’s pointless dwelling on the past when my future is waiting backstage.

  Anthony asks more questions which results in Farrah storming off. When the segment is done, he thanks us both as we leave and walk backstage.

  Wesley pulls my arm back, asking me to stop.

  “I’m sorry Em.”

  “I forgive you, okay. Just take care of yourself.”

  I pat his arm then walk away to where Logan is standing in the back room. As soon as he sees me, the worry on his face subsides, replaced with a smile.

  “You did well.”

  “Barely made it.”

  He brings me in for an embrace, the scent of his cologne making it all better.

  “I know that was hard for you to watch.”

  He smiles into my hair. “It’s okay, I know how to take it out on you.”

  I laugh at his naughty answer, but stop midway to breathe out the sick feeling in my stomach. He pulls me back, searching my eyes until a smile plays on his lips.

  “Go. Now.”

  I don’t say a word, running past the backstage crew and straight for the bathroom where my stomach unravels and empties into the basin just in time.

  I take a deep breath, peeling myself away from the basin and splashing my face with cold water.

  Morning sickness—the bane of my existence.

  “Babe, just one more minute,” I beg her through strained vocals. “Not even, like twenty fucking seconds.”

  She’s doing that thing with her mouth, wrapping her tongue around me while she literally has me by the balls. Holding them delicately in her hand, she tugs on them with enough force to make me crumble in pleasure which sends signals to every fucking part of my body that shit is gonna get real.

  I love watching her—sexy with her hair a wild mess in the palm of my hands. Her eyes divert to the coffee table again, distracting me slightly. I rein her in to focus on me, selfish (I know), using my hands to put her focus back on my dick. The most important thing in the room right now.

  The warm feeling disappears as she withdraws, disconnecting the heat that came from her twister tongue.

  “Ashley, you really should see what’s on your phone in case it’s important,” she suggests, catching her breath and licking her lips.

  My girl is sexy on her knees. Well, fuck . . . she’s sexy every which way I look at her.

  Bending down, I cup her chin in my hand and stare into her eyes. She’s always grinning; cute dimples that distracted any rational thoughts I had because I couldn’t turn her mischievous face away.

  My dick just won’t let up, begging to be finished off despite the constant interruptions.

  “Fuck,” I mumble under my breath, leaning forward to grab my cell with frustration.

  There’s several missed calls, messages and emails that have come through in the space of ten minutes. I don’t know what to look at first but go for Logan’s messages since he would only message me a million times if it was important.

  I’m sorry. Talk to me first before you read anything.

  What is this fucker going on about?! I’m about to ignore him since I’m still massively pissed he bailed somewhere without telling me a single thing. His actions of late had been out of character and I suspected it had something to do with Louisa turning up at our apartment dressed in this skimpy black dress with no bra on. Even for her—it was wild and nothing like her usual uptight attire.

  I log into my social media account to see the thousands upon thousands of tags until I follow a link to a media article posted an hour ago.

  Tayla Chase (sister of Generation Next star Emerson Chase and Royal Kings defender Ashley Chase) almost drowns at party in LA. The sixteen-year-old had been seen drinking with older sister Emerson before hanging out on the beach with an unknown crowd.

  The drunken teen was found at the scene unconscious and revived by Logan Carrington. Another unidentified girl had been saved by Wesley Rich.

  Earlier, witnesses saw Emerson Chase in a heated kiss with childhood friend Logan Carrington. The two were seen arguing until Wesley Rich found them outside the home of LA’s hottest DJ—Mikey Gee.

  According to a reliable source, the love triangle erupted in an explosive fist fight between Logan and Wesley because Emerson Chase is rumored to be pregnant. Neither party has commented on the pregnancy, however, the baby is said to belong to Wesley Chase.

  A large lump has formed inside my throat constricting my ability to yell or even breathe. What the fuck did I just read? My eyes scan the article again; stomach churning and leaving me feeling ill that something happened to my little sister.

  “Ashley?” Poppy calls my name, worried. “What’s wrong? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I don’t answer her, ringing Dad’s cell which goes straight to voicemail. I try Mom, the same thing. If anyone would pick up her cell—it’ll be Tayla.

  “Ash,” she greets with a shaky voice.

  “Tayla,” I almost scream down the phone. “What the hell happened?!”

  “I’m okay.” I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “I went to help someone that was drowning and got caught myself.”

  “Why the fuck were you drinking? Did Emerson let you fucking drink?”

  “I wasn’t drinking, Ash. Emerson wouldn’t let me drink.” />
  “But the tabloids . . .”

  “C’mon, don’t believe what you read.” She chuckles softly but it’s followed by a raspy cough. “You should know that.”

  I grit my teeth, barely able to control the rage. “Really? Because I’m reading shit about Logan and Emerson.”

  The silence falls over the phone. “Ash, it’s not my place to comment. Talk to them.”

  She reassures me she is okay but is tired and needed to sleep. We hang up and in a confused state, I sit back on the sofa with my dick still hanging out, though flaccid from the shock.

  “Is this true?” I ask the question to myself even though Poppy in beside me caressing my hair.

  “Speak to them, Ashley. Though Emerson is not pregnant with anyone’s baby. That is complete rubbish.”

  “Just fucking tell me.” I close my eyes, rubbing my face with the palms of my sweaty hands. “Is my best friend fucking my sister?”

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  “You knew about this and didn’t tell me?!”

  “Hey!” she hollers, pulling away and folding her arms with superiority. “It’s not my business. And it’s not exactly like we’re honest with everyone either. You’re technically still married to Alessandra. Your family has no clue you’ve separated.”

  She had a point. A very valid one at that.

  My marriage to Alessandra had disaster written all over it. She may have been beautiful and smart, but she was not the woman I envisioned my life with. In fact, I didn’t envision settling down at all—until Poppy.

  “But it’s my best friend and my sister.”

  She nods, eyes wide goading some sort of reaction from me.

  “My best friend and my sister,” I repeat.

  She nods again, remaining quiet.

  “I don’t understand . . . how long . . . when . . .”

  The questions pour out; my mind unable to comprehend such an absurd thing. They hated each other. This must be a joke.

  “Ashley.” Poppy calms her voice while unfolding her arms and placing her hands flat on her lap. “This is a good thing.”