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“Again, who gives a shit? She is not your girlfriend, she signed the NDA, and now you can forget she ever existed once this all blows over,” Tyler states.
Just like she’ll forget that I ever existed? Well, that just seems like a giant ball of suck, now doesn’t it?
“We are getting the hell off this island and never coming back, so you can do what you’re supposed to do and just concentrate on football,” Tyler continues, leaning forward over the front seat when Bodhi stops to let a few people cross the street. “The longer we stay here, the more chances of someone recognizing you, and then no one will believe your statement to the press.”
Bodhi smacks Tyler’s hand away from the cup holder he was reaching for, making me laugh again, even though the thought of never coming back to this island and having all the free time in the world to focus on nothing but football doesn’t make me feel as happy as it should.
“That’s a hundred dollars for a napkin,” Bodhi informs Tyler.
“It’s a fucking paper napkin!” Tyler argues, pointing to the stack shoved into the cupholder.
“Right, but they’re imported. Made out of crocodile and shit. You want to wipe off your fancy shoes, you gotta pay fancy money.”
Bodhi waves at a few people who shout his name as he hits the gas, while Tyler bitches and moans as he pulls two fifties out of his money clip, thrusting them into the front seat.
“Hey, Quinn!” someone shouts to me with a wave as we cruise by.
“Pretty sure I’ve been recognized,” I inform Tyler, smiling as I wave back while Bodhi hands him one single napkin over his shoulder once he’s pocketed the money.
Ever since we pulled away from the cottage rental office where Emily works, no less than ten people have waved and shouted greetings to not only Bodhi but to me as well. There aren’t that many people out wandering the main drag, but every single one of them knew who I was.
“How’s it going, Quinn?”
“Good to see you, Quinn!”
“Hi-ya, Quinn!”
Friendly shouts, like they’re my neighbors just getting ready to ask me if they can borrow a cup of sugar.
“I want to give them my sugar,” I whisper, waving at another island resident who just tips his hat to me as we go by.
“Jesus Christ, you’re already succumbing to the horrors of this place,” Tyler complains.
“Seriously, man, what’s the deal with everyone being so… low-key here?” I ask Bodhi as he turns the music down again, while Tyler tries cleaning up his shoe.
I recognized Palmer Campbell and Shepherd Oliver as soon as I walked into the office. As a fan of all sports, I was familiar with their careers, and I remember hearing some rumblings about how, now that they’ve settled down and fallen in love, they keep their private lives on complete lockdown. I get that people aren’t constantly mobbing them since they live here, but no one rushes up and asks me for an autograph when we stop, and no one runs after the cart, trying to get a selfie. I haven’t even seen one person lift their phone and try to get a secret shot of us driving through town. It’s the wildest thing. It’s not like I get chased down the road, or people scream when they see me and come charging—unless I’m at the stadium or doing something team related. But as soon as someone recognizes me, my time is always interrupted with a request.
“Yeah, no one is really going to bother you while you’re here, unless they need you to make something for a church bake sale, or you forgot to buy your tickets to the steak fry,” Bodhi explains. “Which you really should consider going to, man. Kickass raffle baskets, all you can eat and drink, and the money goes toward the high school football program. Anyway, as far as the general public goes, we have really good security here that Palmer and Shepherd both pitch in with to make tighter and to secure their privacy, and their PR people are pretty good helping out with that too. This place is magical and pretty much like Fantasy Island.”
That sounds like heaven. I want to stay here forev—Jesus, what is wrong with me?
As much of an asshole as Tyler is, he’s right. These are not my friends, Emily is not my girlfriend, and this place isn’t my home. I still need to find a home, but it’s not going to be over here on Fantasy Island with a beautiful redhead I need to finally put out of my mind so I can concentrate on my job.
Go away, nausea. I don’t need your kind of negativity right now!
My phone rings in my hand, making me let out an unmanly squeal as I bobble it a few times. I don’t at all feel like I was just caught red-handed, scrolling through Emily’s social media accounts in between holding on for dear life during our drive, looking through all her photos like some creepy pervert trying to find an ass shot from when she cheered.
