His Plaything

by Ava Jackson

  My stomach roiled and an aching knot built in my throat. With sudden horror, I realized that I was on the verge of crying in front of Pam. The woman—no, one of the many women—who Nixon had chosen over me.

  “I … I have to go,” I choked out, my voice cracking, and fled back upstairs without even waiting for the elevator.

  Six flights later, I was sobbing with more than exertion. No way could I handle going to class today; I was too wrung out to leave the apartment again. But at the same time, it was too painful to stay. Every square inch of this place reminded me of Nixon. The kitchen where he'd cooked for me, the couch where we'd cuddled and made out on sleepy afternoons. The shower where he'd banished the last of my fears. The beds where he'd made me scream in ecstasy—even my own room was tainted. His scent in the air and the constant press of memories left me with a hollow nausea. And because we were technically related, I couldn't even call my friends and commiserate properly. Had Nixon been counting on that fact to keep my mouth shut?

  Trying not to waste the entire day, I opened my Market Analysis textbook, but the words and figures swam on the page. Not even TV could distract me. I felt too drained to focus and too riled up to sit still. For hours I slumped restlessly around the apartment, my stomach twisted around my heart, until a loud knock startled me. I hurried to wipe away my tears and went to the door, hoping I didn't look as horrible as I felt.

  “Hey!” Fox said as soon as I opened up. “How’s it going, babe?”

  From where he stood behind Fox, Logan nodded a hello. He was holding what looked like three large Domino's boxes.

  I stared at them blankly. “What are you guys doing here?”

  If Fox thought I was being rude, he didn't show it. “Nixon texted us to come over and keep you company while he's gone.”

  “We didn't know what you liked, so we got one extra cheese, one pepperoni, and one veggie supreme,” Logan added.

  My stomach growled at the delicious smell, and I realized I'd never gotten around to eating anything. Had I been moping and sniveling all day? I really wasn't feeling up for social interaction, but on the other hand, I'd need dinner no matter what. And I probably couldn't shoo these guys away without going into details I'd rather not talk about. Finally I stepped back and opened the door, trying not to sound too bleak as I said, “Come on in.”

  Fox set the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and opened the liquor cabinet. “What's your poison, Avery? Rum and coke? That'd go good with pizza.”

  “Sure, whatever.” Getting shitfaced sounded like an excellent way to take my mind off Nixon, the douchebag; I didn't really care how I did it. But some sad, masochistic part of me was still hungry for the sound of his name. While Fox mixed drinks and Logan transferred slices of pizza onto plates, I asked as casually as possible, “So … what's Nixon up to, anyway?”

  The two guys paused to share a brief look. Logan fidgeted with the pizza cutter. Fox shrugged and went back to pouring soda, saying, “We probably know about as much as you do.”

  I glared at the back of Fox's head. Yeah, I fucking bet. You'd be surprised what I know. But what had I expected? Of course his best friends would keep his dirty little secrets for him—it was probably rule number one of the Guy Code. Or maybe even they didn't know what Nixon was up to. Either way, all my suspicions were confirmed. The awful dark weight that had been crushing me all day pressed down again. But by now, my feelings of betrayal had matured from helpless grief into anger.

  We sat down with our pizza and drinks on the couch, and after a brief debate, the guys chose some mindless action movie. Within five minutes, Fox had started cracking jokes over it. Soon I joined the peanut gallery, too, bitterly criticizing every male character in place of who I really wanted to complain about. How dare Nixon treat me like this? Sure, a leopard couldn't change its spots, but that didn't make him innocent or his victims guilty. None of this was my fault. Any woman would have been blinded by his bullshit. With every gulp of alcohol, I felt a little bolder and talked a little louder.

  “Why are most men such … horrible, lying pigs?” I finally asked in the middle of a tense interrogation scene. “Why do women put up with their shit? Why do I keep doing this to myself? I should just give up on 'em. Go be a lesbian, or a nun, or … or something.”

  “I think I speak for all non-gay men when I say we're sorry to see you go,” Fox teased. Unlike Logan, who seemed either bored or uncomfortable, he thought my slightly slurred fuming was hilarious. “But if you're gonna start playing for the other team, can I at least watch?”

  Logan frowned at him. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?”

  “It's a mystery for the ages. Why do you ask?”

  Fox's tone had been flippant. But Logan didn't look even remotely amused. If anything, his expression darkened as he reached for the remote. “Because she's upset and you're too busy casting her in your own private porno to listen.”

  “Huh?” Fox clearly hadn't expected him to be serious. “Dude, I wasn't—”

  Logan paused the movie and turned to face Fox. “And even if she were fine, your dumb ass is just being fucking disrespectful.”

  “Uh…”

  “If I came to you with a personal problem, would you ask to see my dick?”

  At some point I had stopped chewing, stunned. This was the longest speech I'd ever heard from Logan. Wow … he actually seems pissed. Does he care that much about my feelings?

  Fox blinked, looking back and forth between us. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Next time you have an idea, try running it past your big head first.”

  “Okay, damn! I said I was sorry. Honest miscalculation.” Fox took a slug of his drink.

  Logan's gaze returned to me and I finally swallowed my last bite of pizza, which by now had turned unpleasantly soggy. “It doesn't make any sense to punish yourself for how some bastard treated you,” he said. “Don't let him ruin men for you … living well is the best revenge, right? Keep looking for your own happiness. Leave him in the dust.”

  What the hell? The guy who never opens his mouth turns out to secretly be Dear Abby? Just as I thought I'd had Logan pegged, he showed an entire other side: so kind, so quick to defend me, so serious about making me feel better. It was nothing short of disarming. But of course, neither of them knew that the asshole who'd broken my heart was their best friend. Still reluctant to let my guard down, I shook my head. “There’s no point. All men are the same. I'm just … I'm done.”

  “Would you give me a chance to prove you wrong?” Logan asked.

  “How would you do that?”

  “Let me take you out on a date. Tomorrow night.”

  I stared at Logan, but I couldn't detect any hint that he was kidding. I definitely hadn't expected this development from tonight. Even Fox looked a little taken aback. “Uh … ” I began, with no idea how to end.

  Logan smiled. Apparently my dumbstruck silence was flattering. “You ever been to The Pointe before?”

  “N-no, but I've heard of it,” I said, and immediately felt stupid. There was no way I couldn't have heard of it. The Pointe was one of the most expensive restaurants in Coronado Island, right on Glorietta Bay Beach. I glanced at Fox again. “Is he for real?”

  As serious as I'd ever seen him, Fox replied, “You've got nothing to worry about. Logan is one of the good guys. We've been teammates for years, and I've never seen him sleeping around. He's only had two girlfriends, both pretty serious, and he treated them like queens.”

  That wasn't quite what I'd meant. But it was what I needed to know—and Logan didn't seem offended by us talking about him like he wasn't there. Or like he was on trial. I guess he doesn't blame me for being a little suspicious right now.

  Okay, so Logan wasn't a raging man-whore. That already put him several hundred points ahead of Nixon. But was that enough? Did Logan actually want me, or did he just feel sorry for me? And did I want him back? Would this just be some pathetic
rebound fling?

  Or was I thinking way too hard about this? He wasn't asking me to marry him, for God's sake. It was just one date. Why not let a cute, sweet man take me out to a classy dinner? The mere act of getting back into the romance game could be good for me. If nothing else, it would get me out of the house. One evening of lost study time was well worth the distraction and the self-esteem boost. I'd probably find some valuable perspective on all my conflicted emotions about Nixon. And maybe, just maybe, it really was possible to restore my faith in men.

  Oh, what the hell … you only live once.

  Feeling buoyed already, I nodded. “Sure. I'd love to go.”

  Chapter 15

  Nixon

  Even though we'd caught a good tailwind and made it back to North Island almost an hour early, my skin still crawled with impatience. For the past thirty-six hours, I'd barely had time to breathe, let alone call Avery—check up on how she was doing, hear her voice, whatever it was I wanted. I didn't even know. I had never missed a woman like this before. When we'd been standing at the front door and she had said, “I miss you already,” I had automatically replied, “Me, too,” and been surprised at how much I really meant it. Now all I could think about was getting home again. Avery turning at the sound of the door, giving me an excited smile, rushing into my arms for a kiss…

  Finally we pulled up to the complex's front entrance. I grabbed my suitcase in one hand, saluted the driver with the other, and made it inside before the Navy car had even gotten back onto the main street. I took the stairs two at a time, too antsy to wait for the elevator. Opening the front door, I called, “I'm back!”

  When no response came, I looked around. “Avery?”

  Still nothing. But I heard a brief trickle of water, so I left the suitcase in the entryway and checked around the corner to the bathroom. Bingo.

  Satiny red lips parted in concentration, Avery leaned close to the mirror to paint a swooping line along her eyelid, which shimmered bronze in the harsh fluorescent light. Her lashes were long curls of sooty black. A long silver bag full of brushes and jars and boxes sat by the sink. I had seen women putting on makeup a few times—usually when I'd stayed overnight at their places, which wasn't often—but it always looked like a nit-picking art project and I'd never watched closely before. Actually, I still didn't care what Avery was doing. I just wanted to ogle the woman herself.

  She was a goddess: classy and fierce and smoking hot, all at the same time. Her wine-red dress clung to her curves and dipped in a low V to reveal the first swells of cleavage. The fabric was solid up to her breasts, but transparent and lacy where it covered her shoulders and neck; hinting at the creamy skin beneath was somehow more tantalizing than just revealing it outright. Her hair tumbled down her back in glossy waves. The straps of her sky-high heels caressed her slim ankles. Between the dress, which ended just above her knee, and those shoes, her shapely legs seemed to go on forever. I could already picture them wrapped around my back, her heels digging in, spurring me to thrust faster, deeper …

  “Wow, babe, you look incredible.” Smirking, I came up behind her, reaching out to wrap my arm around her waist. I wanted to press up against her luscious ass and let her feel exactly how much I liked her outfit. “I hope you're okay with taking that off, because—”

  Avery sidestepped, almost flattening herself into the towel rack to evade my grasp.

  Whoops. Looks like I interrupted the arcane ritual. “What, did I make you smudge your makeup or something? Sorry.”

  She made an irritable noise.

  “I don't speak 'grunt,' babe. What's wrong?”

  Without making eye contact, she finally replied, “I'm busy.” Her voice was flat.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” I teased. “So what's the occasion? Did you want to go out tonight or something?” Usually I liked to be the one who made plans, and right now, I was worn out from traveling. But anything involving Avery still counted as a nice surprise.

  “Nope.” She wet her tiny brush under the faucet, dabbed it into her compact, and started lining her other eyelid in black.

  “Uh … okay.” My good mood was quickly fading in the face of uncertainty. “Then why are you all dolled up?” And why did I have to play Twenty Questions with her to find out? Why wouldn't she look at me? Maybe she had put on her sexy best just to welcome me home, but this strange tension in the air was really making me doubt that.

  “Why is my outfit any of your business?” she retorted almost casually.

  Okay, that's it. Now I knew it wasn't just my imagination; something was definitely off. But I had no idea what the problem was or where it had come from. I'd only been gone for two days. Just one night. What the hell could have changed? This couldn't be my fault—I wasn't even physically present, for Christ's sake. But she was acting like she hated my guts. Finally I gave up and asked, “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?” Even the smallest clue might help me figure out what was going on here.

  “You tell me.” She took out a small bottle and sprayed some clear stuff on her brush, then wiped it on a color-streaked square of paper towel, leaving a messy black blotch. “Did you?”

  “Huh?” Oh, come the fuck on. That wasn’t even an answer. “What are you talking about? Can I at least get a hint here?” My patience for this little game was running on fumes.

  Without a word, Avery zipped her makeup bag shut and carried it into her room. I forced myself to wait in the hallway instead of following her. But when she came back out, she hustled right past, giving me a wide berth.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I almost yelled. I hadn't meant to swear at her, but I could apologize later. After I figured out who this girl was and what she'd done with Avery.

  She stopped at the front door, one hand poised on the knob and the other clutching her black beaded purse. For the first time that evening, she looked me straight in the eye. And it was a glare of pure loathing. “You really want to know? Fine. I've got a date with Logan.” She turned back and stepped outside. “So don't wait up.”

  With that, she slammed the door behind her … leaving me in stunned silence, reeling for some kind of response. She had to be fucking with me. Because … I had no other explanation for what just happened.

  What the fuck had just happened? Slowly, I walked to the living room and sank onto the couch. The TV was off, but I stared at it anyway. This feeling was worse than your chopper going down over enemy territory. At least I'd be prepared for that situation. None of my training had ever covered anything about women. What to do when your girlfriend froze you out and your own place suddenly felt like a stranger's house.

  It was unsettling, how the meanings of “home” and “Avery” had already started to bleed into each other. Before Avery moved in, I'd never been particularly attached to my condo; it was just where I hung my hat when I didn't have anything better to do. It only became special because she was there. And when she'd left, something had gone with her. Something I could only feel by the empty chill it left behind.

  I'd thought I missed Avery before, when I'd known—no, when I'd assumed—she was waiting for me. That was nothing compared to what I felt right now. The need to chase her down and drag her back here clawed through me. But it was more than some possessive reaction—I was absolutely fucking mystified by what had just happened. There was no rational explanation for it. I’d been so fucking excited to get home to just be with her. What the hell had happened in two damn days? I needed to call Logan, or better yet, drive over to his apartment and punch him right in the goddamn face. And if I missed him there, I should track them down and demand to know what the hell was going on.

  But even I knew a stupid idea when I saw one. Stalking Avery and then beating the shit out of one of my closest friends would only lose me points. I needed to calm the fuck down and get a handle on my emotions before I let myself go near either of them. I was in the kind of mood to say things I could never take back. I was missing something—that was clear. So I would
wait. Maybe Avery would lower herself to give me a goddamn explanation for what the hell was going on when she got back. If she still wouldn’t talk, I would grill Logan. He had no idea what kind of territory he’d stepped into because I hadn’t wanted to share with my friends. Either way, I needed to cool down and get some perspective before taking another crack at this situation. There had to be some sort of explanation and flying off the handle would only fuck things up with Avery more.

  But I still couldn't resist texting Logan: Don't forget she's my stepsister. If any part of you touches her, I'll cut it right the fuck off.

  A moment later, my phone beeped with Logan's reply: 10-4.

  Chapter 16

  Avery

  That evening I had carefully dressed to kill, wanting to impress myself as much as Logan. Nixon had been nothing more than a lapse in judgment. I was already moving on from this bad dream, and soon, I would forget all about Nixon and how stupid I'd been. Believing all that got harder, though, when he came home early. Just the sound of his voice had rattled me. Who did he hope to fool with that fake innocent act? Did he really think I was that stupid? Maybe he did—after all, I'd been stupid enough to trust him in the first place. But my recovery had been swift and sure. Now that I knew he'd take a mile, I hadn't given him an inch. That was worth being proud of, right? Standing firm?

  As I drove to The Pointe, I told myself that I was a strong, awe-inspiring queen and Nixon was totally beneath my notice. Not even worth staying mad over. I pulled up to the front entrance, handed my key to the valet, and tried to walk in like I owned the joint.

  But even a queen would slow down to admire this place. It was gorgeous—one of the most upscale restaurants I'd ever been in. Small crystal chandeliers dotted the ceiling in blazes of golden light. The walnut floors and paneling, weathered into ashy mellowness, created an atmosphere of comfortable intimacy. Bay windows on two walls offered an incredible ocean view from almost anywhere in the restaurant. Each table had a snowy linen tablecloth, a tea candle, and a single scarlet rose.