by Shandi Boyes
“It’s fine!” he swears, halting my steps to the bucket mid-stride. “I’m satisfied you are who you say you are.”
I return my eyes to his like I’m a zombie seconds from sucking out his brains. “Are you sure? I don’t mind giving you proof. I’d hate for you to get in trouble.”
He thrusts a bag of goodies into my chest. His shove is so forceful, I topple a few steps back. “It’s fine. We’re good.”
He charges down the hallway so fast he’s nothing but a blur. My steps back to my bed are nowhere near as brisk. I stomp the eight paces like I’m an elephant, and the paper bag filled with god knows what is my trunk.
I flop onto my mattress headfirst. I sweated so much overnight, my pillow is damp, but I don’t care. Clean sheets, showering, and all those other basic hygienic things people do every day can wait until I’m not dying.
If only my curiosity could be cured as quickly.
With a groan, I raise my head off the pillow and shift my eyes to the bag I dumped next to my spew bucket. It’s not a standard grocery bag. It’s a little smaller and a bit thicker. While blowing a strand of curly brown hair from my eyes, I gather the bag in my hands. It feels heavier now that it did when I stomped it across the room, probably because I have my elbow propped on my mattress.
When I pull open the stapled bag and peer inside, a long, sickening sob tears from my throat. The contents inside should be a godsend to a woman in my condition, but it’s knowing only one person in the world could have purchased these for me that has me whining. They’re products to alleviate gas, stomach cramps, and the many other bodily functions I endured last night. There’s even a packet of gum and a scented candle.
I flop back onto my bed, my hand darting up to cover my mortified eyes. This is ten times worse than when Tracy Skulski broke wind halfway through our routine at a dance competition when we were in kindergarten. It took eight years for her to live down her infamous Stinky Skulski nickname. I don’t want to be called Windy Willow until I’m thirty. It might have been cute when I was three, but no one over the age of thirteen wants a nickname—not a farting one, anyway.
The bag landing on the floor with a thud coincides with my room door being flung open so forcefully it indents the drywall.
“Oh my fucking gawd!” Skylar saunters across the room, her hips swaying like she didn’t drag her ass out of bed four hours ago to start her day doing boxing with a hottie all the girls at our college clamber out of bed at 5 AM to ogle.
I’d usually be there with bells on as well, but I’m dying, remember?
“You’re an internet sensation! You’re everywhere. TMZ, The Late Show, you even had a feature on Good Morning America this morning.”
“W-w-what?” My stammering heart is heard in my reply. “What do you mean?”
“Your video is everywhere.” She plants her backside on the edge of my bed, her nose screwing up when the duvet riles up the smell circling the vomit bucket. “Over two million views every hour.”
“An hour?!” I shoot up so fast, my head grows woozy. “Which video? Does Todd know? We were just playing; it was never supposed to go viral.” My words come out in such quick succession, even I have a hard time understanding them.
“Todd?” Skylar takes a moment to read the confusion in my eyes before shooing it away with a wave of her manicured hand. “Not your dancing videos, silly, the one from last night.”
“Last night?” I swallow numerous times in a row, my mouth suddenly burning. “Someone took a video of last night?”
Not spotting my wide eyes and panting chest, Skylar nods. “Uh-huh. There are multiple copies, but this one is getting the most attention—it has the best angle. Don’t worry, even under the circumstances, you look as sexy as sin.”
Images of Elvis’s head hanging out the window with a plugged nose flash before my eyes. How could that ever be considered sexy?
“Here. Look. This video alone has twenty-three million views.”
She swivels her iPhone screen my way. I suck in my first breath in nearly a minute when I realize the video isn’t about the incident that occurred last night. Well, it is, just not the one where I farted in front of God’s gift to women. It’s my verbal altercation with the drunken idiot at the football stadium.
“Someone recorded the entire event and uploaded it to YouTube, making you an overnight internet sensation.”
My shocked gaze dances between Skylar’s bright baby blues. “A sensation? Or. . .” I leave my question open for her to answer how she sees fit.
“Sensation. . .” She screws up her nose. “For the most part.”
“What does that mean?” My voice is too high and too loud for a woman on her death bed.
Skylar runs her hand down my sweaty arm in comfort. “Most of the comments are good, but you know what some keyboard warriors are like.” She scrolls through the thousands of comments displayed under the now still video. “There’s a handful of people not happy you retaliated, then a few who agree with the tosser.”
Her use of one of my favorite Aussie slang words lightens the tension between us.
“A majority are with you, Willow. The praise far exceeds the occasional gripe.”
She scrolls slowly, allowing me to see a handful of the comments.
Betsy2517 – You showed him, girl!
KateMBrimginton21 – I didn’t think superheroes existed anymore until I stumbled upon this movie. Whoever this woman is, she’s the new Wonder Woman.
MarcsInTown – Call me. I want to prove not all men are like him. You’re so fucking beautiful, I get hard every time I imagine what your lips taste like.
My eyes rocket to Skylar after reading the last one.
She laughs at my shocked expression. “That’s one of many invitations. Last count was thirteen proposals, fifty-eight requests for a date, and you don’t want to know how many are praying for a booty call. That dry spell you’ve been having the past three years is about to become the Nile.”
“I can’t go out with these men.”
Skylar bows her brow. “Why not? No one says you have to sleep with them. . . but you can order the most expensive steak on the menu.” Waggling her brows, she stands to her feet and crosses the room. “Leticia suggested holding out when you’re approached for an interview. The more disinterested you seem, the higher their bid will be.”
“What are you talking about? What interview?”
She removes her gym shirt and hideous sports bra before pivoting to face me. “This is huge, Will, like massive. You’re going to be broadcast around the world.” She latches a lacy bra around her tiny frame before moving to her half of our closet that is brimming with clothes. “With you not being the owner of the video, you won’t make any profits from the marketing it brings in, but that doesn’t mean you won’t see any money. The world is your oyster, if you want it to be.”
She stops rummaging through her clothes when I murmur, “What if I don’t want it to be?”
My questions stumps her for all of two seconds. “Why wouldn’t you want this? You wanted to be famous—here’s your chance.”
“I wanted to be a prima ballerina, not an internet sensation who rides her five seconds of fame all the way to the bank.” I clutch my stinky pillow to my tummy while my eyes drift to the ground. “This doesn’t feel right.”
The guilt I felt yesterday returns stronger than ever. I was as much of a bully as the man who confronted me. I also assaulted him. I don’t want that broadcast to the world. I’d rather be happy and poor than rich and nasty.
After slipping a flirty dress over her slender thighs, Skylar moves back to my side of the room. “You can do as little or as much with this as you want, Will. The choice is entirely yours.”
A small grin tugs at my lips. “Thank you.”
Her wink tells me my praise wasn’t needed, but the press of her lips to my sweaty temple shows she appreciated it. “You’re still warm; are you sure you don’t want me to run down to the drug store and pick some
thing up?”
The concern in her voice warms my heart. “Thanks, but I’m okay. I got everything I need right here.” I nudge my knee against the brown pharmacy bag.
“You went out?” Not waiting for me to answer her, Skylar snaps down to gather the bag in her hands. “Jesus, you’ve got an entire medicine cabinet in here.” She raises a box of Gastro Stop tablets in the air before spinning around to show me the price on the back. “You went for the good stuff.” Her eyes bug out of her head. “Where did you find thirty-eight dollars for a box of colon cloggers?”
“I didn’t. They were bought for me.”
Hearing something in my voice I didn’t mean to express, Skylar slaps away my hand before it gets within an inch of the bag. “Someone bought these for you?” Her perfectly manicured brow inches high on her face when I halfheartedly nod. It matches the generous curve of her top lip. “That wouldn’t happen to be the same man you swear you’re never speaking to again?”
“This isn’t fair, Skylar. You know the barf rules. Nothing said during barf-time is to be repeated the following morning.”
She bumps her knee against mine. “That may be true when it’s drunk-puking, but it doesn’t count for food poisoning. Anything you said last night—whether delirious or not—will and can be discussed.” She whacks my knee for the second time, this one harder than her first. “Now scoot, then spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. I told you everything that happened last night.” I’m not lying; she knows it all—embarrassing bodily functions and all.
My mattress squeaks when she flops next to me. She’s as light as a feather; my mattress is just as dated as me. “Are you sure you didn’t miss something? Because I don’t see any rando going out of his way to deliver vital necessities if he had no intentions of a second meeting.”
“He’s just being nice.”
Skylar’s shoulder touches her ear. “Maybe.” Her chest deflates when she exhales slowly. “But then why would he leave you his cell phone number?”
My stomach rolls. For the first time the past six hours, it’s a good churn. “He left his number?”
Nodding, Skylar hands me a business card, allowing it to answer my question on her behalf. It’s a pretty basic business card. White with black print, no details bar a name and a number. There’s just one odd thing—the name and number attached isn’t for Elvis. It’s for a guy named Danny.
Spotting the confusion crossing my features, Skylar flips the card over. My heart matches her brutal flip when I see a handprinted cell number and name on the back. It’s from Elvis.
“Maybe he’s still just being nice.”
“He could be,” Skylar agrees, her tone as hopeful as mine. “Or. . . he could be hoping for a chance to prove he isn’t an ass.” Her dress scrunches up around her thighs when she scoots off my bed. After returning her hem to its rightful spot, she pivots to face me. “I guess there is only one way for you to find out.” She nudges her hand to the card I’m clutching for dear life. “Call him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Presley
T he hum in the locker room is nearly deafening. We had a good training session tonight, and the excitement bouncing off the players is palpable in the air. It’s been my first full session back after the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Thank fuck Becca didn’t touch any of the chicken products we consumed, or my guilt would be double. On the recommendation of her doctor, she only consumes chicken she has prepared herself to ensure it is fresh and thoroughly cooked. I’m not pregnant, but I’ll be taking her obstetrician’s advice from here on out. I swear, I lost five pounds over the weekend, and even more in muscle conditioning. I’ve never been more ill.
I lift my chin up in thanks when our head coach, James Maloney, praises, “Good session today, Carlton. Keep up that level of intensity, and we might get you back into your favorite position sooner than scheduled.”
I keep a cool head even with my insides freaking out like a hooker on crack. “Sounds good.”
When Coach James rounds the corner of his office, I throw my fist into the air. This is what I’ve been working toward the past six months, and I’m beyond stoked that I’m another step closer to returning to the position I was born to play.
My excitement doesn’t linger long. The ringing of my cell phone quickly nips it in the bud. There’s only one person who calls me after a training session. It’s the same person who relentlessly nags me after every game. My ex—Lillian.
The tightness in my jaw weakens when I dig my hand into my locker to pull out my phone. The name flashing across the screen isn’t who I was anticipating—far from it.
With a wonky grin, I swipe my finger across the screen before pushing it to my ear. “I nearly fired Danny when you didn’t call within the first two weeks. Figured he must have forgotten to include my number in your package.”
“Uh. . . yeah, sorry about that.” Willow doesn’t sound sorry—not an ounce of coyness has invaded her sweet Australian twang. “I got caught up with life. You know. Busy and all that.”
The honesty in her tone has me wondering how long it was before she lost the bucket I had attached to my hip the five days following our meeting. I was a little greedy with the Chinese, so it’s only fair I paid the highest penalty.
I’m snapped back from my thoughts when Willow asks, “Do you remember me saying there may be instances where my forming friendship with Becca and Dalton may cross over with your stale-ass relationship with them?”
She can’t see me, but she must intuit my head bob because she continues not even two seconds later, “This is the instance I was referring to.”
Half of her words are drowned out by someone groaning in the background. If it sounded anything like a pleasurable groan, I’d be pissed, but this doesn’t sound anything like that. It sounds like a groan of pain.
“Becca is in labor, and I can’t get ahold of Dalton. I’ve been ringing his cell phone non-stop. He ain’t answering.” She sounds as anxious as the panic roaring through my body. “I don’t know what to do, Elvis. This isn’t what I signed up for when I became Becca’s friend. I like her and all, but this is above my paygrade.”
She continues blubbering as I race through the locker room. I assure her everything will be fine when she takes a much-needed breath. “Just keep Becca calm untiI I get Dalton to her.”
“You’re with Dalton?” The relief in her voice can’t be missed.
“No, but I know where he is.”
I burst through the door where Dalton is holding a press conference about our upcoming game. He must see something on my face because he leaps to his feet faster than I can snap my fingers. Cameras and the reporters behind them follow his race across the room.
“What is it?”
“Becca.”
I only say one word, but its breathless delivery speaks volumes.
I PULL into Dalton’s driveway five minutes later. Our travels from the stadium to his house were made as if I’m not on the verge of losing my license. The citation I got for running a red light three weeks ago already gained me points, much less the speeding ticket that arrived in the mail along with it. The red camera citation is on Willow’s shoulders, but I’ll accept the speeding ticket. It was snapped during my mad dash home.
“Thanks.”
Dalton flings off his belt with the same force Willow used three weeks ago before he races up the stairs. I swear to God he returns not even ten seconds later with an ashen-faced Becca under one arm and a bursting-the-zipper suitcase under the other.
Just as he veers to the left, a sight more beautiful than the excitement on his face enters my vision. Willow is following his gallop down the stairs. She’s wearing a shirt similar to the one she had on the last time I saw her, but her jeans have been cut off to expose inches upon inches of her tanned thighs.
Not noticing my bugged-out eyes, she ushers Becca into the passenger seat of Dalton’s Range Rover before assuring
him she’ll lock up everything before leaving. I’m not shocked when Dalton gives her his immediate trust. He has a good knack for reading people. It’s why I should have listened to him when he warned me to stay away from Lillian. He knew in under a minute what took me nine years to figure out.
Once Dalton’s taillights blur in the distance, Willow spreads her hands across her hips, flips her head back, then closes her eyes. She takes in numerous deep, relieved breaths before they slowly flutter open. When she spots me gawking at her like a freak at a peek show, she shyly waves before mouthing, “Thank you.”
Wanting more than unspoken words between us, I switch off my ignition and clamber out of my car. The more I struggle to extract myself from my vehicle, the more worry leaves Willow’s face.
By the time I’m standing in front of her, she’s smiling broadly, and I’m sweating like a pig. “I think it’s time for a bigger car.”
Her teeth graze her sexy-as-fuck lips as she nods. “It’s fun to watch at a circus, but you’ve got to have more than one trick up your sleeve if you want to make it big.”
After squeezing my nose and making a honk noise, she pivots on her heels and climbs the stairs.
I follow after her. “So I take it your friendship with Becca is going well?”
She flashes me the most adorable smile over her shoulder before nodding. “Away from Dalton, she’s great. But them together. . .” A gag finalizes her sentence. “I haven’t seen so much PDA since the last time I saw my parents.”
I laugh. My mom and dad aren’t much better. . . except when football is on.
I shadow Willow as she makes her way around Dalton and Becca’s house like she’s familiar with the floorplan. She shuts all the windows on the lower floor before moving upstairs to partially crack the window Becca keeps open every night for natural filtration. Once she has everything locked up as Becca and Dalton do each evening, she moves to the kitchen to gather her backpack and keys from the kitchen counter.
She punches a six-digit code into their security system while I say, “You’ve certainly made yourself at home.”