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Me: You’re still the same, Carrington. An asshole.
Frustrated at myself for feeling this way, I look up and see George walk out of my closet. He has a guilty face. The same face he wears when he’s been chewing on something pricey. My feet move forward to the closet where I see my vintage Chanel purse Mom gave me a few years back—nibbled at the sides.
“George,” I cry, falling to the floor and picking up the remnants of the bag. He’s really gotten into the beading, tearing it apart with his canine teeth.
I storm out of the closet, searching for him around the room. He’s sitting in the corner, already in timeout with his head down and eyes conveniently avoiding me.
“Are you kidding me? George Puggington! How dare you eat my vintage Chanel? Go for Wes’ shit, not mine!”
He knows he’s in trouble, and with my day already going bad I fall onto the bed accidentally knocking my cell beside me. I hold it up in front of face as I lie on my back reading the text from Logan.
Logan: A beautiful asshole, right?
His cockiness makes me smile, and without overthinking, I type the first thing that comes to mind.
Me: You do know how weird that sounds, right? I’m literally visualizing assholes and I think I’m a little scared. Women aren’t programmed like men. You’re all about the tits and ass.
Ass being assholes.
I know that will challenge him but I only stated the truth. We don’t care about cocks as much as men are obsessed with the female anatomy and big juicy asses they can slap. Boo-tay.
Logan: And what is Emerson Chase all about?
I read his question carefully and it gets me thinking about what I want. Do I even know what I want? No, because I no longer think about myself. It doesn’t matter anyway, at least, for this season of that damn show. Signing on the dotted line means I signed away the rights to my freedom. With that morbid thought, I do what I do best, act like a smartass to avoid reality.
Me: I’m all about hot soccer players who appear in Sports Illustrated and OMG the abs... like literally can you even DEAL with such hotness???
In the confinement of my room, I laugh to myself when I read the text back. Logan’s a womanizer and women are drawn to him. He knows they know that, and I should have known as well. Damn, I do, stupid brain just forgot for a few minutes.
Logan: I don’t think a man like that exists. Maybe you need to bat for the same side. Now THAT would make for some great reality TV.
Smartass. I can hear voices coming close to my bedroom, so I type fast before they find me in here grinning like a fool over a stupid conversation.
Me: You wear a kitty dress once and it’s all about the pussy with you. MAN. ALL MAN. I need a man not a woman. Take your lesbian fantasy elsewhere. That boat has no chance of docking at my wharf.
My name is being called and Josie walks in with her camera faced down and headphones resting on her neck. She’s much older than me—a hopeless romantic who only ever sees the good in people despite what they have done. God love her.
“You okay, Emerson?”
“Sorry. Just having one of those days.”
“Listen, we can cut that footage and re-shoot? I won’t tell Cliff.”
“I appreciate that.” I smile. “Can you give me a minute and I’ll be out?”
She nods, closing the door behind her.
I quickly read Logan’s message before heading to the bathroom to fix my hair.
Logan: I’ve got this sudden urge to go sailing. I’m glad you need a man... and I’m sure you’ve got a line waiting to dock at your wharf.
You can tell me more this weekend when I’m in town.
He’ll be in town? I press dial, suddenly wanting to speak to him before I head outside. I don’t expect him to answer first ring.
“You’re coming to LA?” I ask without greeting him.
“I don’t even get a hello?” I can hear him teasing me with his smile. “Yes. For two days. We have a meeting with the US Soccer officials.”
