C: Sometimes.
D: All of the above.
Perhaps Macy Sinclair would never be neutral territory amongst those in my circle.
Guard up, I flicked my view to the petite spitfire beside me, frustration riding the puff of air I blew out. “Mom, I didn’t come here to talk about Macy.”
Arms folded, she tipped her chin up defiantly. “How about we talk about Harper Kingston instead?”
7
“She’s inside the pool house,SeñorStone.” Standing in the foyer, fingers gripped to a tray bearing Caesar salad, a grilled cheese sandwich, andexpensivebottled water, Coach K’s housekeeper, Valentina, smiled bashfully. “I’ll go with you?SeñoritaKingston’s only expecting this snack. I don’t think she’s ready for visitors.”
Still residing with her parents—Sean Kingston,Coach Kof UCLA Bruins Football,and Leyla Diamond-Kingston ofDiamond Bottled Water,heiress to the aforementionedexpensivewater—Harper pretty much lived the life of a socialite. She didn’t attend college, she dropped out of UCLA shortly after we got serious. She also didn’t have a job; well, not unless being the face of Diamond Bottled Water could be considered a job. Given she’d earned a fuckwad of dough for each photo snapped, showcasing her sipping from overpriced diamond-embossed bottles, perhaps something of its stature could’ve been considered a job. Still, Harper had a knack for Computer Science, and, as such, I expected the computer brainiac to attain a degree and end up working for some Fortune 500 as a pro hacker or something. I’ll admit being a tad put-off when she mentioned she didn’t need a degree or a career—my affinity toward career-driven women undoubtedly strong. “I’ve got Diamond Water and a guy who’s gonna make millions in the NFL,” is what she’d once told me without a hint of hesitation.
Valentina scurried toward the pool house, me stalking behind, the squeaks of my sneakers echoing as we crossed the marble-floored space. The Bel Air home, with its moneyed and pretentious decor, must have been ten times the size of the twelve-hundred-square-foot bungalow I shared with Macy.
Macy.A fleeting, unexpected quiver in my heart caused me to stumble. Macy was what made me decide to stop by Harper’s before going home, especially after the kick-in-the-ass boost from Mom and Dad.
“Careful,SeñorStone,” Valentina cautioned over her shoulder. “The floor is real slippery from an early morning wax.”
Rap music blared as we neared the mostly-glass pool house where Harper could be seen waving a set of poms-poms, laughing andtwerking,wearing nothing but a fluorescent-orange string bikini.
Admittedly, her slim curves, scarlet hair, and pretty face were easy on the eyes. Plus that heart-shaped, always-painted-red mouth got fucked by my cock—never at my house, Macy and I had agreed to have no overnight guests—on the regular. Nothing except pure, unadulterated oral ever occurred between us, not that the act of giving head ispureandunadulterated. It takes an experienced, naughty mouth to blow a dude’s gasket. Yet, Harper Kingston claimed to be a virgin who wanted to wait until marriage before “intercourse”—her pubescent word choice, not mine. Rumors about her sexual appetite smeared doubts in my head about her virginity. Regardless, I continued on with our relationship all the way to the point where idiotic me asked for her hand in marriage—which, by the way, was the first stupidest question I’d asked all year.
Is Harper the woman of your dreams, or the woman you’ve settled for because you believe the woman of your dreams is completely off-limits?
It’s the question my mother pitched, the kickoff to our candid, eye-opening discussion about Harper and my pent-up feelings toward my childhood friend.
Truth of the matter—as AJ declared—Harper wasn’t Macy.
Neither was Julia, Lori, Skye, or any other girlfriends and one-nighters of my past. In fact, every single one turned out to be the exact opposite of Macy, not only by way of looks, but also personality. None were blond. None had blue eyes. All were tall and slim, instead of petite with curves in all the best places. Moreover, not a single one possessed the sarcastic mouth, the sharp wit that made my dick twitch.
I’d avoided anyone who might remind me of Macy, subconsciously choosing women less like mytype, knowing damn well it wouldn’t work out between us, since my heart craved someone else.
Mom’s psychological pull saved me from careening headfirst into what could have easily been a living hell. Her thought-provoking pep talk—triggered by Macy’s confessions—helped me pivot, make a cognitive choice to cross the line of scrimmage that would allow me and my best friend to take our years-long friendship to another level.
As soon as I ended things with Harper.
“SeñoritaKingston is not expecting you, right?” Valentina spun around to face me, her half smile a veil to her flustered nerves.
“Nope.” My one-worded ejection probably seemed curt. But it pissed me off that even though we’d been together three years, Harper preferred a heads-up before I stopped by. A text. Phone call. Prearranged suck-me date.
Valentina paused near the massive-sized swimming pool about twenty feet from the sliding doors that gave entry to the pool house. “She already has a friend over. Maybe you should wait here by the pool while I go get her?”
Harper’s giggles grew louder as she pranced, ass bouncing to shit I’d never heard before. The pom-poms she waved like aBring it Onreject collapsed to the floor. Then, in almost slow motion, she twirled around, pulling her bikini top string loose before the near-nothing piece of fabric floated to the floor leaving her tits on full display.
“Nah, I’d much rather surprise her,” is what I told Valentina, shouldering past the stubby little housekeeper and her wide-open mouth. I tromped toward the pool house, heartbeat kicked up a notch, wondering what the actual fuck Harper was doing.
“But,SeñorStone,” Valentina called out, padding after me. “Maybe she’s a little busy right now.”
When I slid the glass doors open, Harper whirled around with a screeching gasp, all jaw-dropped, palms over her chest, doing their best to shield her surgically-enhanced rack.
My narrowed glare flicked from a crimson-faced, stupefied Harper onto something—someone—I least expected.
Sprawled out on the couch was Sherlock Benson—rival, trash-talking quarterback from hell—wearing nothing but a pillow over his junk and that fucking asshole smirk he brandished out on the field. “Uh, this is awkward,” he said, sounding like a douche with a stupid-ass name.
“No shit, Sherlock.” If I had any fucks to give, I would’ve punched him in the throatandthe balls. Yet some blessings come in the ugliest of disguises.
