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I follow her lead, purposely walking a step behind so I can watch her ass sway.
Fuck, why do I torture myself? Because you remember how damn good her ass feels in your hands.
The restaurant is small and intimate—decorated in maroon and gold. It appears to be rundown with old weathered paintings. Only a few peo
ple sit inside, keeping to themselves in the dark corners. Emmy chose this place because she knows it’s not a crowd-drawer, therefore, won’t attract the paparazzi. The staff are very accommodating, offering the menu and serving the dishes with jugs of cold water.
“Fuck, this is spicy.” Ash wipes his forehead with his napkin, taking a long gulp of the water and immediately refilling the glass.
“Hot? Is it?” Emmy questions, her eyes wide with an innocent pout.
“You don’t think so?”
“I eat here all the time. Got a stomach made of steel,” she says, patting her belly and pretending she didn’t tell the waiter to add more curry powder to his dish.
“I just never...” he stops mid-burp, “… eaten anything so hot.”
“Seems fine to me,” I chime in, hiding my smile behind the fork strategically placed to my mouth.
Ash takes a break from eating, his uncomfortable stance making this moment too comical. Leaning back into his chair while breathing in and out at a steady pace, he motions the waiter and requests another jug of water.
“How was the meeting? You didn’t tell me what happened.”
“They’ve asked us to represent the States in the World Cup trials. Do you even know what this means, Emmy?” Ash bellows with excitement.
“That you’ll play for the World Cup?” she answers looking back and forth between Ash and me.
“It’s what we want but ultimately, the decision comes down to Coach Bennett and our commitment to the Royal Kings. It’s not as clear-cut as we would like it to be, but Dad’s handling all that. The problem is we’ve only just negotiated new contracts, so I don’t know...” he trails off with worry but quickly smiles again. “If we play trials we’ll get to move back home for a while. I’ll fucking love that. I miss this place.”
There’s a mixed look of concern on Emmy’s face. “Uh… that’s great, I guess. When do you find out, and where will you move to?”
“Here,” I tell her, face blank watching her reaction.
“Wow... that’s so close.” She hides her gulp behind her glass of water.
“What? You don’t want Ash and me around?”
“You’re both kinda annoying.”
“We’re not cool enough for her, eh bro?” Ash picks his up his fork, scooping another piece of chicken and smothering it in sauce. “We don’t know for sure yet. We find out in a few months or something. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?”
Emmy lifts the napkin to her mouth, wiping her chin. My gaze instinctively shifts to her pout—full, soft, and inviting—covered in a glistening red shade of lipstick. Despite them being twins, she looks nothing like Ash. He looks like a dork with his crew cut and semi-broken nose. She is gorgeous. Pale skin with a few freckles scattered on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are blue, this bright blue that makes it difficult to concentrate if you stare into them. She’s always had long lashes and was teased in school for them being fake. I remember she wanted to prove the bullies wrong and plucked them out in front of them. They brushed it off like it was nothing until she flipped her eyelids inside out and terrified the older boys. They called her the spawn of the devil and she lapped it up using it as her weapon against them from that moment on.
“There’s a party on tonight. One of my friends is hosting it… Scarlett Winters? You might have heard of her.”
Ash and I simultaneously turn our heads to look at each other. Is she fucking kidding me? Scarlett fucking Winters. Ash had repeatedly told me he jerked off to her tits every night. He dreamt that one day he would motorboat them and it would end with his cum all over her face. Crude but so very Ash.
“You never told me you’re friends,” Ash quickly reprimands her.
“Yeah, and I never told you that Logan was the one who told Mom you screwed that older lady down the street when you were eighteen.”
I kick her under the table until she jumps. “Way to throw me under the bus.”
She points her fork at me deadpan. “You’re a tattletale.”
I place my glass down, leaning my elbows on the edge of the table. “I’m a tattletale? I don’t think so.”
“You told him I slept with the guy from the burger joint.”
