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With a barely repressed laugh, Mickie said, “Sorry, Jagger. We’ll behave.”
Keith grunted. “Don’t apologize to him. If we wanna make out all game, he’s gonna hafta deal.”
“You know,” Jagger said as he kicked his legs up on the coffee table. “I think a man who’s getting laid regularly is supposed to be less of an asshole. You sure you know what you’re doing, Mickie?”
“Hey!” Keith shouted as he whacked Jagger’s chest with the back of his hand. “Show some respect.”
Jagger had the good graces to grimace. “Sorry, Mickie. I’m sure you’re a rockstar in the sack. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Keith is just a grumpy butthead no matter what.”
The man in question let his head drop back on the couch as he groaned.
Mickie couldn’t help it, she burst out laughing. Nothing about what Jagger said came close to offending her. Seven months ago, if anyone had told her she’d be lounging in Vermont watching football with three siblings who ribbed each other constantly, and happier than she’d ever been, she’d have called them crazy.
Glitz, glam, spotlights.
That’s what her life had been about and what she’d thought she wanted. Not this slower-paced, simple pleasures living she’d fallen in love with. She didn’t miss Hollywood or acting at all. She didn’t miss the fame, glamour, or even exhilaration of it. Here, she’d found acceptance and friendship by just being herself.
If only she felt confident enough to let people know who that self was.
“I don’t know, Jagger,” she said as an impish impulse overtook her. “Maybe you should shield your eyes, and I’ll see if I can put a smile on his face for you.”
Keith’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s an idea I can get behind.” He turned toward her just as JP burst into the room.
“Did I miss kick-off?” he asked around a mouthful of chips. He had a six-pack of beer tucked under one arm and a bowl full of tortilla chips in the other hand. Eyeing her and Keith, he scowled. “You two aren’t planning to be schmoopy all game, are you?”
“I’m not fucking schmoopy,” Keith grumbled. “Jesus, you guys are annoying.”
“Don’t worry,” she purred in his ear, not bothering to whisper this time. “There are still plenty of hours for fun after the game is over.”
He groaned. “You’re as bad as they are. Trying to kill me before the game starts.”
A tsking noise came from JP. “Death by blue balls. That’s rough, brother.” He winked at her. “Not that I would know. Mine get drained on the regular.”
“Oh, gag me.” Ronnie tossed a pillow at JP.
“Huh, that’s what my date said last—”
“La, la, la.” Ronnie stuck her fingers in her ears. “Please don’t finish that sentence. I’ll puke.”
Their banter went on for the next few minutes. Keith and Jagger joined in of course, ripping on JP for being a “man-slut.” Mickie sat back and observed it with an amused smile.
As the game began, she snuggled next to Keith. The first two quarters passed by much as she’d expected, with the three Bensons verbally sparring back and forth. All of them stuffed their faces with chips, pizza, and wings. Not surprisingly, Mickie had no clue what was happening on the TV, but the three of them kept her so entertained with their banter, it didn’t matter. By the time the second quarter came to an end, her stomach ached from laughing, and she was having a blast.
As the halftime show kicked up, Ronnie grabbed the remote control and switched the channel.
“Hey!” JP called, tossing a chip at his sister. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Seriously!” Jagger shifted on the couch. “I don’t remember agreeing to watch the fucking news.”
Waving her hand, Ronnie made a shushing noise. “Shut up. I’ll put the skimpily dressed cheerleaders back on in a second. I had a news alert on my phone I want to check out.”
“What was it? A shooting or something?” Jagger asked with his mouth full.
Ronnie shook her head. “No. Someone thinks they spotted Scarlett.”
Mickie’s blood ran cold. In an instant, her entire world flipped upside down. The soda bottle slipped from her limp fingers to the carpet. “I, oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”
Keith squeezed her thigh as he bent to grab the bottle. “It’s all right, babe, cap’s on.” He righted the bottle then stood. “Gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back.”
But Mickie couldn’t speak. Her eyes were glued to the television, where a grainy picture was the topic of discussion. Every cell in her being tuned into what the anchor was saying.
“Who the fuck is Scarlett?” JP asked.
“You know.” Ronnie waved a hand in the air. “That hot mess actress who fell of the face of the earth a buncha months back after losing her shit on a director.”
“Ohhh yeah,” JP said. “She had a banging body. Total headcase, though.”
