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Emerson Chase jealous because another woman has touched my fucking arm and asked me about my sex life.
“Ask Ash,” I respond, smirking. “He’s the married one. I’m single, so unless someone offers to jump in my bed tonight I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” I continue to keep my gaze fixed on my glass that sits in front of me, though I am desperate to see Emmy’s reaction. Unlike her—falsely tied to Wesley for the purpose of the show—I am as single as you can get. I could fuck anyone I please and no one will say a goddamn thing.
Wesley raises his glass to his lips, keeping his persistent stare fixed on mine. “Just make sure the woman you take isn’t spoken for,” he warns with menace. “Or man… never actually seen you with a woman.”
“Oh…” I mouth with confidence, “… the best type of pussy is the one that belongs to someone else.”
Ash rests his hand on my shoulder, his laughter barreling through the conversation. “I don’t think it’s a big deal but Logan won’t. Any chance of losing and he’ll minimize that. He likes his testosterone wild and pumped.”
Great. When did we switch to talking about my testosterone?
Yeah, it’s fucking pumped all right and desperate to ravage the girl sitting across from me, the one with the jealous stare.
We’re interrupted by a group of girls who recognize all of us and scream so loudly demanding a picture. We all huddle together and pose for her selfie which encourages other patrons to come forward and request the same photograph. After what feels like forever, the bodyguard steps in and tells everyone to back off.
“I’m over this,” Wesley snaps, drinking his beer and checking his watch. “Let’s get out of here. I’m bored. Wanna hit up a club, babe?”
Babe.
I wonder what broken glass might feel like against his pretty-boy face?
“I’m tired, and jetlagged. You go.”
“I’m in,” Farrah pipes up. “C’mon Wes, let’s get out of here.”
Wesley removes his arm from Emerson, who appears annoyed and frustrated. It’s clear by her demeanor that the thought of him clubbing with Farrah Beaumont is not something she agrees with and that reaction alone leaves me bitter. When he leaves, I’m quick to direct my passive aggression toward her. “How sad, your fiancé left you alone.”
She smiles, but it’s not a smile that’s sweet and endearing. “Don’t you have some nurse to fuck?” she bites back with wild eyes.
Bitch.
Why the fuck is she be angry about that?
I can’t understand women and the way they think. Their minds are like puzzles which are impossible to figure out.
“Maybe. She was boring the first time so not sure why I’d go back for seconds.”
She’s unable to look at me, shaking her head and staring at the table with her glass in front of her.
Ash talks over us, yet I don’t pay attention as I watch her type on her cell. Within seconds, my pocket vibrates.
Emerson: You’re a fucking asshole. Go ahead, fuck nurses and see if I care. I shouldn’t, right? Since I fuck my fiancé every night.
I can’t even look at her. The heat rising underneath my jacket is red hot as the anger and hurt consume me. Is she for fucking real? I can’t even deal with what she’s admitting if it’s true. Again, what fucking moron comes up with the brilliant idea to sleep with other people?
Me: You’re a fucking bitch. The nurse gave good head. I think I will go back for seconds.
I watch her mouth open in shock. She’s distracted for a moment as a bartender serves her a wine which she proceeds to down in one go, demanding another almost immediately. He lingers to talk to her, flirting with his young smile. I quickly type and hit send, catching her eye and she half looks down at the screen.
Me: Why don’t you go fuck the bartender too?
“Bro, we need to head back. We seriously need rest,” Ash yells over the noise.
As much as I want to stay and argue with Emerson, it’s an hour drive home and it’s already close to 9:00 p.m. We always go to bed well before midnight for a training session which starts at 4:00 a.m. If our A-game isn’t on, we could potentially lose a crucial game.
“You gonna be okay, Em?” Ash asks, throwing some bills on the table.
She slides them back to him, ignoring me while slipping her cell into her purse. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. And take your money... let the producers pick up the tab. Or, I can continue flirting with the bartender. Maybe even take him home.”
