The Revenge Games Duet

by Kat T. Masen

  He doesn’t own me.

  No one fucking owns me!

  “You’re a jerk. I’m not coming home. So, do whatever the hell you want!” I storm off and start looking for Ash and Logan. Searching everywhere, Karl tries to keep up with me, calling my name frantically. I notice Ash huddled in the corner with his head buried in some girl’s neck. I stomp to them, quick to pull him away.

  “What the fuck, Emmy?”

  “We’re going.”

  “I’m busy.” He motions with his eyes to the girl next to him.

  “He’s married,” I shout at her. “Did you know that? Or you don’t care ‘cause you just want to be known as a whore?”

  The girl stands up on her platform heels, her skimpy dress pulled up past her knees. She has on way too much mascara, so much so you can barely see her eyes in between her thick lashes. “Who you calling a whore?”

  “Uh... you?” I bark with a smile, crossing my arms firmly over my chest.

  I can see a look of shock filter out across Karl’s face.

  He wants drama, he’s damn well got drama. Emerson Chase has her gloves on ready to fight anyone who crosses her path.

  The whore launches herself right at me. Ash attempts to hold her back, while I shout profanities that would make any sailor proud. This is all his fault—he can’t keep his dick in check like every other man. I’m so sick of it, and perhaps the alcohol isn’t helping but it’s heightening my emotions to the point where I have no control anymore.

  My body jerks back, a hand restraining me, removing me from the space where that ditsy whore tried to pull my hair. She fights like a fucking girl.

  “C’mon, Emmy. Just leave them alone,” Logan grits.

  I pull away from him. “Because you condone that?”

  Whore launches for me again, yelling, “You’re nothing but a reality-TV slut.”

  She shouldn’t have said that!

  Trying hard to wriggle my way out of Logan’s grasp is near impossible with the grip he has on my arms. He’s stronger than I anticipated.

  “Ash. Control her,” Logan warns him. “I’m taking Emmy home.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “Well, I’m taking you anywhere but here.”

  Logan drags me away with Karl struggling to follow. We’re almost to the front door when Wes stops me, blocking the entrance.

  Wes’ eyes are wild with jealousy, his veins prominent and scattered all over his red face. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

  “Get out of the way.” Logan raises his voice, keeping his grip tight.

  “I said…” Wesley almost spits, “… you’re not taking her anywhere.”

  “You know what? Fuck you! You don’t own me, Wesley Rich,” I yell into his face. “Go back to your sofa full of sluts.” The adrenaline running through my veins gives me the strength to pull away from Logan and push past Wesley until the fresh air graces my boiling hot skin. Seeking some sort of escape, I spot our limo and slide in demanding the driver take me home.

  Trying to still my heart to no avail, I bury my head into my legs. I hear the door open but ignore it. At this moment I just don’t understand life, or why all the men in my life have this need to act the way they do.

  I don’t look up immediately but smell him instantly. I hate that he smells so good.

  “You’re not going home.”

  “I can handle my own decisions,” I argue back, defeated, and on the verge of tears.

  “Why are you angry at me?”

  “Because you’re all the same. Ash is no fucking different and you’re his best friend.”

  “We’re not the same, Emerson. And I will not allow you to go home.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to get his way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wesley,” I mumble. “He said he was going to have his way with me and that I had no choice.”

  Logan lets out a sinister laugh. “No way you’re going home then. It will be over my fucking dead body.”

  “What do you care anyway? It’s not like you’re my fiancé. Or even my boyfriend. You’re my...” trailing off I stop talking not wanting to say anymore.

  His body slumps, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. I’m sure he feels defeated the same as I am feeling right now.

  “What are you trying to say, Emmy?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “I-I know you,” he stutters. “You always have something to say.”

  “Not this time…” I pause, then retract that comment and voice my thoughts without any care in the world. “We agreed it was one time and that was it. I got off, maybe you got off. It was a great night. Three cheers for knowing how to get a girl off in less than three minutes.”

  Logan lifts his head, watching me with a steady yet pained gaze. Why does he have to be so beautiful? Of all the glamorous men attending the party tonight, why is Logan the one I can’t get out of my head?

  “I just want to go home, Logan. All I want is to lay down and close my eyes.”

  “I won’t take you home… not to him.”

  I shuffle a little closer, resting my head on his lap. When he begins to stroke my hair, I fight to hold back my tears but lose the battle quickly.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m tired…” I cry openly, through thin strained sobs, “… of everything.”

  “Then don’t be.”

  It takes a moment to compose myself then sit up and question him. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re tired of the responsibility. You’re tired of being in front of the cameras. So am I, Emmy. I’m done with it, too. Let’s live a little… just you and me. No one else has to know.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Let’s throw all caution into the wind, have fun, just you and me and no Ash. He doesn’t need to know.”

  “But the show?”

  “They don’t always follow you.”

  “What exactly will we do?”

  “Whatever you want, Emmy. Whatever your fucking heart desires.”

  I smile, through my tears. “Whatever I want?”

  He nods with a grin, staring at my mouth as he runs his finger against my bottom lip.

  I push the button to extend the screen and speak into the speaker, “Ted? Take us to Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What exciting things are there to do on Hollywood Boulevard?” Logan asks, wiping the tears from my face with his thumb while waiting for an answer.

  “Just you wait and see.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Revenge is an ugly disease.”

  ~ Logan Carrington

  “You misled me when we pulled up at Costumes and Toys.” A wicked smile flashes on her face as her bouncing body moves in through the automatic doors.

  When we pulled up to the store, I thought, Okay, she’s kinky and maybe it’s my lucky day. How wrong was I to think it had anything to do with sex?

  I watch Emmy make her way to the wall displaying the wigs, ignoring the urge to grab her body and tell her how fucking sexy she looks in her tight black dress and the shoes. Yeah, don’t get me started.

  “C’mon.” She gestures, calling me over. “Pick a wig.”

  “A wig? When I said let’s have fun, what part of that screamed wig shopping?”

  She shoves a brown, shaggy piece into my chest. “If you wanna play, you gotta keep it a secret.”

  Placing a blonde wig over her head she turns to face me, seeking my approval. I shake my head instantly—I don’t want to be seen with Florence Henderson.

  She searches the wall again and grabs a wig styled in a bob.

  “It’s pink,” I say.

  “Well, duh! What do you think?”

  “The paparazzi will find you in a heartbeat,” I tell her.

  I scan the wall and notice a subtle black wig. Removing it from the hook I place it over her hair, carefully tucking in the loose strands u
nderneath. Her deep blue eyes stare back at me oddly. With just this one gaze, I’m taken back to a time when life wasn’t complicated. When the biggest hurdle was making it home before Mom, so I could cover the gashes on my leg from when I fell over jumping off the tree to prove I could fly.

  And I got this—all from this one stare.

  “That’s better.” I smile.

  “Now you.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes,” she says firmly. “Now stop being a baby and pick a wig.”

  Considering I’ve never worn a wig in my life, the choice seems overwhelming. I settle for a dark blond wig that makes me look like Justin Timberlake from his NSYNC days. It’s either that or a poorly cut piece that will made me a dead ringer for Ozzy Osbourne.

  “Great! Now you need facial hair.”

  I point to my chin. “I have facial hair.”

  “Hmm… yeah, but you’re not hairy enough. You need to look like a man enjoying a Saturday night in Hollywood. Not like Logan Carrington, soccer extraordinaire, taking Emerson Chase out on some wild sex ride.”

  I can’t hide the smirk. “We’re going on a wild sex ride?”

  “Does it look like I’m dressed for a wild sex ride?” She pauses. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

  I can see the blush, yet she’s quick to busy herself, picking up a mustache that will make me look like an aging porn star. “Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask for the final time.

  Ignoring my question completely she finds a hideous-looking pair of reading glasses, thrown into a clearance bin. She also pulls out a bow tie.

  “We’re set,” she beams, deliriously happy for someone who looks like she should teleport back to the seventies with her glasses.

  “I’ve never looked more ridiculous.”

  “I’ll argue that. Remember that Christmas jumper you used to wear? The one our neighbor knitted for all of us, but your snowmen looked like two giant dicks?”

  She had to bring it up. That jumper still gives me the chills, yet my mom insists on keeping the photos of me posing in front of our barely decorated tree. The snowmen do look like two giant dicks. The neighbor absolutely had dick on her mind when she was knitting that piece of shit.

  “Point taken. Where to now?”

  “It’s a surprise... you’ll love it.”

  ***

  The bar’s full of people, but it’s expected for Saturation in LA. There are groups who have empty glasses littering their tables, laughing heavily as their waiter brings a fresh round. There are a few couples who are keeping quiet but engaging in conversation. The music’s loud and streaming through the giant speakers—an R&B remix with some ‘Country Grammar’ to start it off.

  There’s one small table available in the middle. We maneuver our way through the crowd, quickly securing the table which remains dirty with used glasses. The bar stools are high, giving us an advantage and bringing us to eye level with those dancing.

  Aside from the dirty glasses, there’s a menu in the middle of the table. I’m starving and can’t wait to order then I realize it’s a menu of songs—karaoke songs.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I pull the song list out of her hands, demanding she think of something else to do.

  “We need more booze. Loosen your panties mister because karaoke is fun. It’s something I never get to do. Look at all these people!” She lowers her voice while leaning in, “They have no clue who we are. We can do anything we want.”

  Emmy has a point, not one person has recognized us so far. Everywhere you turn, someone has a cell out taking selfies or photographs of their friends.

  “But it involves singing,” I complain.

  “Please?” Pouting her lips, and with eyes wide begging without shame, I finally give in.

  “Fine. But stop giving me the puppy-dog look. Order a round of drinks so I can gear myself up, and don’t pull any girly shit out like Abba or something.”

  She whistles for the bartender, looking terribly pleased with herself when he comes over quickly. I can’t hear what she’s ordering but it doesn’t matter. I’ll drink whatever to lessen the embarrassing performance which is about to happen.

  “All right…” she raises her cocktail and presents her toast, “… to fun times. Let’s go wild and live life to the fullest, if only for tonight.”

  We clink glasses, the both of us drinking it in one hit.

  “Damn, woman...” I almost choke back the burn, “… you could drink me under the table.”

  “I could also fuck you under the table,” she suggests with a straight face. “Or both.”

  I fucking love her boldness. Never wanting to admit to her that her smart mouth challenges me like no other woman has. When Emerson Chase comes out to play, you better have you’re A-game on because she never, ever, backs down.

  I lean forward, bringing my face close to hers. “You’re a fucking tease. Always have been.”

  “Whatever.” She grins, pushing another glass in front of me. Does she want me to be legless tomorrow? I can hold a decent amount of alcohol but I’ve started to feel the effects. “You never look at me that way.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, yeah… like when?”

  “Graduation day,” I tell her. “You wore this pink dress underneath your gown. When the strap of your shoe came undone you leaned forward to fix it. I saw your white lace panties peeking through.”

  She laughs, her beautiful smile unable to hide. “So, you caught a peek at my panties? You really were deprived.”

  “You were bare.”

  “Was I? I don’t remember.”

  “I do.” Raising my glass to my mouth, I hide my smirk. “I wanted to fucking eat it.”

  Her laughter slows down, becoming serious with heavy pants. Mirroring my moves, she hides behind her glass while gazing at me longingly. I want to kiss her mouth, tease her lips with my tongue and fucking taste her. Beneath my shorts my dick rages hard because all it wants is her.

  “Is it hot in here?” She fans herself with a napkin, breaking my gaze.

  “You tell me.” I graze her arm with my fingers. “How wet are you?”

  Her foot travels up my leg, resting in between on my crotch. She pushes against my cock, hard. My body jerks forward at how sensitive it is to her touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her senseless in the restroom.

  “Jane Smith…” The name is called, Emerson pulls away reluctantly.

  “Okay, I’m up next. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.” I force a smile, not being too sure this is the greatest plan in the world.

  For one—I can’t sing.

  And two—I hate singing.

  Karaoke bars are for the brave. Those willing to make an absolute fool out of themselves and continue to go back for more. That, and everyone will be able see my cock standing proud because I have no chance of taming this wild boy.

  She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With microphone in hand, she sways slightly, unable to contain her energy. “This performance is dedicated to all the women in the room that just want to be free. Screw men... we don’t need them.”

  There’s a loud cheer from the crowd—mainly women, of course. Some of whom turn to look at me wondering why she’d say that if I’m her boyfriend, or they’ve spotted the fake mustache which isn’t hard to do. I find myself sinking into the seat, taking the remaining glasses with me and downing them in one go.

  The music begins and I don’t recognize the song until the fourth line. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she sings loudly, drawing the crowd in. “And don’t tell me what to say...”

  The fire in her tune makes her belt out the song in a pleasant voice. I didn’t think she could sing this well. Why haven’t I noticed before? It makes me feel like there are so many things about Emmy I’ve never noticed before or, at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in an
y way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.

  Things like, how she twists the ends of her hair when she’s telling a story, or how when she laughs her eyes light up and you find yourself smiling even if the story isn’t funny. How she crosses her legs and tucks her foot behind her leg, and how when she leans forward the view of her tits is fucking magical.

  The song wraps up and she receives a standing ovation. People yell “Girl Power,” and fist-pump the air. On her way back to the table women stop her and give her a hug—an odd sentiment from a stranger. She lingers and gets caught in conversation enjoying her newfound freedom as a nobody.

  I stand up, clapping my hands as she walks back while I notice the sweat glistening against her pale skin. Fanning her face again with a napkin, she can’t hide the smile while trying to catch her breath.

  “You were amazing. Too amazing. I think they all think I’m the douche you need to dump. Who needs dick? Girl power all the way.”

  She clutches her stomach, laughing. “That was so...” I wait for her to finish, realizing her smile begins to disappear and worry lines cloud her beautiful face. “I felt free.”

  I pull on her hand, motioning for her to sit down. This mood shift annoys the fuck out of me. One minute she’s Miss Confident and the next she’s controlled by that fucking moron, Wesley Rich. I saw it in the limo the way he manipulates her, and she justifies it by saying it’s all for the cameras. Their relationship is nothing like mine and Louisa’s.

  Fuck, don’t even think about her now.

  You can’t compare Emmy and Louisa.

  “Why do you constantly remind yourself that you’re trapped? What’s a piece of paper, Emmy? A contract means nothing if you’re unhappy. I don’t fucking get it.”

  “Out of all people, Logan, you should understand. Your life revolves around your name signed on the dotted line. You’re bound, legally, to the Royal Kings. Imagine if your coach started treating you like shit and you had no way of getting out?”