Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 12
Looking a tad sheepish, he shows me his hand. “I didn’t know how much to use for your hair length.”
I laugh. “We can use what’s left to clean the shower when we’re done.”
“That bad?” His boyish look is endearing, a sharp contrast to his aloof behavior at the beach the first day I met him.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, still a little taken aback by his thoughtfulness.
Tentatively, and with less confidence than I’ve seen from him yet, he proceeds to wash my hair, gathering it up and taking a lot of care to make sure it’s gentle and thorough. He’s covered in suds, fingers to elbow, elbow to chest when he begins to rinse my hair, and when it’s all said and done, we’re standing in a foam pit of shampoo.
His hands grip my hips and, looking down into my eyes for a second in which neither of us speaks, he studies me before covering my mouth with his. His tongue teases my lips, parting them with an unspoken request that I don’t hesitate to grant. I’m ready to end this delicious torture he thinks he needs to maintain because of something I said to sound respectable.
My hands fumble miserably at the ties of his swim shorts, an embarrassing display of my nerves and inexperience. How am I supposed to live up to a reputation I truly haven’t earned? And then it dawns on me: with Vance, I’m not a reputation. I’m not a rumor he’s trying to prove or discredit. I’m just Brenna.
Vance grabs my hand, stilling my efforts and undoing my progress with his firm grip. With his lips pressed to mine, he says, “Not yet. We’re going to do this the right way.”
I try to ask what could be more right than this, but he kisses me again and all thought, all reason, loses any value it had a moment ago.
When he comes up for breath, I’m tempted to try my hand at his shorts again, but he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my attention to his gaze. “Someday,” his eyes lift and lower, looking from my eyes to my lips, “you’ll thank me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Early the next morning, my house and Bristol’s third degree loom outside of the Spyder’s passenger window. I’m already dreading the twenty questions I know I’ll be bombarded with the second I step through the front door.
“What time is your flight?” I ask, worried about his two-and-a-half-hour drive back to San Jose. I offered to make other arrangements, but he wouldn’t hear of it or even discuss it beyond my initial offering.
“Two,” he replies, touching my cheek. “Stop worrying. They won’t leave without me.”
“I don’t want to be—”
He kisses my lips, silencing my protest in the best way possible. “You won’t be. I’ll call you tonight.”
I kiss him, taking the lead, and perhaps a presumptive foot forward, but when his hand presses on the back of my head and his tongue passes my lips, I don’t question my confidence a second longer.
Bristol, looking like she hasn’t slept in a day, is antsy to hear all the details of my time with Vance. I don’t know what I expected, but her cheerful curiosity isn’t it. She’s amped on something. Caffeine? I don’t know, but she’s cleaned the house so thoroughly the kitchen tile sparkles, and it’s only nine a.m. Normally, I would think my mom trying to stave off a breakdown was responsible for the glowing house, but Bristol, still wearing rubber gloves to her elbows, kind of nixes that theory.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because Bristol only cleans when it’s a punishment or she wants something that requires money or approval.
“Yeah, why?” She wipes her brow with the inside of her shoulder and takes a deep breath.
I look around the house, so clean, it smells new, “Uh—”
“Oh! The cleaning.” She chuckles. “I was alone and feeling like a flat tire instead of a third wheel.” She shrugs the shoulder she wiped her brow with and smiles a sad smile that tears at my heart, spawns some guilt, and triggers a knee-jerk thought to spill everything and promise never to see Vance or any guy ever again.
I open my mouth to promise her the moon if she’ll let me, but she holds up a hand and I snap my mouth shut, thankful for the chance to rethink things.
She strips off her gloves, tosses them in the sink, and wipes her sweating hands on her butt. “You’ve stalled long enough. I need details.”
I smile, thankful to see the Bristol I know and love again. I think she’ll be relieved when I tell her I slept alone in my hotel room after a goodnight kiss in the parking lot. That thought hasn’t even fully evolved yet when she drops her first question.
“Did you sleep with him?” With her hand buried to her forearm in a tube of Pringles, Bristol stares at me with lifted eyebrows and pinched lips. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and it doesn’t look like she took off her makeup last night before going to bed.
Sitting down, I grab the blanket off the back of the couch and fling it over me, gesturing for her to join me. I’m exhausted and mentally spent. Between worrying about Vance’s intentions or lack thereof, and Bristol’s feelings and how she’ll act upon them, I’m drained, but I owe her some couch time.
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
My answer draws a dirty look and a tongue full of Pringles crumbs. I giggle, dropping my head as she opens her mouth to call me out on my lie. “Like hell. If you can blowjob and tell, you can kiss and tell.” She chomps another chip, and I can hear its demolition as she sits across from me. “You gotta tell me, Brenna. You didn’t text me or anything last night. You owe me.”
As much as I want to tell her everything, she’s not ready to hear it. She’s still pissed I spent the night without her. If I tell her I had the best night of my life without her, she’ll plot my death. “It was fun and he was incredible. Well, incredibly considerate and not at all like I expected.” I tell her what I think will appease her without feeding her jealousy.
“Had he gotten into your panties yet, or was that a way to slip them off of you?” The Pringles container, with probably only a few chips left, is discarded onto the floor, and she tucks the blanket in around her legs.
I burrow in and intertwine our legs. I’ve missed Bristol. Even though she’s been physically around, she hasn’t been emotionally present since Vance entered the picture.
“He would have gotten them off without the consideration, but he never even tried.” I hope the confession will help her to see him as something more than the douchebag she thinks he is.
“What?!” It’s a solid shriek, delivered as she sits up straight and shoves my leg with the heel of her foot. “He didn’t try? Like, not at all? What the hell? Is he gay?”
I laugh, chuckling over her response. “I don’t think so.” I fill her in on the hot and spicy and the mixed signals, and she looks as perplexed as I feel.
Bouncing our legs softly, she asks, “Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t know. He said he’d call, but if he’d wanted me last night, he could have had me. I could, right now, at this very second, be a notch on his bedpost, but I’m not.”
“How old are you? Who says that?”
“Uncle Rodney. Notch on his belt?”
“That’s only slightly better. How about a hump and dump? A fuck and chuck? A come and done? A do and shoo—”
“Alright,” I yell, pushing her with my entire leg to get her to shut up, “I get the point.” I bite my lip, surprised at the wealth of emotion her teasing disturbs.
“See, that’s why you shouldn’t have sex with him. You’re too emotional about it.” She nudges me. “You need to stick to being a fake girlfriend. Like you were with Dawson.” She laughs, but I’m pretty sure she’s being serious.
Trying to be a good friend to Dawson Crane, who was on the verge of being outed for being gay, I pretended to be his girlfriend. We had to fake kiss and everything. Sadly, it was probably my most influential relationship to date. Best part was no broken hearts, and Dawson got another few years of sexual anonymity. I learned how to kiss and handle shitty rumors of my own, so we were both winners.
“You do know that eventually we’re both going to fall in love and have separate lives, right?”
“Only if I approve of him. And you have to approve of mine. I’m not going to let you date a douchebag, and I sure hope you wouldn’t let me date one either.” Her expression questions me. “The pact, Brenna. Guys aren’t supposed to come between us.”
“We’re not supposed to fight over the same guy, asshole. We can love one, just not the same one. I agreed to approval if the guy was a douchebag like mom’s boyfriends. You can’t disapprove just because I don’t spend all my time with you. There has to be a reason.” I point my finger at her, knowing she’ll find a loophole if I don’t close them all. “And it has to be a good one, like he’s abusive or cheating or something.” I can’t believe we have to discuss this at twenty-one years of age. She interpreted the pact way differently than I did. Who wants to live with their sister their entire life? I know I don’t. I love her, but she isn’t going to meet all my needs, and I’ve discovered over the last week since meeting Vance, that my vagina has needs beyond a good scrubbing and a brand name tampon. I’d like to know what having those needs met is like. I may not find out from Vance, but someday, hopefully, I will with someone.
“I’m tired.” I didn’t sleep at all last night, and Vance picked me up at six this morning to drive me home.
She unwraps our legs, scoots to the edge of the couch, and grabs the TV remote off of the table. “Do you want to fall asleep to some mindless movie before you have to be at work?”
I nod, roll to my side and draw my legs in, tucking my hands beneath my cheek. Mindless anything sounds exquisite.
The television sparks to life, and Bristol files through half a dozen movies on Netflix before picking a comedy. She sinks back into the couch, curling up much the same as me, and sighs.
“Brenna?”
“Mm hmm?”
“I’m glad you’re home.”
“I’m still not staying forever.”
“We’ll see.”
I lie awake, sleep tempting me at every turn, but my thoughts are stronger than the desire to sleep, and I lay there, eyes open, staring at the screen, worrying about stuff that’s out of my control. Will Vance really call? Have I fallen too fast? Is he falling at all?
The front door opens, and a wide stream of sunlight precedes the last leg of my mother’s walk of shame. Wearing a red tank top without the sheer blouse she usually wears over it, her bra strap droops off her shoulder and wraps around her bicep. Her hair, ringed in golden sunlight, looks like it was finger-combed or contained by a pillow. The aforementioned sheer blouse is gripped in her hand and caught on her keys that she’s trying to yank free of the doorknob. She cusses before giving up and leaving them both hanging off the knob.
“Oh, hey, girls.” She summons a fake smile that looks like she ate a tart lemon. “I thought you’d still be in bed.”
Bristol groans. “It’s almost ten. Don’t they usually chase you out by eight?”
I kick her beneath the blanket and she kicks me back, face turned up in disapproval, sneering like she’s daring me to kick her again.
My mom dismisses Bristol’s dig with a flippant hand-wave. After kissing us both on the tops of our heads, she leaves a scented wake of men’s cologne and stale cigarettes all the way to her bedroom. My chest falls. Yet another walk of shame. I feel a strengthening disappointment despite the familiarity, which strikes me as odd because I should be numb to it.
I think about it while Bristol snores at my feet. I think it’s bugging me because I’ve never allowed myself to think about a future beyond my mom and Bristol before. It seemed pointless with our history, but now I want to think about it. I want to dream about it. I’m starting to think I want a different outcome than my parents have had, than the one they’ve led me to believe I’m destined for. I want to feel again what I’ve felt with Vance the past couple of days. Not to mention, now that my vagina is awake, it’s not going to settle for ten second car sex and hurried flicks of the bean.
The chances of it going anywhere with him beyond today are unlikely, I know that. I’m not the Hollywood girls he’s used to, and I don’t even know if I can measure up in bed. I’m sure they’re into everything—whips, chains, the whole sexy fun bank—and I don’t even know if I can orgasm with anything but my own hand.
Unfortunately, after a non-nap, I have all day long to think about just that and more, and a four-hour, painfully slow shift at Stray Charlie’s doesn’t monopolize enough of my thoughts to stop any of it. I’m a magnet for every worry and doubt there is, and when no texts or calls come in from Vance, I’m stuck beneath a cloud of gloom exacerbated by the call I did get, from Tori telling me I’m in the “Rumor Has It” section of Candid magazine, or at least she thinks it’s me.
“It could be anyone. The pictures aren’t that good. But I know it’s you.”
It doesn’t get better at home after work either.
Gathered around the television with my mom and Bristol, one hand on my chest, the other near my mouth so I can chew steadily on my fingernails, I make my first appearance ever on the tabloid news show The Hook labeled as “New Girl?” The pictures are terrible. Whoever took them caught my face at a poor angle and they’re slightly blurry.
“Oh. My. God.” My mom makes the words into three distinct sentences and squeals behind spread fingers, one of which is unpolished. “You’re on TV, and not just any TV,” she squeals again, prompting Bristol to plug her ears. “National TV!”
“Shh!” Bristol shushes her testily, bathing us in spit.
My mom snaps her mouth shut, and beaming behind tightly clenched lips, grabs hold of my upper arm, squeezing affectionately. “You’re on The Hook.” Her whispered enthusiasm almost makes up for the shitty picture they’re using in the upper right corner of the television. It’s hard to tell it’s me. But we know.
Still berating us, Bristol turns up the television as Amy Melon adds her two cents to the shaky video of me, albeit mostly the back of me, caught between the best-looking guy in baseball and the cow shoving her udders into Vance’s stomach.
“Security at Red Hooligans, typically tight on a night when Major League Baseball’s resident Renegades are present, dropped the ball Saturday night as fans rushed Renegades starting pitcher, Van Hatfield.” The video plays, taking over the screen as Amy’s voice continues to narrate over the shitty recording. “Hatfield, best known for his fastball and bench-clearing fights, is keeping us on our toes with his love life. Within the last several months he’s been seen with actress/model Nikki Kline, Las Vegas stripper Amber Dietrich, actress Juniper Jones, and Penny Sylvester of the new hit show Street Wise. And now it appears he’s picking up strays at Red Hooligans.”
“Did she just call you a stray?” The derogatory description draws my mom’s claws. “Turn that shit off,” she demands of Bristol, who has a death lock on the remote while looking poised and ready to spoil any of my mom’s attempts to shut it off manually. There is no fear of that. My mom couldn’t find the manual switch if it was 6’4”, tanned, blond, and horny. I once watched her run her hand down the side of the TV for a half-hour, only to give up and go to bed with it still on.
“Shh!” Bristol spits again. “Let’s hear what else Amy Melon can flatter Brenna with.”
“One eyewitness says the two were intimately close as security escorted the couple out of the club,” Amy continues, as a picture of Vance and me outside of Red Hooligans is displayed in a small frame beside her ear. “Other sources say Van and the unidentified young woman were in a heated conversation over what had transpired inside of Red Hooligans. The two left separately, the young woman in a limousine, and Van was later seen leaving in a truck driven by teammate Ben Halsey.” She switches gears, and behind her a new screen displays the pictures of the previously mentioned women in
Vance’s life. One at a time they drop from their position into an animated virtual pile, with the last picture, of a question mark, remaining up for viewing. “Ladies, I don’t think she’s the one. I personally wouldn’t count yourself out if you’re still trying to land Jock magazine’s Jock Star of the Year. I’m pretty sure he’s still very much on the market, and if he’s not today, he will be tomorrow. That’s my two cents. Whaddya say? Do we let him off The Hook?”
What the fuck? We weren’t fighting. We were planning a date. Assholes. And off the hook for what?
My mom rubs my back and then adjusts her halter top so her boob doesn’t fall out of the ancient cotton. “He looked absolutely smitten with you. Amy Melon is an idiot.”
Bristol laughs at my mom’s consolation speech and then chucks a couch pillow at her. “Van Hatfield is smitten with anything that doesn’t tell him no.”
My mom sets the pillow on the couch behind us like it wasn’t meant to shut her up. “Not the Van Hatfield I met.”
“You saw what he let you see.”
“I don’t think so.” Her declaration sounds wishy-washy, and Bristol latches onto the uncertainty like a rabid dog.
“Oh please! You could be sweet-talked by that religious creeper who turned half his female congregation into sex slaves. What was his name?” Our response isn’t necessary; she doesn’t care about the answer. “Doesn’t matter. Brenna barely survived being Backseat Brenna. How do you think she’ll survive being ‘Van Hatfield’s Stray?’” She uses her fingers as quotes and her smug expression as an exclamation point. “You two are way too emotionally connected to sex. It should be a release or an enjoyment, but not an attachment.”
“And you’re an unemotional dick, Bristol.”
“Whoa!” My mom pipes in, where, as usual, it’s unwarranted and misdirected. “That’s a little harsh, Brenna. You haven’t had the same experiences as her.” Bristol’s loss of virginity will always be known as “an experience” to my mother.