First to Fall

by Lane, Stacy

  “No. I don’t plan on mentioning any of what has gone down. My mom would somehow find a way to make me feel like I’m to blame.”

  “That can’t be true, Jo. Mason lied about his other life. That’s not your fault.”

  “Wanna know what my mom would say to that?” Changing my voice and straightening my back the way she would do, I say. “Jo, if you had locked him down sooner or moved in with him, he wouldn’t have been able to lie so easy.”

  “I want to hope you are exaggerating, but you know your mom better than I know her.”

  Wiping the dew on my hand from the bottle onto my jeans, I drop my chin as I ask, “Did you see Noah’s tweet?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t explain shit.” Chelsea’s flat voice held a tinge of anger.

  Noah used his Twitter account to send the message that he and I were old friends and to please be kind and stop the hate being thrown my way.

  Two sentences are all he came up with. Saying we were old friends was not only incorrect but so vague that the speculators grew more vicious. And he never even mentioned his brother’s name. I felt defeated. I was a nobody and no one was going to listen to me if I tried delivering the actual facts.

  “You still have his number?” Chelsea asks with a jumpy hand.

  “Oh yeah. I put it in my phone days ago. Went back and forth on whether or not to call him myself. I never did, though.”

  “Pull out your phone. Let’s text him.”

  “Why?” I question, even though I reach for my cell phone in my back pocket anyway.

  “Let’s ask him why he didn’t clarify the older picture was you and his brother, your boyfriend. That guy is shady.”

  Handing my phone over to Chelsea, I let her do the typing. She sets my phone down on the counter when she’s done. We both stare at the message screen for a full two minutes, but nothing happens.

  Picking my phone up, I slide it back in my pocket. “I can’t wait for his response all night. I’ll go crazy.”

  “How ‘bout we take your mind off everything with some karaoke?” she grins mischievously.

  “Clever. And that might just work.”

  “Yass!” She claps.

  Chelsea drags me to the DJ’s booth. We scroll through the songs list, and one in particular catches my eye. It’s not a duet. If I perform it solo I’m going to need another bottle of liquid courage. And it’s been a while since I’ve listened to it so I won’t remember the words until I’m up there. But the title alone makes me laugh. There’s at least one person in this bar that will understand the meaning.

  “Will you do this one with me?” I ask Chelsea, tapping a finger on the title.

  She peers down at what I’m pointing to. Pressing her lips together with a suppressed laugh, she says, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. It’ll be fun. No one would suspect us doing this kind of song.”

  There’s a hundred percent chance we’ll make a fool of ourselves, but I’m not worried about it. It’s how I know I should do it. The idea of karaoke is to be carefree and have fun. There’s a room full of people I don’t know, but it’s the group to the left of the stage that I want to entertain.

  Well, the group and one person in particular.

  “I can barely sing, and that’s the point of karaoke. But a rap song, Jo…”

  “White girl rapping,” I pitch. “It’s totally a thing.”

  She purses her lips. “The nineties are making a come-back.”

  We grin, silently agreeing, and sign our names on the list.

  “I’m going to regret letting you talk me into that,” Chelsea bickers while laughing.

  Flagging Cam down, I wait until he’s in front of us to bark with jaunty pep. “We’re going to need something stronger, barkeep.”

  “The words of every person who has or is about to do something stupid,” Cam smirks as he starts mixing a concoction.

  We drink and sit patiently for our turn on the stage. I’m trying to chug mine faster than normal, just in case.

  Chelsea starts canoodling with her husband and the public affection is somewhat awkward when sitting so close. I twist to face forward, passing over Brooks’s blazing stare.

  Marc, thankfully, shifted away from me long ago and there’s no run-in with his inviting crotch. Boundaries were a given when the person wasn’t interested. He’s a nice guy, but I already had one cocky hockey player on my radar.

  This was a tough spot for me to be in. We said we were friends, and I really valued that idea, but you can’t be attracted to your friends. Lines will be crossed. I can see the ending. I can’t keep kissing him and thinking about him when I’m laying in bed at night and not get attached in the way he avoids attachment like someone avoiding a root canal.

  The flirting and kissing and touching needed to stop.

  There’s a tug on the seat of my stool, and then it starts to spin all on its own.

  I’m turned in a 180 to find Brooks standing over me. His long sleeve shirt pulled back over his forearms, exposing the beautiful ink covering them. Gray eyes pop against the blue hat he has turned backward on his head. There’s plenty of space for him to lean against the bar to my right or left. Does he do that? No, Brooks towers over me, stepping one leg between both of mine. His arms fall down on either side of me to lean his hands against the counter.

  We’re very close. It’s very intimate. I’m very turned on.

  “You planning on ignoring me all night?” he drawls out in a husky tone.

  My constant debate is do we remain friends, or do we become those friends.

  “No,” I answer him, and sort of myself.

  Dammit. Why does he have to be so likable and so hot?

  “I am the one who invited you,” he replies all smug.

  Trying to play it cool, I rest an elbow on the counter behind me. “Chelsea did too. But I only responded to you for the pie.”

  “What pie?”

  “I’m out of pie. Since your parents pimp you out, I thought this was a smart way for me to get another pie. I have a request if your mom asks.”

  “Oh yeah,” he smiles playfully. “What’s the request?”

  “Another apple, of course. But also a lemon meringue.”

  He nods his approval. “Good choice. I’ll let her know to make her payments with desserts from now on.”

  Licking my lips, salty from the rim of the glass Cam set in front of me, the dart of my tongue draws his attention. His eyelids drop. The air sparks.

  “Standing this close to me is going to ruin your street cred.” I never take my eyes off Brooks, but the heavy weight I feel pressing down on me cannot be the sexual tension alone. There are eyes everywhere.

  “No one here cares about the Noah bullshit.”

  “I wasn’t referring to Noah. I’m talking about all the hopeful faces out there trying to get your attention.”

  Stepping closer, the top of his thigh pushes further between my legs. I’m all but straddling him.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” his voice drops in a sultry brogue.

  Extending my back, the edge of the counter stabbing into my muscles, I tilt upward to catch another inch of the space I wish didn’t exist. To kiss Brooks in a public place would be the dumbest thing for me to do.

  For as muffled as my head seems, we’re about to do something dumb.

  “You smell good, Angel,” he murmurs, bringing his head closer to mine.

  “Brooks,” I whisper. “What are we doing?”

  His eyes lift to catch my flickering gaze. I’ve had him this close before, but I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time like this. Raw. Without his assured arrogance. Unable to stop the next moment from happening.

  I’m someone who knows all about control. Even I can’t stop this.

  And I don’t want to.

  Please, God, make it happen.

  “Being spontaneous,” he replies. “Fuck the consequences.”

  “I’m terrible at spontaneity.”

  “Let’s work o
n that then,” his breath touches my lips before he does.

  My eyes flutter closed, head tilting back. His arms tighten beside mine, closing us in. The chaotic sounds of the bar hallow out. All I hear is our anticipating breaths twining together.

  Brooks’s leg pushes in and a gasp passes my lips. A fire line starts at the apex of my legs and rockets up my body.

  “Yo!” A holler breaks the moment.

  Brooks pulls away enough to lift his head at the person yelling at us. My eyes pop open. The interruption stopped us cold, but I am still burning.

  Okay. God’s obviously not listening to me.

  “Karaoke,” Cam laughs with a one-word response.

  “We’ve been calling your name,” Chelsea pipes in.

  Swallowing hard, I look away from the tanned, thick ropes in Brooks’s neck. Everyone in our group stared at us like ants in an ant farm. Not sure if they found us fascinating or disturbing. Some grinned and nodded their approval—to be specific, Cam. Chelsea seemed wary.

  “Not free,” Marc declares a little too loud. He starts a drum beat with his fingers and knuckles against the polished bar. “Pay up boys.”

  Claude and Eddie smack cash down in front of Marc.

  At our curious gazes, Marc answers, “I called it. Told the boys we’d lost a wingman.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brooks asks further, not moving an inch from his spot in front of me.

  The excessive attention made me want to bury my face in his lickable, corded neck.

  “You, Brooksy.” Marc speaks to his winnings, folding and tucking the money in his wallet. “It’s been weeks since you hung out with us singles. Amber has been clingy as fuck because you don’t pay her the time of day anymore.”

  I stilled. On one hand, it was refreshing to hear Brooks hasn’t been up to his normal traits, but on the other hand, treating another woman’s name so dismissive in conversation reminded me of the type of men they were. A companion was only used for a romp in the sheets.

  “Jo and I are friends,” Brooks says, pulling himself out of my space. The timing and irony of his response were similar to jumping in a pool during winter. I knew what to expect, but it shocked nonetheless. Turning up the charm, he flashes a smile meant to be playful and funny. “Right, Jo?”

  He and I carried different outlooks on friendship. There should always be an amount of caring and adoration with every friend. I have it with Taytum and Chelsea. But I’m not attracted to them. I will, eventually, want something more if we kept this up. I saw two options as the kind of friend Brooks claimed us to be. It’s unfortunate I also saw me losing him with either choice I made.

  There is no such thing as “just a friend.”

  Damn, I picked the perfect song.

  Straightening, I twist to reach for the remainder of my drink and throw it back. I smile kindly at Cam as he watched with those keen bartender eyes. They’re like naughty priests. They hear all types of confessions, I have no doubt. But they also see what others do not. Cam’s folded arms and locked jaw reminded me of the image protective brothers demonstrate when the guy their sister dates turns out to be a tool. Funny, considering he’s directing the cold front at his own brother over me.

  Without responding to Brooks, Chelsea and I go up to the stage for our karaoke song. Despite the realization that my interactions with this group of hockey people won’t last much longer for me—not including Chelsea—I was still hyped to get up here and perform.

  One good thing will be taken away from meeting the Labelles. Their confidence really has rubbed off.

  “Great choice,” the DJ says to us with approval as we stepped up on the platform. “Kick ass, ladies.” Chelsea shook her head, uncharacteristic embarrassment washing over her. I didn’t face the crowd of patrons yet, but a smile took over my face when the DJ announced to the room, “These ladies are going old school. Sing along if you know the words.”

  He focused on us, mouthed “Ready?” and after we gave the nod, shot a finger.

  I missed the first line in the song, not remembering the lyrics started immediately, and that was why the DJ gave the signal.

  I caught up right about… “Let me tell ya a story of my situation.”

  When the beat kicked in a few lines later, I found my rhythm to Biz Markie and some of the older people in the bar started hollering with recognition.

  There was a half-second pause before the chorus started. That small amount of time proved Chelsea and I had the attention of everyone inside Triplets.

  When I sang that first, one-word opener of the chorus, voices echoed all around and joined in.

  “You, you got what I need. But you say he’s just a friend. And you say he’s just a friend, oh baby.”

  I over-exaggerated the chorus just like Biz. Chelsea picked up the second verse, both of us acting out the scene of catching the girl with her friend. The patrons got even louder by the second chorus. We hopped around and danced on the small stage, enjoying ourselves like we performed every week for thousands in the crowd.

  As the song closed, we both had to follow the prompt. I took over the third verse with Chelsea popping in every few words.

  The song ended and we received a loud cheer of applause and hopped off stage.

  “That!” Claude yelled when we joined the group. “I did not see coming.”

  Vic grinned, clapping and then landing a hungry kiss on Chelsea. “I didn’t know you rapped, babe.”

  Brooks wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Fucking awesome, ladies.”

  Cam set down two fresh glasses on the bar. “I hope we get a repeat of that. Doubt the big dummy picked up on the message.”

  “I heard it loud and clear,” Marc adds, laughing.

  Brooks glances down at me to speak right as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a missed call from my mom, with a voicemail, and followed up with a text message.

  I open the text first.

  Mom: Call me ASAP. Your brother just informed us about you being under fire because of some guy.

  Groaning, I mumble “excuse me” before Brooks gets a chance to say anything about my song choice.

  Finding a quiet spot down the hallway leading to the restrooms, I start to call my mom when I realize Brooks followed me.

  “What’s wrong?” His hand slips around my arm, turning me his way with a gentle pull.

  “My mom heard about Noah. I don’t know what she knows, but my brother told her so it’s likely he made it sound worse than it is.”

  “Would he really do that?” The concept of a deceitful sibling is unfathomable to him.

  “Yes,” I sigh with unfortunate honesty.

  “C’mere.” Brooks’s hand slides down to my hand, intertwining our fingers. He steps out of the hallway and heads toward the bar again, then turns down another hallway behind the bar. Opening a door on the left, we walked into a tidy office.

  A large, oak desk faces the doorway. A couch lines one wall, and two armchairs are positioned across from it on the other side. Four rows of lockers stand just inside the door.

  “It’s quieter in here,” Brooks says, voice clear and loud compared to the shout-talking we exchanged out there.

  “Thanks,” I reply, tapping my phone into my open palm.

  “Uh.” He fidgets, something usual for him. That’s my move. “I’m heading home for the night. So I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “Oh,” my mouth opens in surprise. “Okay.”

  He leans in. A kiss good night.

  A kiss on the forehead.

  He doesn’t look at me directly. I stare as he hesitates in the open doorway.

  Then he’s gone, shutting me inside the office.

  What the hell just happened?

  SEVENTEEN

  Jo

  Confidence. Channel that Labelle swagger, and walk right up there and say…

  “Miss?”

  Faltering my forward motion toward the elevator ahead, I glance left at the interruption of m
y inner pep talk.

  “Hi,” I replied awkwardly.

  The guard relaxing behind a dark mahogany desk raises a bushy black eyebrow. His light-mocha skin begs to be admired, but his bulging biceps scream “don’t even think about running.” This building takes their security seriously.

  “I’m here to see Brooks,” I rush out, and then stumble with, “Labelle. 22A. We’re friends.”

  Argh! That fucking word again.

  And now I sound like a creeper. This chiseled Colossus-man is going to toss me out on my ass.

  “Is he expecting you?” he follows up in a bored tone.

  “Nooo.” I have to stop twitching. He’s going to think I’m a stalker. But I can’t help it. Authority figures make me nervous. I can be completely innocent, but place me in front of a mean mugging mannered person and I’ll confess to crimes I didn’t even commit. “I swear he knows me. You can follow me to his door if you’d like.”

  It will totally ruin my plan, but it’s better than going to jail.

  Can he send me to jail? I’m not a stalker. Just here to proposition a hot hockey player for a fun night in his bed. Dear God, I sound like a prostitute and that is illegal.

  “Mr. Labelle doesn’t have a door,” Super Guard replies, standing from his cushy chair. In retrospect, I don’t know how he hasn’t broken it beneath his weight. “He’s in the Penthouse. He has an elevator.”

  Of course, he does.

  “You’re not a regular so I have to call him.” Hands on hips, he gives me the tough guy look with perfection.

  “A regular?” I question with curiosity. The meaning catches up quick. Pursing my lips with distaste, I mumble. “Oh.”

  Super Guard’s lips twitch.

  Coming here was impulsive. Spontaneous, if I must label it one thing.

  After Brooks walked out of Cam’s office, I called my mom. That conversation played out exactly as I figured it would.

  “What did you do, Jo?”

  “Why are you hanging around these professional athletes who are above us?”

  “I don’t even know my daughter anymore. You should move back home where I can keep an eye on you.”