by Kat T. Masen
Gross. Nobody wants to see their brother making out. Ever.
I grab a beer off the tray, almost chugging it in one go. It doesn’t sit too well in my stomach. My body’s used to the high-end martinis at Hollywood parties. But I don’t want to be that person, especially in front of the boys mainly because I’ll never hear the end of it.
We decide to play a game of pool. Ash and Alessandra versus Logan and me. It’s great to let our hair down, and even better that the four of us can unwind in a place where no one knows who we are. In the eyes of the few patrons hanging around, we’re a bunch of rowdy drunks playing pool in the corner. I crave this type of solitude. Filming a reality show means we’re always followed by cameras.
Cliff believes that to catch the essence of a person’s life, cameras need to be around them twenty-four-seven.
Thankfully, after much negotiation, they permitted me to be camera-free for the weekend.
Ash and Logan are in the same boat. Their back-to-back wins mean they’re in the public eye more than they care to be. Soccer’s huge in Europe, and overnight the two of them became household names.
Side-tracked by my thoughts, I catch up to the conversation which happens to be about Star Wars. It forces me to walk back to the bar to order something my stomach will agree with.
“Hey, Harry,” I greet in a chilled voice with menu in hand. “What do you recommend?”
Harry doesn’t make eye contact, wringing a hand towel while chewing on a piece of tobacco. “You’re a lightweight. Maybe a glass of ginger ale.”
I scrunch my face, shuddering at the thought. “What about a martini?”
He throws the towel on the bench, resting his palms on the edge of the counter while watching me. “You’re that Chase kid.”
I nod, smiling politely and putting on the charm. I don’t know where this is going, but by the way Harry’s watching me suspiciously it doesn’t look good.
“One of,” I answer, clearing my throat. “Emerson.”
His stare doesn’t budge making me very uncomfortable. “You’re the one that left the gate open and let Rufus out.”
“Rufus?” It jogs my memory and without raising too much suspicion, I glance sideways tapping on the counter pretending it wasn’t me. Of course, I let Rufus out. He was an overweight bulldog who looked sad behind the wired gate. I thought he needed to live a little. Mind you, I was eight. My perception of living meant running wild without a care in the world. How was I to know Rufus would run away and never come back?
What’s that saying again? Something about ‘letting something go, and if it doesn’t come back it was never meant to be.’
“So, about that martini?”
He bites down on his teeth releasing a small growl while grabbing a glass and making the martini. I take the opportunity to wander over to the jukebox. Scanning the songs, I notice there’s nothing after nineteen-ninety, leaving very few choices. I settle on some Prince then head back after grabbing my martini from Harry.
“You know what his problem is?” Ash shouts, sliding the cue between his fingers and aiming straight for the red ball that’s nestled amongst the others in the corner.
I shrug, looking at Logan for some insight as to what we’re talking about because a moment ago it was Star Wars.
“He’s a dick,” he finishes.
“Wait! Dad’s a dick?”
“Yep,” he says with conviction.
“In all fairness, he’s done nothing but support you. Remember when you were fourteen and you begged to do that soccer camp in Spain? Dad took time off work so you could go.”
His eyes lift to meet mine, they’re full of anger and resentment. “So what? He wanted his only son to play soccer.”
I have a whole argument planned out—it involves telling him that he’s ungrateful and should thank Mom and Dad for the sacrifices they made so he could play—but I decide against saying anything.
Ash and Logan lived and breathed soccer. When they turned thirteen, it was clear their obsession wasn’t going away. Suddenly, it was soccer training after school each day, and no longer the trips to the lake where we would devise our plans to prank people in our neighborhood.
That year was defining for me. It was always the three of us, whatever we did or wherever we went. I tried to play soccer with them, but didn’t have their passion or drive. I found myself pulling away and hanging out more with the girls at school.
Funnily enough, you stop hanging out with boys and all the girls want to do is talk about boys. Boys, boys, boys. The world just can’t exist without them.
Life changed after that. With Logan’s dad being a deadbeat and never showing up to games, Dad took it upon himself to quit his job and travel with the boys to various soccer camps. Logan’s mom, Aunty Reese, is Mom’s best friend. She was having a difficult time with the divorce and worried that Logan would rebel.
There would be no time for rebelling. They proved they had the skills even at a young age. Dad, Mom, and Aunty Reese agreed that homeschooling would work best given their hectic schedule leaving me alone to fend for myself in high school.
I shouldn’t complain—I had fun. I dated boys, did the whole cheerleader squad thing and lost my virginity in senior high to a guy named Dick. False advertising. His ‘dick’ was all talk, no action. One of those jocks that talked the talk but definitely did not walk the walk.
Everyone was so proud of Ash and Logan. They had a bright future and I sat back and watched until my life did a complete one-eighty.
I guess as kids, none of us expect to be where we are. Our lives are constantly under scrutiny and in front of the cameras being judged by the whole world.
Alessandra is sitting on the stool beside me, drinking water and keeping quiet. Ash continues to act like a dick and goes back to ignoring her.
This isn’t her fault.
She’s fallen in love with a loser.
Should I even be using the word love?
How do you fall in love with someone after knowing them for five minutes? Impossible.
“I’m sorry about my brother.” I lean into her trying to make my voice heard over the music.
“Your brother is... passionate,” she responds with a gentle smile.
“Interesting choice of word. You can call him an asshole, it’s okay.”
She shrugs half-heartedly. “He’s my husband. In my family we don’t call our husbands that.”
Averting my eyes and lowering my gaze, I try not to let my feelings show. Am I that much of a bitch toward Wes? Here’s a woman who’s committed to a man she met and married the same night, and here she is telling me, in her own way, she’ll stick by his side no matter what. Wes and I have been together for three years, and the engagement has me questioning everything.
The uncertainty is honestly driving me insane.
His lack of responding to my messages is driving me insane.
I pull out my cell again and tap on the message I sent him. It shows me it’s been read but still no response. Fucking asshole!
“Can I ask you something?” I question, controlling my voice and pushing aside my irritation. “Since you’re my sister-in-law and all.”
The endearment keeps her smiling. “Sure.”
“How did you know you wanted to marry him? What pushed you past your doubts? I mean, surely, you would have had some doubts?”
“No doubts,” she answers confidently. “He made me smile, laugh, and feel alive. I’ve never felt all those three things in one moment. When he asked me to marry him, I agreed because if he could make me feel that way for the rest of my life then what a life to live.”
My gaze shifts toward my brother, angrily slamming the ball and cussing at his poor shot. Logan stands behind him, heckling and calling him soft. I wonder if Alessandra feels that way now, witnessing the darker side of my brother. I just can’t see what she sees—someone who makes you smile, laugh, and feel alive?
I want to ask her specifically what makes her feel alive. It can
be interpreted in so many ways.
Have I ever felt alive? Surely, I must have.
Yet, as I try to think of the moments when I felt alive, I can only think of when Wes proposed. Our relationship has been calculated from the moment we met, and maybe that’s what has allowed the doubt to creep in. We’re both programmed to feel or act a certain way, and by now, it’s become second nature.
“Are we going to kick his ass or are you going to stand there acting all girly?” Logan hisses from across the table, watching me intensely with his eyes fixed on mine.
“Who you calling a girl?” I slam my palm onto the table on purpose, holding back the pain which ricochets up my arm.
“The person standing across the table wearing a dress with pussies all over it.”
Lowering my eyes, I gaze at the pattern on my dress—it’s navy with scattered kitten faces. The halter neck combined with flared skirt make it very vintage. The designer’s known for thinking outside the box—something I admire about her clothing.
“Kittens. And I’ll have you know that an upcoming designer gave me this dress as a present. I happen to love it,” I answer defensively.
“Shit, Emmy…” Ash laughs. “Maybe you need to switch teams. Team pussy.”
Logan raises his hand to his mouth, trapping in his laughter. “If you can’t beat ’em eat ’em.”
Ash erupts into laughter, smacking his hand against the table. Logan’s no better with his snide remark and arrogant laughter only irritating me more. Just like always, they gang up on me, teasing me relentlessly about anything and everything. Some things never change, and for once in my life, I kind of missed this—letting my hair down and just being me. Pussy dress and all.
I brush it off like it doesn’t bother me, walking across to the other side of the pool table. Grabbing the spare cue, my eyes dart back and forth analyzing the game. I have zero chance. The orange ball’s too far left and I’m not that good of a player to rebound it off the side and into the pocket. The blue one’s an inch away from the black, which is positioned so close to the pocket I’ll end the game for the both of us.
Fuck. I don’t like to lose either, especially to my dipshit brother.
Leaning down, my body angles along with the cue, my eyes focusing in on the orange ball. I have a small chance of making the shot, and just when I’m about to push forward, I feel Logan’s body lean on the back of mine. Resting his hand on top of my own, the warmth engulfs my skin as he applies pressure and directs my aim to the blue ball. “Aim for the blue ball,” he whispers in my ear. “Toward the left, nice and slow.”
The muscles in my stomach spasm in fits of laughter. I accidentally press back into him, connecting with his crotch. My laughter is impossible to contain, my body almost falling limp onto the table.
“Do you know how funny that sounded?” I let out between breaths. “Aim for the blue balls, nice and soft?”
I slow my breathing, still unable to hide my grin from his lame request. I think I’ve calmed down enough until Logan brings my body up and against his. His grip is tight and the heat of his skin is wrapped all around mine in this uncomfortable position.
“I said aim for the blue ball. But hey… nice to know where your mind is at.”
The smartass applies pressure on my hand, pulling back slightly then forward as we watch the white ball roll slowly toward the blue ball avoiding any movement from the black.
I want to jump with excitement, but I’m well aware his crotch is firmly against my ass and he’s far from soft.
Oh my God... what the hell is happening? It’s got to be the beer mixed with the martini. I must be imagining things. Logan is gross. Has been since we were little. He’s the same boy who thought dumping slugs in my socks would be fun.
Shit! He had slugs all over his hands and now you’re letting him touch yours?
“That’s cheating,” Ash hurls at us while clutching his cue with a tight grip.
“What does Coach always say? There’s no ‘I’ in team, Ash,” Logan notes, the amusement lighting up his eyes.
“Fuck you! It’s like we’re back in middle school. The two of you ganging up on me when I wanted to dress as a cowboy for Halloween, and you guys wanted to be Power Rangers.”
“Dude, we were ten. Cowboys are for sissies and the last time I checked, your dick wants pussy only.”
I shake my head, motioning for them to stop. “Please don’t talk about Ash’s organs in any type of sexual way.”
“Like you’re one to talk, Carrington. How many chicks came back to your hotel at the airport?” Ash asks with a menacing gaze while spilling Logan’s dirty little secret.
Something holds back my laughter, watching Logan pause with a haunted smile. What a sleaze. Perhaps I wasn’t imaging his ass probe just then. I just didn’t expect it from him. Logan once told me he wouldn’t make me his girlfriend if I were the last girl on earth covered in bacon and cotton candy—his two favorite things.
“A gentleman never tells,” Logan answers in a decidedly odd tone.
“Bullshit. You’re just saying that in front of the girls. You told me they both blew you while you poured tequila all over their mouths.”
Logan’s face changes, almost to anger for bringing it up.
How our conversation has changed since the days since when we were little. We could spend hours talking about The X-Files and aliens roaming the earth, and now we’re talking about Logan being some sex god that got off on demeaning women. What the fuck?
“All right, can we move on? You’re both jerks and I need another drink,” I say. Yelling out to Harry for another round on me, he nods, but this time I swap beers and martinis for shots of tequila.
“Like you’re one to talk, Emmy. Have you seen the porn out there of you?” Logan snickers, continuing on, “Didn’t realize you were that kinky.”
In between my shocked expression Ash’s face quickly tightens with his eyes wide and full of rage.
“Firstly, Photoshop is a magical program if you know how to use it. Secondly, I’m not stupid… I would never pose nude. I learned my lesson the time I sunbathed in Greece and had an accidental nip slip. But hey, I didn’t know you like to Google naked images of me?” I reverse my shock and stare at Logan, battling with his gaze as neither one of us backs down.
“Harry,” Ash shouts, breaking the awkward stand-off between Logan and me.
Harry slides the tray of shots over the countertop. Alessandra’s quick to bring them over to us.
Ash puts a shot glass to his mouth, allowing it to linger while eyeing Logan. “Don’t ever talk about my sister that way. You got it?”
Logan grabs a shot, tilting his head to the side with a smirk. “Emmy’s a reality star. The whole world knows her business. Right, Emmy?”
“Fuck you,” I fume, downing a shot until the burning sensation halts my breathing for a second. My chest begins to burn as it slowly makes it way down but then disappears as the tequila warms my entire body. “You see what the producers want you to see. I’m not the same girl you once knew and watching me on TV doesn’t make you know me.”
Ash raises his glass in the air. “Okay, fuck! Can we seriously just toast to something? I’m sick of this bullshit. Let’s be us for the night.”
I nod in agreement, lifting another glass and raising it in the air. “To us... back together again. Except, no more pranks.”
“No more wet willies,” Logan adds, with a disgusted look directed at Ash.
“No more swapping your chocolate for laxatives,” Ash says plainly.
“That was you?” I turn to face him in shock. “I blamed Logan for that this entire time!”
“Who else knew you snuck chocolate into your room and ate it before bed?”
“Oh my God, Ash! Why couldn’t you be a normal brother and like read my diary or some shit?”
He places his hand on Logan’s shoulder, still holding the shot in his fingers. “I did read your diary...” he pauses for dramatic effect then continue
s, “Dear Diary, today I saw Logan take his shirt off at the pool. He had such big muscles and looked sooo hot...”
My face began to heat up, remembering the one time I wrote about Logan. One. Fucking. Time! I was fifteen and hormonal.
Yes, my hormones were cuckoo and smoking crack or something that day... month... year... whatever.
“I never said that.” I try to brush it off while keeping my cool.
“Aww… Emmy, did you have a crush on me?” Logan teases, placing his arm around me and kissing my cheek.
“No, you douche, I was merely pointing out your transition from puberty. Now, let’s drink.” I pull away, avoiding this uncomfortable conversation and downing the shot in one go.
My throat’s immune to the burn now, allowing the clear liquid to slide smoothly.
The boys are loud and making a scene while reminiscing about the first major soccer game they played when Ash pissed his pants on the field. Alessandra seems to enjoy the conversation, laughing along with us.
In the corner of my eye, the light of my cell illuminates my purse. It’s sitting at the top, within arm’s reach. Thinking it is Wes, I enter my passcode and see Nina’s name appear.
Nina: Call me NOW.
With my cell in hand, I tell them I need to make a call, moving my way through the deserted bar and outside where the noise has diminished. The air out here is much cooler, the darkness illuminated by the sign on Harry’s bar with one bulb flashing bright.
I dial her number quickly, waiting as the cell continues to ring.
“Emerson, we need to talk.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’re talking.”
“Something’s happened. And before I tell you what it is, I just want to say I’m sorry and you deserve better.” Her voice softens, almost into pity.
I laugh nervously through the receiver. “Let me guess, they canceled the show?”
“No. I just received a call and email from this guy who claims he’s part of that paparazzi mob in Europe who follow the Royal Family. It’s about Wesley.”