by Penny Reid
How could I resist?
I was having the oddest, most fanciful notions. His soul was my missing piece. Our hearts, together, had found a home in each other. He was my other half. He was meant for me.
Clearly one night together had sent me on a careening spiral of ridiculous romanticism and I loved him for it. I loved how alive I’d felt in his arms. He touched me, looked at me, spoke to me, and the world became a brighter, better place.
Suddenly, I couldn’t wait for him to wake up. I wanted to see myself reflected in his eyes, see a mirror of the love I could barely contain.
I rested my hand on his shoulder and smoothed it down the length of his impressive bicep. He was so strong. Touching him made me shiver, made my happy heart do a little dance.
Bryan flinched, inhaling a deep breath, then blinked his eyes open.
I grinned. “Good morning.”
My smile widened at the sound of my words, this being the first time I’d greeted a lover. I sounded husky. I sounded older, more like a woman. At nineteen, I knew I’d already been a woman before the events of the prior evening. But I liked the way sex sounded in my voice.
Out of all the events of the prior evening, sex had been the most surprising. All of my girlfriends who’d lost their virginity said it hurt like hell the first time. But it hadn’t hurt for me. It had been wonderful.
Maybe Bryan had a magic penis. And how lucky was I? Finding a bloke with an enchanted penis for my first time. Maybe he had a purse around here someplace with endless money, or a goose that shite golden eggs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
His handsome eyebrows did a little dance on his forehead as he struggled to lift his eyelids, finally managing to crack just one eye open then immediately closing it. “Christ! It’s bright in here. Do me a favor, love, and close the drapes. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
I felt my smile falter, but said, “Uh, okay.”
I moved to stand, but then remembered my nakedness, so I hesitated. I’d been shy, which Bryan had told me was normal. He’d made me feel so beautiful that by the end of the night I didn’t care.
But now I was feeling self-conscious all over again.
“Hello? Are you still there?” he asked, covering his head with a pillow. “Are you closing the drapes or what?”
“Sorry.” The word slipped out automatically due to habit, even though I wasn’t sorry. Not really. I just needed a minute to get my bearings. Rather than dither any longer, I decided to take the bed sheet with me, wrap it around myself.
I tugged the sheet, eliciting a short huff from Bryan, but he let it go. Disoriented and suddenly clumsy, it took me a moment to find the cord to pull the drapes closed.
“Done?”
“Um, yes.” I stared at the bed, uncertain what to do.
He sounded different this morning.
Or maybe I was being silly and insecure.
Either way, I wanted to snuggle next to him—of course—but decided I needed some sign from him first.
He lifted the pillow and peeked at me. Or maybe he peeked at the room to make sure I’d closed the drapes. Either way, he seemed relieved by what he saw and removed the pillow from his face. He folded it and placed it behind his head, the definition of his muscles caught by the hazy, shadowy light filtering in beneath the curtains.
“Hello,” he said, giving me a small smile, his eyes moving down my body.
“Hi.” I waved then fiddled with the sheet where I clutched it to my chest, feeling puerile but unable to pinpoint precisely why.
“You’ve red hair.” His smile grew but his eyes narrowed.
I tucked my hair behind my ear reflexively, my heart fluttering happily because he’d said the same thing last night. He’d told me it was the color of lust and passion.
And then the happy flutters petered out, because telling me my hair was the color of lust and passion sounded really cheesy in the light of day. Really cheesy and trite.
“Yes, it’s the same color as lust and passion,” I deadpanned, deciding that recycling his words as a joke would make us both feel better about how silly they sounded now.
He made a face, his nose wrinkling like I was strange or I smelled bad. His reaction made the moment untenably awkward, heightening my insecurity tenfold. I wondered for a moment if he’d forgotten saying the words, then dismissed the thought. More likely I’d offended him by making the statement a joke.
I had the urge to apologize again.
“Anyway. . .” His stare lingered on me for a few seconds, and then he pressed the base of his palms into his eye sockets and sighed. “Fecking hell, my head is splitting.”
I frowned, worried. “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
He chuckled, squinting at me briefly then replacing his palms. “Nah. I’ll be right at rain soon as I have a drink, just to take the edge off. Don’t worry about me.”
My frown deepened. I was still standing dumbly at the side of the bed, endeavoring to make sense of his words.
He doesn’t mean alcohol, does he? He wasn’t drunk last night.
“I can grab some water and I have a Motrin in my purse,” I offered, taking a step toward the bathroom.
“I’ll take the Motrin, but look for the minibar, vodka will do the trick.”
I gaped at him, unsure what to do or say, because unless he woke up in the middle of the night and drank a half bottle of liquor, there was no reason he should have been hung over this morning. He was completely sober last night. The entire time we were together he’d only had three—no, four—drinks. Four drinks over four hours was perfectly acceptable.
“Um, I don’t think you should m-mix alcohol and pain m-meds.”
“Who are you then? My mam?” he spat, squinting at me again. “If you’re bent on nagging you can leave now.”
I gasped. “Bryan-”
“Quit saying my name. I know what my goddamn name is. What’s your name?”
I gasped again, stumbling back a step. “W-what?”
“You heard me, or are you daft too?” he growled, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Shite that hurts.”
“You d-d-don’t know m-m-my n-n-n-n-” I stuttered, then clamped my mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass myself further.
What is happening? How can this be happening?
I stared at him, wondering maybe if he were joking. Was this a joke? Best case scenario this was his idea of a joke. Otherwise. . .
Otherwise it was one of two things: either Bryan Leech, professional athlete, had brain injury that caused short term memory loss. Or Bryan Leech had no idea who I was because he’d been drunk last night. He’d been pissed and I’d had no idea.
He exhaled loudly, sounding frustrated. And when he spoke I was certain he was trying to be gentle; instead the words were patronizing and dismissive. “Listen, sorry for snapping. I just- my head is bleeding killing me. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, and I assume you had a good time last night?”
This can’t be happening.
I covered my mouth with my hand. I wasn’t going to be able to speak without either crying or stuttering, so I kept my mouth shut.
Apparently, he didn’t require an answer. “It’s pretty late and I want to catch a nap before heading out, so maybe just,” he waved toward the bedroom door as he turned away from me, curling on his side, “go get a massage or something at the spa. You can charge it to the room, my treat.”
I couldn’t move.
I was rooted in place, my mind complete chaos. It was like one of those horrible movies or television shows, where the woman wakes up and she’s in an alternate reality.
Maybe I’d been drugged?
But no, I hadn’t been drugged. I remembered each detail perfectly. Every look, every touch, every word, every wonderful moment.
My stomach pitched and suddenly I felt like I was going to be sick. I ran for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I had just enough time to lift the lid of the toilet before emptying the c
ontents of my stomach into the bowl.
As I flushed the toilet I heard Byan’s voice call from the other room, “Jesus Fecking Christ, please tell me you didn’t toss up all over the floor. Just- just get the feck out of here, whatever your name is.”
***
~Three Months Later~
I’m a stupid girl.
A stupid, stupid, stupid-
“Eilish? Hey, let me in. Is it time yet? What does it say?”
I covered my mouth to suffocate the errant sob, squeezing my eyes shut, and hoping that when I opened them it would be three months ago, the night of Ronan Fitzpatrick and Annie Catrel’s wedding. The night I’d fucked up so royally that I’d—apparently—been given the superpower of changing the color of HCG strips with my pee.
WITH MY PEE!
Which meant I had a new human inside me.
Which explained all my other superpowers, like being a raging bitch all the time, and crying at nothing, and throwing up twice every day.
I’d totally fucked up, and now I was totally fucked.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered to no one.
Wait, that’s not true. I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. There were two of us in here. Granted, one of us was the size of a peanut—or maybe a lemon by now—and was swimming in amniotic fluid.
INSIDE MY UTERUS!
Why all my thoughts were in capital letters, I had no idea. Plus, every thought was followed by dun, dun, DUN!
“I don’t want to rush you, darling. But you’re making me nervous,” my cousin Sean’s voice called from the other side of the door.
Sweet Sean. Nice Sean. Wonderful Sean.
THANK GOD FOR SEAN!
. . . dun dun DUN!
A burst of hysterical sounding laughter escaped my fingers and I opened my eyes. I looked at the white stick and the two pink lines staring back at me. It hadn’t been a dream. This was real. And this was a complete nightmare.
“I’m p-p-p-pregnant.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, so long I wondered if he’d heard me or if I’d spoken at all.
I was just about to repeat myself when Sean said, “Open the door, my darling girl. Let me in.”
So I did. I let him in. And when he came in, he gathered me in his arms and held me against his big chest. I didn’t cry. My mind was blank.
We stood for a time, I had no idea how long, and then Sean said, “You’re going to have to tell the father.”
I stiffened. I heard the words. I knew—rationally speaking—he was right. But every fiber of my being rejected his assertion.
Like hell.
Since that horrible morning, I hadn’t seen or spoken to Bryan Leech in person, but I’d followed what he’d been doing—or rather, who he’d been doing. He had a new girlfriend. They’d been dating for two months. She was an actress. She had red hair.
Apparently, he had a thing for redheads.
Bryan had made no attempt to contact me. At this point I was fairly certain he didn’t know my name and had forgotten I existed. I knew with complete certainty he would have absolutely no interest in my child.
“Nothing has to be decided now.” Sean kissed my forehead, prying the pee stick from my fingers and placing it gingerly in the sink. “Come have a cup of tea. Lucy sent over a new peppermint blend from that shop you like in New York, Tea and Sympathy.”
Lucy was Sean’s girlfriend and one of my favorite people in the world. She lived in New York and Sean lived in Dublin, except when he was traveling with the team. Sean and Bryan were teammates, part of the Irish National Rugby team. They weren’t exactly friends, but they were friendly.
I hadn’t told Sean about Bryan, partially because Sean had a mean streak. He was infamous for his nasty grudges and lack of conscious when it came to people he perceived as enemies. I didn’t want Bryan to suffer.
That’s a lie.
Part of me wanted to cut his enchanted dick off and burn it.
But mostly, after the last three months of thinking about that night way too much, I blamed myself.
I’d been sober. I’d wanted him to seduce me and—drunk or not—he’d been an epic seducer. I’d been infatuated by the idea of a famous rugby player sweeping me off my feet. I may have regretted everything the morning after, but what had happened between us that night had been 100% consensual.
At least, from my perspective it had been. But apparently Bryan had been so drunk he didn’t even remember my name. Perhaps he hadn’t been capable of giving consent. Maybe I’d taken advantage of him. Perhaps I’d been the seducer. . .
Ugh. I was so tired of this loop of self-recrimination and doubt.
Collapsing onto the couch, I rested my elbows on my knees and covered my face with my hands.
“Eilish?” Sean prodded. “Will you tell me who he is?”
I shook my head. I wouldn’t. That morning had been terrible, so terrible, humiliating. Bryan’s apathy and rejection had carved a hollow space out of my heart, leaving a wide, gaping hole. I’d been naïve, trusting before. Too honest. Too uninhibited. Too reckless.
But I would never make that mistake again. I needed a plan and it needed to be a good one.
I was determined, no matter what it took, Bryan Leech would never find out about my new superpowers.
~End Sneak Peek~
More of the Rugby Series coming soon!
Sneak Peek: Showmance
By L.H. Cosway, releasing May 16, 2016
~Excerpt~
We spent the morning with the chorus line, teaching them preliminary sequences for the big club scene. Jacob, Alicia, the choral director, and a number of assistants sat at a long table, watching our progress and taking notes.
It was after lunch that the tension in the building seemed to heighten, whispers cascading from ear to ear as news spread that Mr Atwood had finally arrived. Iggy’s studio took up the entire top floor of a large Victorian building in central London; it included one large practice room, several smaller ones, dressing rooms with showers, and a few offices. I wondered where they’d sequestered away Damon Atwood.
I summoned up an image from the movies of his that I’d seen. He’d been young, but I remembered he was tall, with dark hair and deep, soulful brown eyes. Though who knew what he was looking like these days.
I often found that child actors looked odd when they got older. Not because their appearances were particularly unusual, but more because you were so used to seeing their faces as children that it was strange when their features transformed into adulthood.
Case in point: Macaulay Culkin.
“I heard he lives in a tiny little cottage and works on the fishing boats that operate out of the island for no pay. Why anyone would want to work on a stinky fishing trawler when they’ve got millions sitting in the bank is beyond me,” said one of the dancers who sat just a few feet away from me as we took our break.
“But can you imagine him working,” said another. “I saw him arrive out front a half hour ago. Boy has grown up good.”
I shamelessly continued listening to them gossip for the next ten minutes as I chomped on some Bombay mix. Then Jacob flounced into the room once more, several assistants heavy on his heels, and took a seat at the long table.
There was some frenzied chatting between him and the choral director, an older woman named Miriam. Turning to one of his assistants, he gave some instruction and the girl hurried from the room. When she returned, a hush fell over the studio as she escorted a tall man inside. His brown hair was long and came to just below his ears. Some heavy stubble dusted his face and he wore scuffed, workman’s clothes; a long grey coat and steel toe capped boots. Despite his distinctly laid back appearance, I sensed a special aura from him, that certain je ne sais quoi they called star quality.
This was Damon Atwood and he was entirely unexpected.
He didn’t look weird to me, like grown child actors normally did. No, he looked like his previous incarnation had been a costume and this was his true self co
me to fruition.
“Well then, Mr Atwood, let’s see what we have to work with,” said Jacob, a pad of paper in his lap and a pen poised at his lips. “Have you prepared a song?”
Damon nodded but didn’t speak. He stood at the front of the studio and shot a look to the assistant as she hit a button on the sound system. Music began to play, the intro to ‘Nature Boy.’ When he opened his mouth to sing, he didn’t sound how I thought he would. His voice was a revelation, more Frank Sinatra than Ewan McGregor, and the tiny hairs on my arms stood on end as I suddenly found myself leaning forward to listen. He had my undivided attention.
Man, his singing was like aural caramel, smooth, thick and undeniably sultry. The entire room was held rapt by his performance, barely an intake of breath to be heard. Damon stared at his feet, almost as though he was too shy to face us. Still, it felt like somebody so large, somebody with such a strikingly masculine appearance couldn’t possibly be self-conscious. It was only as he sang the last line that he finally looked up, and somehow his eyes locked on mine, like he sensed my spellbound attention.
The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
Goosebumps rose on my skin.
When he finished there was a beat of silence, like everyone had been struck speechless.
Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, you definitely won’t need a voice coach,” he said, eyeing Miriam with a pleased expression. I was slightly annoyed that he hadn’t taken a moment to compliment Damon on his performance. Describing it as life-altering wasn’t even an exaggeration. Directors, unfortunately, were often desensitised to greatness, spending their lives amid the highly talented and beautiful as they did.
I, on the other hand, wanted to leap from my seat, run up to Damon Atwood and wax lyrical about the cadence of his voice and the depth and quality of his tone.
“We will, however, have to make some alterations to your…look. Jenny here,” he gestured to one of his assistants, “will pencil you in for a barber’s appointment in the morning.”