The Revenge Games Duet

I think I might retire the belt for a while. A wise woman once told me I was just like the rest of them. I’m out to prove her wrong.

John

My eyes dart over the email, and for some reason, I can’t hold back my smile. My words have sunk in. I try to think of a witty response, only I come up with nothing but lame replies, so I log out of my email and turn around.

“Should we talk about what happened in the hall?” I raise the topic wanting to clear the air and ease the guilt that’s plaguing me.

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. You screwed Logan. Ash… Mom and Dad will kill you.”

“I... I didn’t screw him,” I stammer.

“Potato, potahto.”

Is this a potato, potahto situation, though?

My crazy brain is justifying what happened as a slip of a finger. Maybe it accidentally made its way around the groove and just got lost. Okay, your brain is stupid and on some sort of crack. Accidental ‘slips’ don’t result in such an intense orgasm.

“I really don’t want to delve into the semantics but it was a mistake. Can we move on? I’ve had a shitty twenty-four hours.”

Raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, she’s quick to remind me, “Sure. But you brought it up you know?”

“I know,” I say lightly, desperate to switch topics and blaming myself for bringing it up in the first place. “Do you want to go for swim?”

“Yeah, why not.” Tayla hops off the bed, disappearing into her wardrobe. I tell her I’ll be back, sneaking out of her room and bolting to mine like a fugitive on the run.

***

“We rarely get to do the girl thing anymore.”

Mom is dressed in a white caftan and oversized sun hat, she’s applying lotion as Tayla lays beside her drenched in oil. Mom hands the bottle to her, motioning for Tayla to put some on or out will come the story of Uncle Larry and his mystery mole that developed into skin cancer.

“We should do a girls’ trip. No men or boys. No cells,” Mom suggests, getting comfortable on the large cabana lounge.

“You lost me at no cells,” Tayla mumbles with closed eyes.

“I’m in. But it’ll have to be between filming...” I trail off, almost revealing my doubts about the show even continuing. I’m grateful that Logan hasn’t said anything. At least, if he had, I know Mom would have been quick to mention it.

The sun is out in full glory with the hot rays piercing my pale skin. I grab some lotion and rub it all over my body before closing my eyes underneath my sunglasses. Lasting only a few minutes, the heat becomes unbearable so I dive into the pool for a quick splash. The water’s freezing against my hot skin, and with my entire body wet I climb onto the sizeable pink flamingo that’s floating on the surface and lay across it, attempting to relax my mind and body.

I drift in and out of thoughts as Tayla cranks up the latest Bruno Mars album. It doesn’t seem to bother Mom with her Hooker book in hand and iced tea in the other. I contemplate getting out of the pool, but the serenity and company ease my apprehension. I feel confident that perhaps in an hour or so, I can find the strength to talk to Mom and tell her what Wes has done. I tell myself another five more minutes until that five minutes passes and I make another excuse. On my fourth five-minute pep talk, the sudden sound of a splash followed by cold water hitting my heated skin, startles me to the point I almost fall off the flamingo in shock.

Fuck. Ash and Logan.

If I ignore them, maybe I can float away.

I also hate the fact that Logan’s right—avoidance can only get you so far.

Alessandra is courteous, she’s taking slow steps into the pool, careful not to lose the skimpy gold bikini which barely covers her body parts. Tayla follows behind her, admiring her bikini and asking where it’s from. They seem to bond instantly over fashion, and somewhere deep inside I curb the teeny, tiny jealousy that begins to form because Tayla never asks me what I’m wearing. Unless, of course, it’s to tell me my outfit is ‘so last year.’

With Ash, Alessandra, and Tayla swimming in the pool, Logan stands on the edge watching us with a sly expression. His black swimming shorts sit mid-thigh enhancing his toned legs. Surprisingly, he wears a tan despite living in a country which rarely sees sun. The self-absorbed bastard probably hits the tanning salon. His eyes dart back and forth until they’re locked on mine, and reminiscent of when we were kids he winks before diving into the pool heading straight to me.

I don’t have enough time to do anything, and within a second, I fall into the cold water. I’m barely able to catch my breath, swallowing a mouthful.

Asshole!

The water accidentally travels up my nose, and when I make it up for air I ignore the pain that shoots to my temple and unleash my thoughts with a mouthful of profanities. “You fucking jerk! What kind of asshole planet are you from to fucking do that!”

“You looked hot,” he points out, complacent, and keeping his jaw firm. “Plus, I want to lay on your pink flamingo.”