Over the Fence Box Set

by Carrie Aarons

  He has no intention of getting to know me. Or spending any extra time with me. The thought wounds me, but it shouldn’t. He’s made everything plain as day.

  “Yep. I’ll email you about songs and costumes. How do you feel about ‘Man of La Mancha’?”

  Miles just rolls his eyes.

  5

  Miles

  The crack and hiss of the beer can as it opens sends a satisfying tremor through my pores. There is nothing I need more now than this third, no make that fourth, beer.

  Sitting on our couch, post-Friday classes but pre-Friday night parties, I’ve tried to forget the way Chloe’s silky skin felt under my fingers last night.

  It’s been consuming my mind for thirty-six hours, all of that delicate, bronzed skin under my hands. And her smell, I can’t get that fucking heady combination of cinnamon and vanilla out of my nose. It’s like she marked every inch of me with her scent. I can’t escape it.

  That fucking princess.

  I take a hard swig of the ice-cold IPA, trying to focus on the afternoon game gracing the television screen. There is nothing better than baseball and beer. Besides maybe a good woman. One who won’t open her mouth or direct bright, sunny smiles at you.

  Her niceness is irritating. Every insult I throw at her seems to repel off of her, coming back onto me and making me feel doubly shitty. She’s definitely one of those people who think therapy helps. You can just tell it about her. It’s like she’s trying to figure out my head, treating me with kid gloves. I loathe it.

  But for one second there, just an instance on Thursday night, I was ready to take her against the studio wall. When our eyes held as her slim form was pushed up against me, I’d felt like an animal. I was ready to tear at her tiny leotard and expose those hardened nipples, the ones I could feel brushing against my chest. I’m stiff as a board just thinking about it.

  “Fuck,” I growl at no one in particular.

  So I want to fuck her. That isn’t anything special. She’s a chick, a good-looking one at that. It doesn’t mean anything. I just have to get through this dumb-ass dance competition.

  Dancing. I haven’t done it in so long, but you know what they say about riding a bike. Bet the guys didn’t count on me having skills when they voted me in as the Kappa Sig contestant. But I have them all right. My mother had me in those stupid classes until I was fourteen.

  That’s when I was offered a spot on the high school varsity baseball team as only an eighth grader. It would take over my life, consume everything I’d had going on before. I told my parents if they didn’t let me do it, I’d off myself. After everything our family had been through, they knew the pain of losing a child wasn’t something you took lightly.

  They’d given in to my love of baseball, that time. I didn’t know how much longer that was going to work.

  The front door opens, the rusty hinges protesting in a squeaky groan, and the TV shakes on its stand as Owen stomps in with our other roommate, Clint Bellows. I stay on the couch, hoping they’ll bypass me to go to their own rooms. I love my friends, they’re the brothers I’d never have, but lately, I want nothing to do with them.

  “Hey, bro, what game is this?” Too late. Clint sits down on the right end of our large gray sectional, the cushions sagging under his weight. He’s a hefty dude, but for some reason, he’s been trying to work the weight off with two-a-days.

  I ignore him, instead, downing the rest of my beer in three long gulps. I chuck the empty can over my shoulder at the recycling bin sitting in the corner by the door.

  “What number ya on there, buddy?” Owen’s checking up on me again.

  “You’re not my fucking father. I know you’re all shacked up now, but doesn’t mean you have to act whipped when Minka’s not around.” I am a prick.

  “Watch the way you talk about my girlfriend, Farris. We get it, you’re a tough prickly son of a bitch now. If you don’t want to see us, why not just move out?”

  Why don’t I leave? Because … deep down, I want someone to fight for me. Fight with me. Do something to show me that I am important to them.

  “Maybe I will, dick.” With that, I get up, walk to the fridge and grab another cold beer.

  “How are things going with the dance competition, twinkle toes?” I hear Clint snickering like a fool.

  Walking back in and reclaiming my spot on the couch, the pop and fizz as I open the can sends another delicious tingle down my spine. “You mean with the princess? It’s fine.”

  “Who’s princess? I thought you were dancing with Chloe …” Owen’s confused expression causes me to sneer.

  “Princess is Chloe, dumb-ass. Mrs. The Sun Shines Out of My Ass. Whatever, she’s good though. But don’t tell her I said that. I think we have a shot to win. And I have a shot at not getting kicked out of Kappa Sig. Which also means I have a shot of not getting beaten to death by my father.”

  On my left, Owen straightens up where he’s sitting on the couch. “Hey, man, that’s not funny. Does your dad really hit you?”

  I laugh, but it sounds strangled. “Yeah, right. That would mean him ruining a perfectly coiffed inch of his exterior. No, he’d get back at me in some other, more maniacal way. Trust me.” I tilt my head to take a swallow so they can’t see the anguish on my face. The beer feels like broken glass sliding down my throat.

  Owen looks a little taken aback. I don’t talk about my father, ever. I’m not even sure why I’m opening up now. Thankfully, he changes the subject.

  “About Chloe. She’s not a princess, you fucker. Far from it. Just because she grew up with money doesn’t make her a horrible person. Something I think someone like you would know.” He pats my shin which is resting on the couch. “Minka told me that when Chloe isn’t practicing ballet back home, which she does roughly thirty hours a week, she was slinging dough and waiting tables at her family’s restaurant.”

  He gives me that fucking knowing glance that he loves to flash around. Fucking Axel, always trying to get me to take the moral high ground or grow up or some other stupid shit like that.

  “Whatever.” I pretend to be scrolling through my phone.

  “Hey, have you talked to Kelsey recently? Minka has been trying to get a hold of her.”

  Clint looks at me, Owen’s looking at Clint. I snort. “Pretty sure that one’s directed at you, lover boy.” Clint’s ears turn pink when I point at him.

  “Shut up, Farris. We’re friends, she’s a great girl. And yeah, I have, but she’s on a three-day safari now so tell Minka she’ll probably be back early Monday morning our time.”

  Friends? Could have fooled me. I wouldn’t be surprised if this little slim down of his has something to do with Musketeer Number Three. Not that Clint would ever express his feelings to her. He’s too damn nice.

  Speaking of that, I probably wouldn’t be talking to him either right now, on account of his cheery disposition, except for the fact that I’ve lived with him for two years. I’ll give him a pass for now. But no way does Ballet Barbie get one.

  Three hours later and I’m another three beers deep, when something vibrates under my ass.

  Fumbling around, I almost miss the call and hit accept without even looking at the name flashing on the screen.

  “Uh … Hello?” It comes out as a cough.

  “Son, glad I could catch you.”

  Fucking hell. If I’d known it was him, I would have turned my phone off.

  “What do you want?”

  My father’s irritated sigh comes through the phone. “Miles, we need to schedule the office tour we spoke about in August. I’m going to need you to start showing face here before your internship. The employees are going to want to know their future CEO.”

  “I’m not working at the company. We’ve been over this.”

  He decides to ignore me. “Perhaps, I can have Aerospace Money Monthly accompany us on the tour, get some shots of you and I—”

  “Charles!” I haven’t called him Dad, or even Father, in years. “Get
this through your head. I’m not working for Farriston Aviation. I’m not interning, and I’m definitely not becoming a CEO. I want to play baseball. And I’m going to the majors.”

  Silence resounds from the other end of the line. Then, in a quiet, but tyrannical tone, he says, “You are Miles Wenworth Farriston. Of the Farriston fortune. It is your duty and responsibility to your family to finish college, take a job with the company, and work your way up to CEO. It’s what your grandfather did, it’s what I did, and it’s what your brother would have done. Or don’t I need to remind you of Jason?”

  His words slice into my heart like the sharp pain of a knife. He’s always got to use Jay against me. Fucking prick.

  “Don’t forget how you have the ability to play that little sport of yours, Miles. Who’s money funds that big-time university education you’re getting. We agreed, you could play through college. But after that, you’re done. It’s time to grow up and come home.” Charles’s words mock me, reminding me that my life hangs on every check he writes.

  “I have to go.” The beer is making my mind fuzzy, I can’t argue properly.

  “Get me that date, Miles.” And the line goes dead.

  I push myself up off the couch and stumble down the hall to my room. There is so much pent-up rage running through my bones, that I could definitely punch the wall right now. I settle for my pillow, not wanting one of the guys to come running when I smash plaster. I go at it, once, twice. Stamping my fist as hard as I can into the soft down material, imagining my father’s blood covering my knuckles.

  It’s my responsibility, he’d said. What about what makes me happy? It has never occurred to my parents to care about that though. We are Farristons, you do what benefits the family. You fall in line.

  My duty was to become the next CEO of Farriston Aviation. The company has been around since 1924, when my great-great-grandfather got the brilliant idea to cash in on the new trend, flying airplanes. The technology wasn’t as advanced back then, but today? Our company manufactures fuselages, high-lift wing systems, vertical tails. All to the highest paying airlines in the world. And I want absolutely no part of it.

  I agreed to come in as a business major because I knew it would get my father off my back, and allow me to do what I really want. Play baseball. But, when I sit through those classes, it feels like my brain is melting, or just permanently switched to autopilot mode. Pretty ironic, huh?

  The stuff just doesn’t interest me. And I don’t want to waste my life doing anything other than what I love with a passion, because it’s gone way too soon. Jay had shown me that.

  So that’s what I am going to do tonight. Live for the moment, get a little reckless. As long as that doesn’t land me in jail, who the fuck cares?

  6

  Chloe

  Another thing I like about college? The parties.

  The people, the loud music, the liquor. It’s exactly what I need at the end of a long week, and the occasional Tuesday night, to let my hair down. Although, when I’m out at the off campus houses, packed to the brim with students, I do miss Kelsey. Not that I don’t miss her every second of the day, she’s like one of my limbs, but partying just isn’t the same without her funky energy. Minka comes out, she never lets me go alone, but she’s not as social, and usually holes herself up in some corner making bedroom eyes at Owen. Eventually, those bedroom eyes cause them to leave early most nights.

  I’ve been talking to the cornerback of the football team, Steven Bryant, who lives here, for about half an hour now, sipping my third cranberry and vodka. I’m tipsy, but not overly so. I’m in that happy place where everything is mellow but I don’t feel sick yet.

  “So, you’re a dancer, right?” His question comes off as if he wants to get to know more about me, but his eyes tell me something different entirely. He wants to sleep with me. That’s okay, I’m not opposed to it. He’s cute, has a nice body, he’s engaging in a conversation with me instead of trying to grind into me on the dance floor. I haven’t decided if I want to sleep with him yet. I’ve done the one-night stand thing a couple of times, out of necessity.

  Doing it with Steven would probably be okay, except I can’t get the thought that he wouldn’t be as good as Miles out of my head. I wish there were a technology where you could flush the feelings of a crush out of your system.

  A loud, screeching sound comes from the back wall where the speaker system is set up. I look over to see Miles, splayed out on the floor, covered in alcohol and red cups that had previously been sitting on the speaker which is now laying over his upper half. Oh, crap.

  My head is on a swivel as I frantically search the room for Owen. He’s got to get Miles out of here. Miles is already in enough trouble with the Kappa’s from the rumors I’ve heard around campus, and when I saw him earlier, he looked drunk enough to puke at any minute.

  Finally, I spot Owen and Minka through the doorway in the kitchen, where he’s between her legs while she’s propped up on the kitchen counter. They’re going at it like no one else is in this house.

  “Sorry to break up the lovefest, but Miles just knocked over a speaker in the living room and is lying on the floor. You have to go help, Owen.”

  Owen breaks off their kiss with an angry grunt and slams his fist down on the counter. Minka just looks worried. “Christ … nah. I’m done picking up his messes. He’s done nothing but destroy himself this year. Maybe facing some consequences will do some good.” His jaw tics, like he’s tensing every muscle in his body.

  I turn to Minka, who is usually vocal about her opinions, but here, she’s toeing the line. She and Owen must have discussed Miles’s behavior at length.

  I turn, not knowing what to do. We can’t just all leave him there. He’s our friend. Well, not really my friend, but he’s friends with my friends.

  I head back into the living room, where the guys in the house are trying to pick Miles up and get the music back on at the same time. They shove Miles against the wall, and he leans on it like the world might fall. One of the football players is descending on him, getting in his face about messing up their stuff. Without thinking, I cut in.

  “All right, boys. It’s clear this fella has had a bit to drink, let’s calm down. I’ll take it from here.” I bat my eyelashes an extra time for effect in Steven’s direction, and he waves the other guys off.

  I grab Miles’s enormous frame and shoulder his weight as I wrap my arm around his waist and drag us from the room. I need to get him cleaned up before I try to send him home. One look at him and campus police, or worse real cops, will be way too curious about where he’s been.

  He’s making it difficult to walk, not only because of his bulk, but because he’s resisting my help.

  “Get off me, Ballet Barbie. I don’t need your help.” He’s slurring his words a bit and pointing his finger at what he thinks must be my face. Instead, he’s pointing at my boobs.

  “I’m trying to help you … just … come with me.”

  Lord knows how I manage to heave him up the stairs, but I do, and find a private, quiet bathroom that I shove him into.

  “Is this another one of your attempts to hookup, princess? Because I mean at this point, fine. Less just do it … but only if you’re going to suck my dick. Because I really like blow jobs.” He giggles at himself. Meanwhile, my face is blotchy and searing with shame.

  I ignore him, pressing on with my mission of helping him. Someone has to.

  His olive-green button-down is covered in stale beer, and he’s ripped through the right sleeve, a medium-sized cut oozing blood. I’m going to have to take his shirt off to clean that up.

  I grab him like he’s some sort of doll and sit him on the closed toilet. I push him back, and he grins suggestively at me. Mortification burns my cheeks, but I press on, unbuttoning his shirt while he whistles at me. Finally, I get it off and begin to take tissues, wetting them in the sink to clean off his cut. Minka’s the nurse, why isn’t she doing this?

  Bringing the wet wads
of soggy tissue over to his arm, I wipe at the cut and then apply pressure, trying to make it clot. Miles is staring off into the distance, lost to this world for the time being.

  It’s then that I allow myself one peek at his chest.

  He’s broad, but that’s not a big enough word. Humongous, colossal? Miles is for sure the most enormous person I’ve ever met. His chest is solid, his creamy pecs sculpted and pronounced. He arms, which I’ve seen countless times before, are roped with muscle, and look like they could lift my car straight over his head. His abs are chiseled boulders, each level more incredible than the next. The tiny curls of blond start at his pecs and cover his chest until they dip down below his jeans. My whole body flushes with the image of what is underneath that material.

  And then I notice it. The small black script running across his left rib. We dream so we don’t have to be apart so long.

  “What’s this mean?” I run my finger across it, and Miles gasps.

  He sits up, suddenly crowding into my space in the tiny bathroom. He looks enraged.

  “What do you want, huh? Why are you always coming around me? If this is what you really want, then fine. I’ll fucking give it to you.”

  Miles charges me, my body so shut down with shock at his outburst that I have no control over my limbs. He slams me, hard, against the tiny bathroom wall, and before I can think, his mouth is on mine.

  My heart leaps into my throat, and it feels like my body is vibrating I’m so aroused. My impulses and reactions feel like they’re on a three-second time delay, I’m not registering what happens until Miles has moved on to another tactic. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. I’ve dreamed about it, imagined how it would happen and what he would say. I don’t think half-drunk in a disgusting bathroom is what I had in mind, but I make the best of any situation.