by Shandi Boyes
Although I used Becca’s offer of shelter as a way to flee prosecution, for the most part, I wanted to make sure she was okay. She copped a nasty sting to the head a month out from giving birth. I would have felt really bad if she was left concussed and alone.
“Don’t go. Please. I was going to order Chinese before cracking open a bottle of wine. . . for you and Willow,” she adds on in a flurry when the dark-haired hottie plastered to her side growls. “Please, Will. At least let me buy you dinner for everything you did.”
Her plea is as cute as fuck, but I’m not a five-year-old. The pouty lip, I’m the answer to all your dreams look doesn’t work on me.
If she were the brute eyeing me from afar, different story. I don’t run after any man, but this bitch might powerwalk for him.
“I’m sorry, I really have to go. My friend isn’t happy she’s been left to celebrate the victory by herself.” My eyeroll is relinquished halfway. I had no clue the pain associated with acting like a bimbo. I won’t make the same mistake twice. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” Because my reply is sincere, it sounds that way. “That’s all the reward I need.”
“If your friend is upset about missing the game, I can arrange for replacement tickets for both of you—”
“No!” I scream, interrupting Becca’s husband mid-offer. After lowering my voice to an acceptable volume, I add on, “That’s real nice of you, but completely unnecessary.”
I thought I said my comment politely, but a grumble from behind my shoulder indicates it may not have come out as sincerely as I hoped.
“Not a fan of the 69ers? Or do you just hate football in general?”
“I like football.” I spin around to face the hunk of man-meat who makes my lady parts tingle as rampantly as he agitated my nerves by picking on my name. “Real football.”
“Real football.” He paces closer to me, making the quiver of my pulse descend to a dark and extremely moist region of my body. “What’s real football?”
The split in his top lip widens when I clarify, “Australian football.”
“As in the aerial ping-pong game they play on a circular field?”
I gag. “No. That’s AFL.”
“Australian Football League.” He emphasizes the first letter in each word he speaks.
“I meant the NRL. No shoulder pads. No groin protection. Not I’m such a Nancy, I’ll run the ball but don’t dare ask me to tackle anyone football. Real football. Blood, sweat, and tears football.”
I nearly roll my eyes at the pompousness in my voice, but recalling my earlier pain stops me. Instead, I fold my arms under my chest and purse my lips. My dad would have been proud as hell about the rant I just delivered if he were still here.
As quickly as memories fill my eyes with moisture, silence falls around me. After uncrossing my arms, my eyes drift between three pairs staring at me in shock.
“What? This can’t be the first time you’ve heard of the NRL. It’s pretty well known back home.”
“It’s not that we haven’t heard of it. It’s just. . .”
Becca’s husband gets cut off by Tarzan slicing his hand through the air. He’s stunned by his friend’s request for silence, but also amused by it.
“Is that it? Or do you have more words of wisdom on a sport that grips the nation numerous times a week?”
“Hmm.” The tap of my index finger on my lips lessens the arrogance on the stranger’s face, but only by a smidgen. “Just the players? Or the rort as a whole?” When confusion replaces some of the irritation in his eyes, I explain, “Rort means a fraudulent or dishonest practice.”
My thighs wobble when he spits out, “Whatever you feel comfortable with, Will.” He sneers my name the same way Skylar did when she answered my call. “Instill us with your knowledge.”
I nudge my shoulder up. “Alright.”
If he thinks his livid glare will scare me into submission, he’s shit out of luck. I only dispelled half the annoyance bubbling in my gut from the fat-shamer earlier tonight, so I’ve got plenty left to dish out.
“First, the players get paid too much. They run around a field, fighting over a ball you can pick up at any store for five bob. It’s not rocket science, so why are they paid as if they’re curing diabetes?”
Becca burrows her flaming cheeks into her husband’s neck, losing me one set of bugged eyes. Unfortunately her surrender doesn’t weaken the intensity brewing between Tarzan and me. If anything, her early departure from our conversation makes the intensity grow.
Never one to back down when challenged, I continue, “Second, what’s with the whole defense/offense thing? If you can take a tackle, you should be able to give one.”
Excitement trickles into my veins when Becca’s husband nods as if he’s agreeing with me. I must be getting through to him. I’ll have him jumping the fence entirely once I’ve fattened the purse.
“And third. . .”
Fuck! I’m stuck but I have to give them something—because everyone knows, whether good or bad, everything comes in threes.
I nearly dance on the spot when my third annoyance crashes into me. “Their hot dogs are too expensive. The supporters already fork out a fortune for body paint, jerseys, and a ticket to the travesty, but no, that’s not enough; let’s slap them with an eight-dollar charge for a wiener in a bun. There are hookers in Vegas who charge less, so why the hell is something that doesn’t even give you thirty seconds of satisfaction so expensive?”
I stop, impressed with myself. . . and perhaps a little embarrassed. Compared to the men’s expensive suits and Becca’s casual yet designer outfit, I already look like trailer trash, much less sound like it.
With a wave and a spin, I mumble, “And now that I’ve made a total fool of myself, I’m out.”
“No, no, no, please stay.” Becca chases me down, halting me before I can gallop down the concrete stairwell at the end of a deck with views for miles. “I wholeheartedly agree with you. Ask Dalton. I complain about the price of hot dogs at every game.” She slings her eyes back to her husband. “Don’t I, Dalton?” She gives him a look that warns he better agree with her.
“Yep. Every single game.” His low mouse-like squeak doesn’t match his big, burly frame.
Smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary, Becca returns her eyes to me. “And don’t get me started on the players’ salaries, or we’ll be here all night.”
Feeling more comfortable, I allow Becca to spin me back toward the door she rushed out of in a hurry only minutes ago. I really should leave, but with curiosity guiding my steps, I’m more reluctant to go than stay. I like Becca. She gives off a vibe that reveals our differences in age and wealth won’t stop us from forming a friendship. For some inane reason, she likes me.
I highly doubt her male companions agree with her viewpoint.
“THAT’S PERFECT, Willow. Thank you. Just leave it on the counter, and I’ll bring it out when the dumplings are ready. ”
Becca’s praise makes it seem as if I hand-whipped the cream instead of using the fancy electric thingumajig every knocked-up wife has. With a mischievous grin, she barges me out of the kitchen with more gusto than an eight-months-pregnant woman should have.
“Why don’t you go see what the boys are doing in the den?”
Before I can announce I’d rather eat uncooked liver, she pushes me into a room that’s bigger than the entire floor of my college dorm. The den looks like a playful space. . . if you’re a man stuck in the Stone Age. Bulky leather seats take up one corner of the room, surrounded by walls of liquor that extend from the floor to the ceiling. A black billiard table sits to my right, and a poker table is in the middle of the room. It’s only just visible through the blinding rays of a mammoth TV that’s playing highlights of the game I unfortunately missed tonight.
That’s where Dalton and the still unnamed man sit. They’re playing cards and smoking cigars while watching reruns. If that doesn’t prove I’m out of my element tonight, nothing will.
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nbsp; With their focus rapt on some man sprinting down the sidelines, I mosey to the side of the room to summarize my evening so far. Although it has been odd, it’s also been fun. Becca’s personality is exactly how I envisioned. She’s friendly, slightly kooky, and she loves her husband with every fiber of her being.
Dalton has a similar temperament to her. He dotes on his wife, but in a sexy, makes me want to drool type of way. He has a smoking-hot southern accent, and has laughed off my clumsiness as if it isn’t the first time he’s handled a ditzy college student.
Then there’s the mystery man. . .
Who knew it was possible to sit down and share a meal with someone without their name being mentioned once? I know not all conversations start with, “Hey, blah-blah, can you pass me a napkin?” but politeness usually dictates an introduction—especially after they so rudely scorned the tree-hugging name your parents slapped you with. But nope, his name has been as safely guarded as his personality.
I honestly don’t know if he thinks I’m funny or a complete nutter. If the suspicious glances he’s given me from beneath lowered lashes many times tonight is any indication, I’ll say he’s five seconds away from calling the psychiatric ward to ask if any patients named Willow escaped tonight.
Spotting me lingering awkwardly at the edge of the vast space, Dalton lifts his dark eyes to mine. “Oh, hey, Willow, why don’t you join us?”
See? He has no trouble saying my name, so why is he keeping quiet on his friend’s identity? Seems a little suspicious to me.
When Dalton raises a brow, prompting me to answer him, I murmur, “It’s okay. I’ll wait for Becca. She mentioned something about dessert.”
Good one, Will, bring up food like a piggy who didn’t just scarf down two plates of Chinese without coming up for air. It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and their Chinese was incomparable to the packet noodles I consume most nights. I swear, I nearly orgasmed when the honey chicken hit my taste buds. It was that good.
Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I should probably call a taxi. It’s getting late.”
“It’s barely eleven,” Dalton scoffs at the same time the mystery man asks, “What’s up, buttercup, afraid poor poker skills will make you lose more than your hate of all things American?”
Buttercup? Should I be pleased he’s awarded me a nickname so quickly or annoyed? I’m not often given a nickname, so I’m inclined to swoon, but this one’s double-meaning has me sitting on the fence. In theory, it sounds sweet, like a cupcake topped with delicious buttercream icing, but in reality, he could be insulting me.
Buttercup flowers are deadly when consumed by cattle and people. He is aware my parents gave me a tree/plant name, so did he nickname me Buttercup because he believes any man who devours me will learn from their stupidity by dying? Or. . .
Certain I’m looking too deeply into this, I answer, “No. I’m a good poker player. I just have limited funds on me.” None. I have none. Bar a few pennies in the bottom of my bag, I’m flat broke until Tuesday. “I depleted my cash at a food truck outside of the stadium. Their pretzels were worth the splurge. They were only the teeniest bit stale.”
I curse in my head when the man with the unamused brown eyes says, “You left the game for food? Wow. I thought maybe you just hated the players, but I’m quickly learning the error of my ways. You don’t just hate the game, you hate American sports in their entirety.”
“I didn’t leave during the game. I left before it started, thank you very much.” My last words are only for my ears, but he can have the daggers firing from my eyes. “And I like sports. Just none that morons with half a brain play.”
All my daggers miss their mark when he smirks. He has a really nice smile, even when it’s delivered with a scowl. “Oh. . . sorry. I didn’t realize your research extended to the players’ academic capabilities. Please, excuse me. ”
Not even Dalton can miss the sarcasm in his tone. “Elvis,” he drawls out in a growl. “Play nice.”
With the tension in the room at a stifling point, you’d think I would have more pressing matters to attend to than clenching my thighs together. I’m not doing Kegels because Elvis’s narrowed eyes make his dark and brooding features even sexier; I’m doing everything in my power not to pee my pants.
My bladder full of wine stays where it should, but the girly shrill rumbling up my throat like thunder makes it hard to play it cool. I sound like a hyena seconds from gorging on a wildebeest. I’m in pure, man-meat heaven from karma slapping Elvis hard in the face.
After coughing to clear the laughter trapped in my throat, I ask, “Your name is Elvis?”
When his eyes narrow to barely a squint, all attempts to hold in my giggles are lost. I laugh like a lunatic, my chuckles coming out with the occasional snort from my lungs’ brutal fight for air. I swear, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Tears roll down my cheeks unchecked as my almost bursting bladder holds on for the frightening ride.
“And here I was thinking they were keeping quiet on your identity because you’re famous, but that wasn’t it at all, was it? It’s because your name is Elvis.” I say his name with the disgusted gag every teen uses when forced to dissect frogs in science.
“Oh my god!” I take in several laugh-calming breaths to ensure he can hear me before asking, “Is your last name Presley?”
A completely unladylike bellow roars from my throat when Elvis throws his cards onto the tabletop.
“It is, isn’t it?”
When he fails to deny my claims, I slap my knee. The chuckles bubbling up my chest are so boisterous, when I release them, I’m certain half the state can hear them.
“Don’t get All Shook Up, Mate. There are worse names in the world. Like. . .” Even with my eyes watering from how hard I’m cackling, I stare Elvis dead set in the eyes before declaring, “Nope. I’ve got nothing. That’s the Devil in Disguise. You can’t Return to Sender. It’s Stuck on You!”
Clutching my stomach, I bend in half. I really shouldn’t have drunk all those glasses of wine Becca handed me, because right here, right now, I’m not just on the verge of peeing my pants, I’m acting like a drunken buffoon.
Elvis isn’t to blame for the hideous name his parents lumped him with. If karma weren’t in play, I’d act more respectfully, but unfortunately, payback is a bitch.
Only once my lungs warn of an impending asthma attack does my laughter lessen.
Elvis perches his kissable lips high in the air. “You good?”
“Yep.” My chuckles find a second wind when I imagine Elvis’s broad shoulders, thick biceps, and large frame being squeezed into the famous white sequined jumpsuit I saw at a museum last month. “In a minute.”
I suck in three big breaths before forcing them out in a long, vibrating exhalation. “Okay, now I’m good.”
My shuddering frame exposes I’m a lying piece of shit. The video-like images rolling through my head are too much. I’ve never seen such a hilarious thing in all my life, and it isn’t even real.
When Elvis stands to his feet and heads my way, I assure him, “I’m not laughing. I’m just coughing—repeatedly.”
My giggles settle in an instant when he stops to stand in front of me, but nothing can fix my flaming red face. Have you ever laughed so hard your cheeks ache? That’s me right now. They’re burning even more than my ass did after the hundred squats I did this morning.
“Alright. I’ve got this now. I promise.” I wipe under my eyes before straightening my spine. “I didn’t mean you any disrespect.”
I stomp down my foot like a child, hating that I’m about to cave. I’m not bowing out of the fight because Elvis’s stare has more than just my pulse quickening; it’s because I can’t lie. That’s why I have no filter. If my brain thinks it, you’ll hear it, no matter how nuts it makes me appear.
“Okay, I did! I just thought maybe if you felt as humiliated as I did earlier, you’d go easier on me next time.”
Half of my comment is for Elvis; the other half is for the scorning I didn’t expect to be handed earlier tonight. I want to pretend my ego is big enough to sustain the most brutal blows, but that would be like saying Elvis’s dark locks, thick lashes, and ruby-red lips are hideously ugly to look at. The stranger’s comments dented my ego. It’s only a slight bruise that will heal in a few days, but it’s still big enough for me to feel its sting.
I don’t realize my chin is balancing on my chest until Elvis raises it back to its original position. His hand is barely touching my chin, but his yummy smell makes up for his lack of contact. He smells freshly showered with a hint of a tangy cologne. . . and freshly cut grass.
Huh?
My eyes bounce between his somewhat icy, somewhat amused chocolatey eyes when he asks, “Next time? Did you not get enough of my brooding, moody silence tonight that you want a second round?”
Pretending I can’t feel a flare of hope igniting in my gut, I reply, “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to Becca and Dalton. For some insane reason, Becca wants to be my friend. If I’m friends with Becca, that automatically makes me a friend of Dalton’s, right?”
“I guess,” Elvis agrees, peering down at me.
“Well, if I’m their friend, and you’re their friend, at one stage we’re bound to cross paths again. Right?”
He’s not so quick to agree this time around. He remains quiet for several long seconds, his silence adding heat to my still flaming cheeks. There’s just one difference: this is needy heat, not an amused heat.
My lungs start accepting air again when Elvis finally relents. “I guess that could occur. Occasionally.”
“You don’t have to sound so disappointed.” I throw my fist into his stomach. Bad move. This man is as impenetrable as the friction bouncing between us, but I’m confident I can get the ball back to my side of the court. “If you stay out of my hair, I’ll stay out of yours. Deal?”