Lucky Ball

by Lisa N. Paul

  Maybe Emmy had a point. Wren always monitored her consumption. She knew damn well that three glasses took her from happy to silly and four glasses was a fast train to drunk. Yep, three glasses and done.

  The longer she stared at the sleepy liquid in her glass, the less she wanted to drink it. “You’re right. Maybe it’s time to try something new.”

  “Are you kidding?” Emmy bounced on her toes, her eyes as big and bright as her smile.

  “Nope.” Trying her best to infuse confidence into her response, Wren couldn’t deny the uncertainty in her voice. Purposely avoiding Emmy’s stare, Wren reached into her oversized purse and pulled out her trusty Fortune Eight Ball. She didn’t need to see her best friend’s face to feel the frustrated glare boring into her. Ignoring it, Wren asked, “Okay, Em, what are you drinking?”

  “A Grape Ring Pop,” Emmy murmured.

  Her eye roll was almost unnoticeable in the dark club. Almost. Wren knew that after eight years, the ball quirk was wearing thin on her friend. Hell, it was wearing a bit thin on her, but she needed the Eight Ball. She trusted it. And giving it up was not an option.

  “Should I try a Grape Ring Pop?” Wren gave the ball a good shake.

  –As I See It, Yes–

  “Oh my god! That’s it? One try and it’s a yes? Holy hell, bartender, two Grape Ring Pops, please! Get ‘em here fast, and I’ll give you a Christmas-sized tip.” Emmy waved a large bill in the air and giggled when the drinks hit the bar at lightning speed. Practically floating, Emmy’s hand waved with the beat of the music as she handed one cocktail to Wren.

  Wren’s lips curled up. She had to admit her friend had a way with people. When Wren ordered, it was never that easy.

  “Happy Friday, my friend.” Emmy lifted her glass to Wren’s.

  Sipping the drink, Wren discovered two things. First, her friend had been correct—the grape cocktail was absolutely a party in her mouth—and second, there was a strong possibility she’d be more than a bit hung over at work.

  *

  “Talk,” Logan said, leaving a tip for the bartender and handing the cold bottle to his buddy Smith.

  “Shit, I sure as hell hope the ladies can’t read me as well as you can.” Smith’s dirty-blond eyebrows lowered as he lifted his beer. “I’ve got a bad boy reputation to protect.”

  Chuckling, Logan said, “Is that what they’re calling it these days? Last time I checked, it was cocky asshole, but whatever.”

  Friends since the first day of preschool, the two men bickered like brothers and shared a bond just as strong. It was Smith who had introduced Logan to his future band mate, Marcus—Smith’s fraternal twin.

  “Seriously, what’s bugging you?”

  “I assume you saw the guys today,” Smith said.

  Whenever the band came home from tour, they’d crash at their respective homes for the night, and first thing in the morning—or the afternoon, depending on when they woke up—they visited Logan at the music school. It was routine. Their normal.

  “Yeah, they came by. We hung out and jammed for a couple of hours. Why?”

  Smith ran his hand through his dirty-blond, needed-a-haircut-three-weeks-ago hair and inhaled. He took a long pull from his beer and scrubbed his hands over his shadowed jaw.

  “Dude, you’re doing a whole lot of primping right now. Are you auditioning for a role in an AXE commercial?”

  Smith’s heavy expression eased as the right side of his mouth kicked up in a grin. Logan’s comment clearly had its intended effect. “If you saw them, you shouldn’t be asking me what my issue is, man. You should be concerned too. Christ, I know they work hard, but I’ve never seen Marcus or Greg look as horrible as they did yesterday. They stopped by my gym on the way into town, and I swear my brother looked like he was gonna fall down from exhaustion, and Greg somehow seemed worse.”

  While the Jones brothers had always been chased by girls and loved by the ladies, Marcus was the music and mayhem while Smith was the muscles and mellow. Smith didn’t chase the women because they came to him. And with the time he didn’t waste chasing, he worried about his family, friends, and business. So as Smith shared his concerns, Logan shot a text to Marcus.

  “What the fuck, Enders? I’m sitting here sharing my feelings—Christ, I can practically feel a vagina growing between my legs—and you’re texting someone? You’re an asshole.” Smith downed the rest of his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the bar.

  “You done with the drama?” Logan asked, barely concealing the humor. “I was texting your pain-in-the-ass brother. He was supposed to have told you what was going on, but clearly he didn’t.”

  “Nah, man, he was sleeping when I got home from work tonight. I was noisy as fuck, mind you, and the guy didn’t move—not a twitch. I’m telling you, something ain’t right.”

  When Logan’s phone vibrated, the permission he needed was given for him to put his friend’s worries to rest. The bartender served up another round of drinks with a sweet smile and her phone number scribbled on Smith’s cocktail napkin. Smith winked and left a generous tip.

  “Never ceases to amaze me,” Logan chuckled as he watched Smith pocket the napkin. He then walked away from the bar toward a high-top table. No reason for anyone else to hear their conversation.

  Smith followed Logan. “All right, you have my attention, Enders. What’s going on with my brother?”

  After taking a long pull from his beer in a futile attempt to hide a grin, Logan put the bottle down and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “You know how your brother and Greg enjoy sharing their…”

  “Women,” Smith finished with a devilish smirk. “Yeah, I know. Go on.”

  “Apparently, the last groupie between them was more of a giver than they originally thought.”

  Wide-eyed with clenched fists, Smith growled, “What’s wrong with Marcus and Greg?”

  “It’s all good, Cujo, calm down. According to the guys, after giving her more orgasms than she’d ever recover from—Greg’s words, not mine—she got dressed and told them that she had mononucleosis.” Laughter ripped from Logan’s chest as he retold the story. Even Smith chuckled when Logan imitated Marcus pretending to be the groupie. “He said her voice was a screechy train wreck in his brain. ‘I know I’m sick, but it’s just mono. Think about it—now you’ll always remember me.’ Then Greg chimed in, ‘Yeah, we’ll remember her. Like a bad case of diarrhea.’ Dude, I feel horrible for them, but come on, it was bound to happen. They’re lucky it’s only mono.”

  Tension left Smith’s shoulders as he drained his beer, signaled for a cocktail waitress, and ordered a round of beers as well as a round of shots. “Okay, mono isn’t a big deal. It explains why the two of them look like hell.”

  “You’re right, mono isn’t a big deal, but Greg’s tonsillitis is.” When the guys had informed Logan of the real situation, shit got serious. Shades of Certainty was scheduled to do a four-show mini tour, as they always did between albums. It was the band’s way of thanking their local fans for sticking by them since the beginning. “Greg has to have his tonsils taken out, and the recovery’s supposed to be a bitch. Since they have a couple of months before they need to be back in the studio, he’s having surgery next week. It’s amazing he was even able to finish the tour.”

  “Shit,” hissed Smith, understanding on his face. “They asked you to step in, didn’t they?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s been eight years since I sang in front of an audience. What do you think I’m gonna do?”

  Lifting a full shot glass, Smith waited for Logan to do the same. “Enjoy the stage, brother.”

  The glasses clinked just before the amber liquid warmed the back of Logan’s throat. Things were about to change.

  Chapter Three

  Kiss Some Cuties

  Wren could practically imagine the blingy ring on her finger as she and Emmy shimmied to Beyoncé imploring the singles ladies to put their hands up. Or�
�maybe it was the grape cocktails she’d inhaled before they hit the dance floor. Either way, this was the best night she’d had in far too long.

  “Let’s grab another drink. I’m sweating like a pig, and even I can’t make that look sexy.” Emmy hand-fanned her face.

  “Whatever.” Wren rolled her eyes. “You know you don’t sweat; you glisten like a goddess. If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you and all of your perfection. But you’re right. I could use another of those yummy drinks and maybe a glass of water too.” Weaving through the crowd, Wren tilted her head from side to side while rolling her shoulders back.

  “Maybe if you brought a smaller handbag, you wouldn’t need physical therapy after dancing for a few songs.”

  Whether it was Emmy’s cheery voice, her sweet smile, or the truth in her statement, Wren felt no sting from her friend’s barb. She never left the house without the Fortune Ball, and that piece of plastic required more than just a simple clutch. It hadn’t posed a problem in high school or college, since neither girl went out without her backpack or messenger bag, but in the land of the grown-ups, as Emmy often referred to it, style trumped necessity. Large bags did not a trend make.

  “I’m fine,” Wren replied with one more roll of her shoulders. “But I will admit, after sipping on these grape candy drinks, white zinfandels are gonna suck.”

  Emmy ordered two more cocktails along with two glasses of water. “Sorry to say you can’t get these beauties everywhere, but now that you’re open to trying new things, I’ll give you a list of my favorite drinks. You can check them off as you try them.”

  “Whoa, don’t get ahead of yourself, sparky. Just because I tried something new tonight doesn’t mean I’ll do it again.” The excited look that had been burning brightly in Emmy’s eyes since Wren had taken her first taste of something new began to dull. “Emmy, you can’t get upset just because—”

  “Sweetie”—Emmy’s hand rested on Wren’s shoulder—“I’m not a twelve-year-old child bummed because you won’t sneak out of the house after curfew. I won’t even be upset if you choose not to try a single drink on my list. What makes me sad is how completely happy you’ve been tonight—dancing, smiling, and letting go. I haven’t seen you like this since…”

  Wren knew exactly what her friend was going to say. Neither woman had brought up the Thurston Mills debacle since it happened all those years ago, but it looked as though that streak was about to end.

  “Since…we were sixteen. And honestly, had I known back then what I know now…” Emmy’s gray eyes met hers. “I would have never bought that thing for you.”

  Wow, and Thurston stays where he belongs—in the dumpster of my worst memories.

  “Wren, do you realize that as much as you live your life by the rules of the mighty Fortune Ball—and lord knows you do obey that freaking thing—some of the best times we’ve had were when you let yourself be free of it?” Even while Emmy sipped her drink, her lips curled up. “The very best gift you ever gave me was for my twenty-first birthday. Do you remember what it was?”

  Of course Wren remembered Emmy’s twenty-first. That celebration was practically impossible to forget. “Uh, yeah. We spent three days in Las Vegas, just you and me and your parents’ credit card. But honey, if the lip stain I bought you for that trip was the best gift I’ve ever given you, then I’m not only sorry, I’m ashamed.” Wren winked at her friend before gulping down more of the grape goodness.

  “Don’t be obtuse. You know I’m not talking about the lipstick, although that did change my life. My lips even look flawless during the occasional walks of shame. But I was referring to the fact that you gave me an entire ball-free weekend… wait, that sounded a lot better in my head.” Emmy giggled, the liquor clearly having an effect on her thought process. “Anyway, the fact that you set aside the ball and allowed yourself to live in the moment meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  Guilt bloomed in Wren’s chest as she clearly remembered tucking the black orb into her suitcase and secretly using it as often as she could during those seventy-two hours.

  “Oh, sweetie…” The warmth in Emmy’s voice snapped Wren’s attention back to the conversation. “I knew you had it with you, but I loved you for doing your best to keep to your promise to me.”

  “You weren’t angry that I brought it with me after I told you I was going to leave it home?”

  “No, I wasn’t. You thought you needed it then, and you still do now. I guess it’s like smoking? A difficult habit to quit. But I appreciated your attempt. And I watched how many small choices you made without it—from what drinks to order at the pool to my personal favorite”—Wren knew exactly what her friend was going to say just by the soft glow that colored Emmy’s cheeks—“joining me in the pool…topless. I swear to god, had the water not been shallow, I’d have drowned. I never expected you to do that.”

  That day, Wren had felt more free than she ever had. The resort they stayed in was known for their topless pool and the beautiful men and women who frequented it. After an hour of baking in the Vegas sun, the fresh strawberry daiquiris were no longer doing a thing to cool the two girls. Emmy rose, her bright yellow triangle top falling onto the lounge chair.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Wren had squeaked as her throat became as dry as the desert they were staying in.

  “I’m taking off my top,” Emmy answered with a smirk and a playful eye roll. If ever there was a proud woman, she was it. She had curves where some would prefer to be flat and dimples on cheeks other than those on her face, but her confidence drew everyone’s attention. Well, that and her killer rack. “You know what they say about Vegas.”

  “Um, just ‘cause someone looks like a woman doesn’t mean she is?” Wren snarked, then burst out laughing at her friend’s exasperation. “Yes, you freak, I know what they say—what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. What does that have to do with your incredible vanishing bikini top?”

  “It has everything to do with it. Look around. Topless is the norm here. Everyone is baring their boobs, so why not take the opportunity and enjoy the freedom?”

  After a few minutes of watching Emmy splash around in the crystal blue water, drinking her fruity cocktail and smiling as though the day couldn’t possibly get better, something came over Wren. Wistfulness, excitement, or just the buzz of the daiquiri? She’d never be sure, but without giving it more than a second of thought, she whipped off her black bikini top and joined her friend in the pool.

  Had the experience been fun? Absolutely. But several hours later, when Wren could barely drape a tank top over her aloe-covered, very sunburned, and very sore melons, she realized exposing unscreened virgin skin to the desert sun had been a horrible idea. While Emmy was in the shower, Wren pulled out the ball and asked—Should I go topless in the pool again?

  –My Sources Say No–

  For the rest of the weekend, Wren made certain to keep her melons covered. While she kept the ball’s existence hidden for the duration of their trip, she found herself depending on Emmy to make decisions for them and using the Fortune Eight as often as possible. Wren didn’t do well with making decisions on her own, as her bright pink organic melons confirmed.

  “Here, drink this.”

  The cold glass shoved into her hand immediately returned Wren from Vegas to Club Eclipse.

  “It’s only water,” Emmy assured her, “so drink up. What I was saying was, you’re young. You can be fun. And sometimes, well, a lot of the time, I think you forget both of those things. Why can’t you just let go? Splash into life every so often and enjoy.”

  Wren reached for the purple cocktails the bartender had just placed in front of them, and she handed one to Emmy before taking a large sip. The flavor burst over her tongue as the drink went down smooth. “Girlie, I have no idea how many of these I’ve had tonight, but they’ve been splashing on my lips for over an hour. I’m pleasantly buzzed, happy, and—”

  “Mmm, now there’s something I wouldn’t mind splashing ag
ainst my lips.” Emmy’s eyes were as wide as the rim of the low ball glass. “Without being obvious, look to your left. Two guys, one big and blond. His body could be the wall at the rock climbing place, and shit, I wanna climb him.” She licked her lips.

  Wren giggled while her eyes connected with Conan the Barbarian’s friend. While Conan was indeed a mountain, his friend was an inch or two taller but not as bulky. Judging by the way his crew neck sweater lay comfortably over his broad chest, she had no doubt that a well-sculpted body waited to be discovered. Wren’s eyes ascended from the chiseled jaw just barely hidden behind a day or two of scruff to a pair of dark, bedroom eyes. A bedroom would be the perfect place for a man like him.

  “Oh my god. I said without being obvious!” Emmy gasped. “By the way you’re gaping at that guy, you may as well go over and hump his leg. Jeez, and I thought I was bad. Here.” Emmy dropped a straw in Wren’s glass. “Drink faster. It’ll cool you down.”

  “I don’t know, you’re looking a bit pink in the cheeks as well,” Wren teased. “Haven’t seen that happen since Derek Johnson, sophomore year in college.” Wren giggled when her friend’s jaw dropped. The memory of the one boy who hadn’t fallen at her feet obviously still messed with her mind. “Emmy, the guy was gay. You’ve gotta let that go.”

  Both turned their attention to the sexy men at the high top table toward the other end of the bar, then they tapped their glasses together and downed half the contents of their drinks.

  “Oh my God, are they looking at us?” The fine hairs on the back of Wren’s neck stood on end.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they are. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Fuckable probably felt you eye raping him. Let’s go talk to them.”