by CoraLee June
I didn’t realize Dr. Haynes even knew who my father was, but I guess it made sense. You didn’t become a leader in the industry without studying the major players, and my father was a giant in his field. “Dad is definitely leading Plotify into the future. I actually hope to work for him after graduation.”
“I bet you do,” Dr. Haynes said. “You’d be a fool not to. Plotify is one of the largest music streaming services on the planet. I know lots of undergrads who would burn their thesis papers for the kind of connections you have.”
That statement left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I ignored it. Dr. Haynes wasn’t necessarily wrong. “Thank you,” I managed to squeak out.
“Anyway, I’m actually checking in with Mr. Davis a little later to hear his perspective on how things are going.” Dr. Haynes looked at me, almost as if waiting to see if there was anything I wanted to confess.
“Great!” I said with all the confidence I could muster. “I’m looking forward to hearing any feedback that will help me improve.”
Dr. Haynes seemed satisfied with that answer. He had a wrinkle that appeared in between his eyes when he really focused on something. It added to his appearance of sophistication. “Good. Let’s touch base tomorrow morning. We can go over the volunteer opportunities you find, and we can have an informal performance review to help identify where you are really shining and see if there’s anything we can do better. Have a good rest of your day,” he said with a warm smile.
I left his office and immediately sent a text to Oakley.
Me: Hey!
Oakley: Hello?
I cringed. I didn’t usually text him just to chat, so it was probably better if I just jumped right in.
Me: I heard you have a meeting with Dr. Haynes today. What are you going to tell him?
I stared at my phone screen and saw dots. Then nothing. I waited not so patiently for the dots to reappear. I needed to know if he was going to pull a stunt like last time. I didn’t think he would, but we also hadn’t really talked in the past couple of days since the party. He wasn’t super happy with me for trying to press him about his family.
Oakley: Wouldn’t you like to know.
Me: Actually, yes. I would. That’s kind of why I’m asking.
I continued to walk out of the building, waiting for his response. Why couldn’t he just give me a straight answer? It was like he enjoyed fucking with me.
Oakley: I should tell him that you put Life360 on my phone so you could track me. A bit invasive, don’t you think?
Me: It makes following you easier.
Oakley: You sound like a serial killer. Or a stalker. Or both.
Well, if that wasn’t a melodramatic response, then I didn’t know what was. I stared for a long moment at my phone and debated on tracking him down so I could threaten him with bodily harm if he pulled anything. So what if I had his constant GPS location? Yes, I had a tracking app downloaded onto his phone. Privacy laws? Psh. His slipup at the party just reinforced the idea that he needed constant monitoring. He sent another text.
Oakley: Where am I now? ;)
I blew out a puff of air and checked the app. Sure enough, he was at a sorority house off campus. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was texting me while getting his Kappa Delta dick sucked.
Me: Be sure to check her ID first.
Oakley: Yes Ma’am.
I waited a good minute then pestered him again.
Me: So anyways, what are you telling Dr. Haynes? Remember, I know where you sleep.
Oakley: You would be a terrible serial killer. Text messages can be subpoenaed by the courts, you know.
I scoffed.
Me: The FBI agent monitoring your phone is probably thrilled by all the dick pics you send. Also I’m impressed you can spell subpoenaed.
Oakley typed and deleted a few times, and I watched the chat bubbles flash dance across my screen. Shit. Maybe I took things too far.
Oakley: I’m going to tell him the truth.
Me: And what exactly is “the truth?”
I was not in the mood for his mind games or trickery. I’d saved his ass at that party.
Oakley: Are you sure you want to know?
Me: I would. That’s why I’m asking. Are you high? They have mandatory drug testing next week.
Oakley: You’re doing a good job, Solver.
I let out a sigh of relief. Did this mean that he was going to give a good report?
Me: Thanks, Problem
I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to the condo since I had a class in less than two hours. So I headed over to a local coffee shop to start researching some volunteer ideas for Oakley. I ordered a small Americano. Eleven calories, thank you! And after finding a big cozy chair, I pulled out my laptop and broke out my mad Google skills. “Volunteer, Make a Difference” was the first result. I clicked the link and scrolled through. Community outreach, Meals on Wheels, and fundraising. There was also a link for high school outreach. After what happened at the frat house, I just noped right on by that one.
There were opportunities at the animal shelter. Puppies were cute. But not really enough publicity there. Unless we made a calendar? I involuntarily pictured Oakley, firefighter style, shirtless and holding a sweet little puppy for May. Maybe I could get Dr. Haynes to volunteer to be Mr. June? Also shirtless, but with a kitten. Meow!
As I was talking myself out of adding the calendar to my list of ideas to send to Dr. Haynes, something caught my eye. Senior outreach. As in the elderly, not this year’s graduating class. That would be perfect! Oakley could go to the senior center for one afternoon, play some board games, help serve a meal, and keep the residents company. I could arrange for a photographer and a blogger from the university, and everything could be wrapped up in only a couple of hours.
I put the senior center at the top of my list, along with packing meals for starving children and Habitat for Humanity. I typed out a quick message to Dr. Haynes, including how I was excited to hear feedback from his meeting with Oakley, and hit send. I glanced at my Fitbit, both to see the time and how many steps I had taken so far. I had time to power walk to the cafeteria to grab a salad and then make it to my next class.
9
“This place smells like urine and perfume,” Oakley grumbled while I slapped a name tag onto his muscular chest. I smoothed the sticker a little bit more than I had to and blamed the lingering touch on my lack of sleep the night before. I had three papers due and a test in sports management. Even though most of my time was allocated to this internship, my other classes were kicking into full gear too.
“And you smell like Cheetos and boxed wine,” I replied with an eye roll and pulled away. “How late were you out last night?”
“I figured you knew. Weren’t you up late watching the GPS on my phone?” I could have slapped the teasing grin off his perfect face. But I didn’t.
Instead, I rolled my eyes again. He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t trying to intrusively break our rules about space and privacy. Dr. Haynes made it clear that I needed to respect his boundaries and work within the constraints of his lifestyle. We were meant to clean up messes, not completely prevent them from happening. We could guide and inform but not control our clients—just control how the public perceives them. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t constantly refreshing his social media to make sure a sex tape wasn’t leaked. How Oakley Davis partied this hard while staying in pristine shape was seriously a mystery to me.
“You got home two hours ago and still managed to show up on time. I’d say I was impressed, but we both know I set four hundred alarms on your phone. Are you even sober?”
“I’m sober enough,” he purred, licking his lips.
The photographer and blogger were both running late. I should have called them this morning, but I supposed not everyone shared my appreciation for punctuality. “They told us to visit with”—I checked the paper in my hand before continuing—“Cassandra Kitchen? Her late husband played professional football. I figured it
would be good for you to chat with her. Apparently Albert Kitchen was well respected in the NFL.”
“Wait,” Oakley interrupted, jarring my eyes back to him. It really wasn’t fair how good he looked for having so little sleep. It took me two hours to get ready this morning. “Albert Kitchen? As in the...” He started spouting a ton of stats and football jargon that I was not interested enough to listen to.
“I guess?”
His lips stretched into a wide smile. “Sweet! Meeting his wife will be really cool. Think she has any photos of him?”
It was kind of adorable to see him acting like a kid. He was positively giddy. This was exactly the type of moment I wanted the photographer to capture. Where was he? “Hold on just a second, I’m going to try and get a hold of the photographer,” I told Oakley and pulled out my phone. I found the email chain with his information. Nick Bell. I clicked Nick’s phone number, and it started ringing.
“Yeah?” Nick answered.
“Nick? This is Amanda Matthews, Oakley Davis’s publicist. I’m at the retirement center with Oakley. What’s your ETA?” I asked, sounding politely irritated. I didn’t see why it was so hard for everybody else to take their jobs as seriously as I took mine.
“I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” Nick answered and then hung up. I didn’t have to repeat the same process with the blogger, because she had magically arrived while I was on the phone with Nick and was now practically hanging off of Oakley. What the fuck, girl, have some professionalism. I was more bothered than I should have been, seeing her flirting with Oakley.
She was beautiful with long dark hair and bright green eyes; it wasn’t a mystery why she had Oakley biting his bottom lip like a cat in heat. She wore a University of Texas tee shirt with cut off shorts and wedges. She was hot. I could appreciate a pretty girl. I hated how I instantly compared myself to her. It wasn’t healthy. In fact, it was something the old Amanda would have done. I shook my head and approached them both.
“Hi, Sara. I’m Amanda Matthews, Oakley’s publicist. It’s nice to meet you.” Intentionally called her the wrong name. Damn, when did I become a jealous, petty bitch? Double damn, when did I become jealous? I really needed to get my shit together. Green was not my color.
“It’s Brooke,” she corrected me with a sour expression on her face. Oakley smirked at me, apparently finding the whole thing pretty funny. I wanted to stomp on his foot but remembered that he had a game this weekend. You didn’t need toes to run, did you?
Brooke turned her attention completely to Oakley. “I’m super excited to be working with you, Oakley! It’s just sooo amazing that you spend your time volunteering,” she chirped, her bubbly voice matching her appearance.
“Nick should be here in about ten minutes,” I interjected. “Then we can go meet Mrs. Kitchen.”
“Oakley, let’s use those ten minutes to give me a chance to get to know you better. That way, I can really give readers an accurate portrayal of their football hero! And if ten minutes isn’t enough, I would be more than happy to meet up later. Maybe over dinner?” Brooke looked hopefully at Oakley.
Good God, Brooke. Get your shit together. “Great idea, Brooke! There’s a table right over here where we can sit and talk while we wait for Nick,” I told her with a big smile. No way was I going to let her try and flirt her way into a late night meeting. I needed this article to be perfect. Brooke’s lips pursed into an actual pout. Brooke and Oakley, who had still not said a single word since I walked over, both followed me silently over to a round table and sat down.
She slowly crossed her legs and bit on the edge of a pen she produced from her purse as we settled in the chairs opposite from her. I glared daggers at her as Oakley’s leg brushed against mine. “So tell me, Oakley, what made you decide to work with this specific charity?”
Oakley leaned forward and rested one of his elbows on the table top. “Well,” he began, “both of my grandparents passed away before I could meet them.”
I turned to stare at him, surprised by these developments. I had all of my grandparents still and was incredibly close to them. I couldn’t imagine a childhood without Nana and Grandpa Dude—yes, his name was actually Grandpa Dude. “I guess you could say I just like the idea of seeing what I’m missing out on. I never got homemade cookies or twenty dollar bills snuck into my palm.”
Brooke grinned like Oakley was the sweetest thing since cotton candy, and if I weren’t completely charmed, I would have been rolling my eyes. “And who are you chatting with today?”
Oakley froze and reached out to grab my knee. I wasn’t surprised that he’d already forgotten her name. “Cassandra Kitchen, wife of Hall of Fame recipient, Albert Kitchen!” I interjected on his behalf. “I think it’ll be a really fun experience for everyone.” Oakley squeezed my leg in appreciation and drifted his fingers teasingly toward my inner thigh. My breath hitched at the heated contact. What the actual fuck was he doing? I kept waiting for him to move his hand, but he didn’t.
“And what do you have planned with Cassandra?”
“We’re going to watch some old football footage,” Oakley replied, running his middle finger along the inseam of my jeans. I chewed on my bottom lip to stop from screaming at him. “I thought she might like that.”
Thought who might like what?
Brooke smiled with dreamy eyes that made me want to push away the table and show off Oakley’s hand. He was like, maybe three inches from nature’s Rubik’s Cube. Maybe closer. Maybe I had no idea why I was suddenly obsessed with his fucking large ass hands. Why was he touching me?
I reached under the table and shoved him away, making his body jerk. The asshole covered his laugh with a cough, then brought his full attention back to Brooke, the pen biter. She hadn’t even noticed; she was too busy tracing the lines of her collarbone and giving him a bedroom stare.
“Are you excited about the upcoming game this weekend?” she asked.
I turned to look at Oakley. His face turned serious, and he immediately threaded his hands together on the table top. It was the most intense I’d seen him since we’d met. “I think we have a solid team this year. We’re bringing our all to practice, and I’m really looking forward to seeing that hard work in a game scenario. I think we are stronger than ever and ready to bring a championship home.”
Brooke quickly jotted down notes. His answer was good. Encouraging. Everything that a publicist would want to hear. I was mentally high-fiving myself and playing out the scene where Coach was telling me how amazing I am and that he’s sorry he was ever rude to me.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a message from Nick.
Nick: Here
Some people might be put off by Nick’s style, but I actually appreciated it. Short and to the point, no flowery chitchat to try and decipher. He walked through the door of the facility, and I immediately recognized him because of all the camera equipment he was carrying. I waved Nick over to the table and made all of the introductions.
“Hi, Nick, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Amanda, and this is Oakley.” Brooke glared at me until I added brightly, “And this is Brooke, the blogger who will be writing up the piece on Oakley.” I really needed to get my head out of my ass and start being more professional. I didn’t need to build a reputation of being difficult to work with. I silently vowed that from here on out, I was going to be super nice to Brooke.
“Is everybody ready to head over to our first meeting?” I asked. I looked at Nick and asked him if he could have his camera ready to take a couple of candid shots of Oakley meeting Cassandra Kitchen. I checked the packet and found the room number. After looking at the map, I started to lead the others down a hallway to the right. Nick took his camera out and started fiddling with it as we walked. I guess he was checking the lighting or exposure or something. I didn’t really know anything about photography except that, to hide a double chin when taking a selfie, you were supposed to hold your phone up above your head. Nick would occasionally stop and look throug
h the lens as we navigated the maze of hallways to get to Mrs. Kitchen’s room. When we got to the right door, Nick checked a couple more things and said he was ready.
I told Oakley and Nick to go ahead of me and Brooke so that Nick could get some quick shots. Oakley knocked on the door, slowly opened it and said, “Hi, Mrs. Kitchen. I’m Oakley.” He started to walk through the door, and I heard Nick’s shutter click before hearing both of them scream, “OH MY GOD!”
My heart pounded, and I was instantly on high alert. The door was open, and both Nick and Oakley stood dumbfounded in the threshold. In the two seconds it took me to reach the entry to her room, I had convinced myself that the guys had just walked in to find Cassandra unresponsive and I was going to have to do mouth-to-mouth. We were at a nursing home, after all. I braced my hand on Oakley’s back and shoved at him, trying to make my way through the door to assess the issues when moans filtered through to my ear.
What the fuck? Was she choking? Why was no one moving? Oakley’s feet were like deep roots in the ground. “Move!” I yelled.
My voice seemed to shock both Oakley and Nick, because they started scrambling to get out of the way. It was like roaches were climbing up their backs with the way they were cringing. Nick’s long, lanky limbs curled as he gagged and pushed Brooke to the side. Oakley started nervously laughing and shaking his head as he exited. A worn voice yelled, “Shut the door!”
I should have connected the dots. I should have known to run like hell. But I’m a stupid bitch.
I waltzed through the door like I was a fucking nursing major and not a publicist. And what I saw was the most intricate threesome I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Wrinkles on wrinkles on wrinkles. Cassandra wore leopard print lingerie and was currently being spit roasted by one man with hair growing out of his oversized ears and another man with dark skin and gray hair. Her mouth was full, so she couldn’t tell me to get out. But I saw the fire in her eyes.