Kicking Reality

“Yeah, I live and breathe soccer. I do watch porn on occasion but the real thing is much better.”

“And I bet you don’t have time for relationships?” She stands tall, straightening her posture as if she had a hidden agenda.

I didn’t want to mention Louisa. It was still a wound cut fresh and open, not up for discussion by anyone.

“What’s your point, Chase?” I ask, annoyed.

“We’ve always had fun together even when he hated each other, right?”

I nod, waiting for her to continue. “So, let’s have fun, Burt. No strings attached. I promise. I don’t need strings . . . trust me. I just don’t want to think about anything but the moment I’m living in and if you happen to be there . . . well then hip

hip hooray.”

“You want to have fun without strings?” I repeat. “Is that what you’re saying?”

This time, she smiles, nodding. “Yep.”

In a lifetime full of propositions, I never expected Emerson Chase to propose this. She was hurting, drunk on revenge and making Wesley’s life equally painful. I knew that, I wasn’t stupid. I’m the pawn in her game and when she’s done playing, I’ll be on the sideline watching her live her life with someone else.

I needed her.

Regardless of the conditions.

Keep the emotions away, take what you want, and reap the benefits from the scorned.

“On one condition,” I tell her, plotting it out so I get what I want. “You stop calling me Burt. This mustache needs to go.”

“Deal. But it stays on until we’re back at your hotel.”

“Hotel . . .” I repeat, caught off guard for second.

Running her hands along the front buttons of my shirt, she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear and maybe I underestimated your ability to read between the lines, Carrington.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Sex. Fucking. That’s what I’m talking about. Are you in?”

She wanted me as much as I wanted her.

There were no more questions, no more rules, no more anything.

I was in—all in.

“A fuck buddy. The best idea ever or a recipe for disaster?”

~ Emerson Chase

“About last night, Em . . .”

Wesley corners me in the kitchen on my hunt for the Advil. It’s quarter past seven in the morning and I’m running on two hours’ sleep. When my alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, I had completely forgotten about a photoshoot scheduled this morning down at Venice Beach. I prided myself on being punctual and reliable, not wanting to let down the photoshoot crew. The old me would have been up at four AM, doing sprints on the beach to get myself looking as best as I could for the shoot.

The new me wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“I’m sorry Em. I was drinking and shouldn’t have been so forceful. I know you’re angry, I mean fuck, you didn’t get home till after four,” he says in desperation, pacing up and down the kitchen, stopping only to shove a bagel in his mouth.

It appears I’m listening attentively, quiet and allowing him to speak. But my head is pounding like a bitch and I am ready to call quits on life and climb back into bed.

“I was angry,” I tell him in a hoarse voice. “Not just at you.”

“Your brother?”

I nod, keeping my words to a minimum. Talking hurt my brain.