The guest house isn’t as extravagant as the main house, but it’s way fucking nicer than my apartment. Deep rich colors with an open concept. A kitchen, living room, bedroom, all completely furnished. I snap a picture of the king-size bed and then the soaking tub in the bathroom that is as big as my bedroom is back home.
I send the picture to Tom.
Me: Be jealous!
He sends me one back as I’m going through my bags, looking for something else to wear and a fresh pair of panties that aren’t sweaty.
Tom: Me and your dog are keepin’ your bed warm.
And then a picture of him lying on my bed with a damn dog comes through. Nothing disgusts me more than dog hair.
Me: Tom!!! I don’t have a dog!
Tom: You do now!
That mother-F-U-cock!
Can I really blame him though? Not only is it a cute dog, but I did give him only a ten-minute warning about moving in after he asked me to be his “like” girlfriend.
Willa has me meet her outside near the pool where she’s sitting with another guy, her phone in hand.
I change my dress and put on a pair of shorts, a flowy white tank top, grab the phone and head out to meet her.
Have you seen the cover to The Eagles album Hotel California? You know, the one with the palm trees and the castle in the background just as the sun’s setting?
Picture that and it’s what I walk out to. Absolutely beautiful.
Outside there’s a restaurant-style kitchen, only outdoors, a bar, four televisions, a pool and hot tub with large rocks, boulders, palm trees and that flowy grass that resembles weeds.
About thirty people are outside, some in the pool, some in the hot tub and most sitting around the bar watching the televisions. It’s literally like a local hangout of hotness.
I know one thing. In California, everyone is so much prettier, skinnier, cooler. . . it’s frustrating. In Seattle, the city and every party you go to, we have dreads and hippies. Here, they’re half-dressed, long beachy curls and not hyperactive frizzy curls and sweaty tits.
As I walk outside, I hear Tiller first, when I make my way by the hot tub where he’s talking to someone, and he chuckles when a guy suggests a girl to him. “I don’t care if she can suck a softball through a straw. I’d rather take a cheese grater to my tongue.”
His friend laughs. “She’s not that dirty. . . .”
With no amount of amusement, Tiller begins to walk away, water dripping from his shorts and his feet slapping against the stone surrounding. “Yeah, right.” Then he stops and points at him. “Brad. . . Chlamydia couldn’t even get rid of her.”
You’re laughing, aren’t you? I have to admit, he’s funny. A psychologist would have a field day with Tiller overanalyzing everything he does and says, guarantee it. What do I think?
I think he’s pretty fucking normal considering the lifestyle these guys have.
I sit at the table with Willa and who she tells me is Ricky. You remember Ricky, right? Their uncle.
Take a look at him for a moment. He’s your typical California surfer guy with the shaggy blonde hair, bright-blue eyes and guess what? No shirt. Seems to be the usual appearance here and I sort of feel out of place for wearing one, or at the very least, not wearing a bikini like every other woman prancing around the pool.
Back to Ricky for a moment. He’s talking to me. “So, you’re Scarlet? Willa’s told me a lot about you.”
We shake hands, and I’m surprised to see Ricky doesn’t have tattoos like the boys do. Not a single one. “Nice to meet you.”
A few others I don’t know approach the table. They introduce themselves, but their names slip my mind the moment they’re spoken, and they walk away.
Thankfully, Willa goes into work mode with her phone in hand while Ricky retreats into the house. “I’ve added some appointments to your calendar. I’m going to continue handling all the PR shit and you handle them.”
Sounds easy enough, right?
You couldn’t be more wrong. Just wait.
“I’m due in like a week.” Willa sighs, leaning back in her chair and cups her swollen belly. “I can’t wait to not chase these shits around for three months and hold a precious baby girl.”
My eyes light up. “It’s a girl?”
“Yep. Not sure what I’m doing bringing her into this madness.” She pauses, motioning around the party when the music switches to Eminem and a very catchy song. Tiller begins dancing to it with a girl near the pool.
I’m curious now because she hasn’t mentioned much about the baby or who the father might be.
“Sooooo,” I draw out and then think maybe I shouldn’t ask when Ricky chooses then to sit down with a plate of food and hands me a taco, and two for Willa. “Are you alone in all this?”
Willa glances at me, midbite of her taco. She’s not who you should focus on. Don’t look at her. Look to her left. Do you see the way the tension stiffens Ricky’s shoulders? The way he coughs and stands up like someone called his name, or he’s choking on his food?
No one called his name. Despite him not saying anything, I know he’s that baby’s daddy.
Willa, however, never misses a beat when she says, “Complicated,” through a mouthful of food.
I chose to leave it at that and inhale the taco in front of me. We have good food in Seattle. Mostly seafood, but these tacos are straight up the best food I’ve ever tasted. “Who made these?”
Willa nods. “Roan. He’s an amazing cook and does most of the cooking around here, aside from Ricky.”
After we’ve finished with the tacos, I sit back and observe everything around me. Willa points to Roan by the pool. He’s relaxed in a lounge chair with a younger woman, maybe early twenties next to him, talking. They seem to be disagreeing on something. Then she gets up to leave and walks into the house, wiping what looks to be tears away.
Only Roan’s not having it. “Don’t fucking walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”
Tiller’s standing at the sliding glass doors drinking a beer and the girl runs into his chest. He shoots Roan a scowl. “Hey, man, easy there. No need to yell at her.”
Brushing tears away, the girl gives Tiller a death glare. One he’s probably used to from women. “You stay out of it.”
He raises his arms wide. “Yeah, I’d love to, honey, but you made me a part of it to get back at him so fuckin’ deal with it.”
“They better not get in a fight tonight.” Willa shakes her head about the time Ricky intervenes and takes the girl inside away from them. “That’s Ophelia. Carl’s daughter. She’s here a lot since Carl is too.”
“Does Carl live here?”
“No. Just here a lot. He’s their head of security.” She points to two more guys by the pool, about ten feet from Roan. “That’s Brad and Zack. They’re security guards for them. Brad will be going with you guys to Paris.”
Paris. Can you believe it? Last week I was checking in a VIP and making sure his wife couldn’t contact him at the hotel because his girlfriend checked in with him.
Now I will be boarding a plane tomorrow morning for Paris. It’s unreal.
Willa sighs when Roan stomps away, kicking over a chair in the process only to have Tiller toss an empty beer can at the back of his head. “Roan and Tiller are like oil and water. When they get along, they do. When they don’t, it’s like World War III started. Roan, he’s the most reckless of the three. If there’s a trick they want to try, Roan’s the first to try it and most of the time the first to fail. He’s also the most loyal and always has to have the last word, except with Tiller.”
“How old are they?”
“Roan’s twenty-three. Tiller’s twenty-two and Shade’s twenty-one.”
I blink, unbelieving. Their parents must have been busy. “Wow. That’s pretty close in age.”
“They’re like triplets with incredibly different personalities.”
“What’s Tiller like, aside from scary?”
“Tiller’s shy.”
I glance at him. He’s next to the pool, perched on a boulder near the edge and sitting on what looks to be a BMX bike, screaming at someone below to move. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Totally different. Get him in an environment he’s not familiar with, and he won’t talk. To anyone.”
“Do Tiller and Roan have girlfriends?”
“I know you saw that interaction.” She motions to the house. “While Roan will never admit it, he’s in love with that girl but still fucks around.”
“And Tiller?” Just as I ask that, Tiller jumps off the boulder on the BMX into the water but right into a group of girls.
He stands up in the shallow ends and screams, “Greased the landing!”
Willa sighs. “No girl would ever date him. Well, she might, then she’d come to her senses pretty quick. Don’t get me wrong, I love Tiller, but he’s just an asshole. If there’s a picture in the dictionary, it’s him. It’s not an act; he’s just a plain asshole.”
“Noted.” And then I dare to ask, “What about Shade?”
God Goddamn. I’m one-tracked, aren’t I?
As you can see, or maybe you can’t because there are a lot of people around the pool and bar area, but Shade’s nowhere in sight. Believe me, I’ve been watching like a sniper, waiting for him to emerge.
“No, Shade doesn’t have a girlfriend. They’re all single in that sense.”
“So the X Fighters. . . do they all compete on that tour?”
Look at me changing subjects like a seasoned pro.
“Yeah, for now. Roan’s been hanging out with the motocross crowd a lot. He’s training for the Erzberg enduro, but I don’t know if he’s going to continue with the enduro circuit or not. All depends on sponsorships and if he can work it around the freestyle riding they do,” Willa tells me, lifting her water glass to her lips. “Tiller, he’s strictly freestyle. He hates the political side of the sport and refuses to conform. The only reason he does X Fighters is that they’re in a contract for the three of them to compete this year or else he wouldn’t be doing it.”
“And Shade?”
“Shade. . . he can do everything Roan and Tiller can on a bike, but ten times better. There are people who are gifted, and some are talented. Shade’s without a doubt gifted. He can race anything, perform any trick out there with his signature Shade flare. I don’t know that he’ll ever shy away from freestyle since converting to it. It gives him room to show his personality whereas motocross is more about endurance. He can do it, sure, but he likes to put on a show.”
You can see that just from his body art. Out of the three brothers, hell, everyone I know, the ink on his body gives away his personality. I don’t have a single tattoo. Not one, but I can see the appeal. With Shade, it’s a roadmap of his soul splashed across his body. There are gnarly ones, like his back tattoo with the skull wearing sunglasses, then the more reflective ones, the icons of the sport consuming his life, reminders of his dad. . . . It’s art.
Roan approaches the table and smiles at me, mischievous blue eyes lit by what’s in his cup. “Want a drink?”
I swallow, nervously, and look to Willa. “Can I drink?”
She laughs. “I don’t care what you do. Just get them from point A to point B and don’t have sex with Shade. Get drunk but keep your legs closed.”
Tiller chooses then to appear too. “What about me?”
“No sleeping with any of them.”
“That’s a stupid fuckin’ rule, Willz.” Tiller hands me a drink, and Willa immediately slaps it away. “Here. Try this.”
I jump, startled, but no one else seems to be when it splashes to the concrete at my feet, the plastic cup bouncing away. “What?
“Do not eat or drink anything he hands you. Ever.”
Tiller laughs, almost manically.
They’re talking around me, conversations and jokes shared, but I don’t hear anything. I’m too busy looking around the party, wondering where the fuck Shade is. It’s getting late and I wonder if maybe he just went to bed.
Then it happens.
Is your heart pounding? Does your throat tighten like mine?
It’s like the air around me changes, a breeze blows by and I sigh.
People whistle, a shift in the crowd occurs and the party kicks up a notch. Women who were once sticking dangling legs in the pool are on their feet, fixing their hair and pushing up their tits.
And then I see him gravitating toward the pool, no shirt on.
No.
Shirt.
Again.
If I hadn’t seen him, my heart would have first. I know it but the way it kicks up a notch. My entire body senses his presence near me. He takes his time walking, barely acknowledging those around him. His walk alone screams arrogance and concedes with the gravitational pull he has on me. Somehow, I anchor myself to the chair, but my eyes, they betray me and follow his every step.
He stops near the pool, stands there for a moment, his black-and-white board shorts hanging low enough on his hips that I can see the faint dusting of hair I followed with my tongue the night we were together.
He’s with another guy, who Willa notes is Auden, his best friend. They stop on the other side of the pool when Auden motions to me, his eyes on mine with a smile and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The orange glint brightens, and he sucks in a breath, nudging Shade with his elbow.
Shade turns around, glances my way, lifts his sunglasses and then turns back around facing the girls who are hanging on him. He’s got a glass in one hand, a bottle of what appears to be vodka in the other, but I can’t tell from here.
He sits down. Women sit with him. One on his lap. He raises the glass to his lips, his head pointed my direction, but I can’t tell if he’s looking or not because of those stupid fucking sunglasses.
It’s then I notice exactly how much these guys are drinking. “Don’t we have to leave for Paris in the morning?”
“Yep.” Willa stands and reaches for her phone. “Flight leaves at 10:00 a.m.”
“Soooo. . . . they probably shouldn’t be drinking this much?”
“They’re seasoned drinkers. But yeah, good luck controlling that. I gotta go.”
And then she leaves me.
I stay where I’m at, almost afraid to move because if I do, to get to the guest house, I have to walk toward Shade, and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that just yet.
He’s still drinking an hour later and eventually says fuck it, discards the glass and drinks straight from the bottle.
Women never leave his side. Ten of them at least. Some pressure him to dance, others just sit there, attempting to get his attention. Hell, half of them no longer have tops on.
There’s even a sign on the pool that says, No Clothes Allowed and most of the women, and Roan, are taking it seriously. Yep. Saw Roan’s junk already.
I’m staring. Not at Roan, he’s hot, but I can’t break my eyes away from Shade when he smiles at something the girl he’s dancing with says and my heart thuds. He puts his arm around her as she grinds and twerks into him.
Jesus Christ.
Her hair is long, black, wavy, oh what the fuck does it matter? Do you even care?
What matters is she’s touching him, and I can’t.
This is going to be a really long three months.
Will they have sex tonight? Is he going to be doing this all the time and I have to sit back and be like. . . do your thing?
Don’t worry about me. I secretly love you, but that’s okay. Rip my heart out.
Will he treat her like he treated me? Will he put her in a full nelson and then pull out?
I hope he forgets her name.
I hope he gets so drunk, because let’s face it, that bottle is nearly gone now that he can’t get it up.
As they move together, slowly and sensually, I think, no, I obsess about the way he’s holding her.
What does she feel when the heat of his breath hits her neck?
Damn it, that’s my heat she’s getting.
When his hands travel to her waist and a little lower, gripping her hips to the point his inked knuckles turn white, it has me questioning whether she senses the power his hands hold?
With a hitched breath caught in my throat, unable to divert my eyes, they transfix on him as he moves with her, seeming unaware I’m watching.
But then again, he knows I’m watching. I can see it in the arrogant way he smiles. I hate how arrogance looks so fucking sexy on him. It’s a trait he pulls off well. An image he wants to portray.
Though I can’t see his eyes, something tells me he’s assessing my reaction to her in his arms, the ones that pinned me down and wrapped so tightly I couldn’t breathe during our time together. The ones that wrapped me up like a pretzel and fucked me senseless.
Only now, they’re bound around this chick.
Fuck her. Well, I hope he doesn’t, but I’m thinking fuck her in a sense where I want to drown her skinny ass in the pool.
Frustrated, I head to the bar where I spot much-needed alcohol. Hundreds of bottles of liquor line a lit wooden display case.
Tiller bumps into me at the bar reaching for the tequila. I tell myself unlike Shade, I’m only going to have one drink since we have to be up early in the morning.
So Tiller, he’s staring at me. And I’m almost afraid to ask what he wants.
Wouldn’t you?
I stare, he quirks an eyebrow bringing his drink to his lips to mask the sly grin forming. “Take a number,” he says, then takes a drink.
“What?”
“Take. A. Number.”
I set down the glass of tequila I poured. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
His eyes shift from mine, to across the pool where shit for brains is dry humping Shade as he lays back on a lounge chair. “With him. If you’re into him, take a fucking number. That chick has been here every night this week trying to score with him. Every ho here comes to this place for one reason only. To fuck a Sawyer brother. And if we’re not available, they settle for guys like Auden or Brad. But Shade. . . ” Tiller lets out a low whistle, winking. “. . . there’s a goddamn line clean to LA to suck his dick.”
Fuck. My. Life.
“Does someone like you go on a permanent antibiotic or just treatment as needed?”
See. I have comebacks.
Tiller laughs. Just once. “Ah, honey. . . you’ll give into me at some point. Or, maybe him. Should your number come up.”
What a fucking asshole. I want to shout in his face, that I have fucked Shade—only he doesn’t remember—and maybe splash my drink is his ridiculously handsome face. But I don’t. Instead, I smile and say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” And then he walks away, and I’m left feeling incredibly embarrassed. What the fuck did I get myself into?
My stare moves to Shade who is now guess what, sitting up with her in his lap and he’s kissing her and staring at me.
I want to look away, Christ, I want to so badly, but can’t. I’m trapped in his gaze, completely restrained from movement from the eyes down.
Not wanting to give myself away completely, I raise an eyebrow, showing him, or rather trying to convince him—and maybe myself—I don’t care if he goes around kissing girls. I’m simply here to do a job, and that’s all.
Bull-fucking-shit. I do care. A lot. I care so much I’m practically burning a hole through her. I see glimpses of his tongue dipping into her mouth, his burning, taunting eyes over the brim of his shades never leaving mine, and I know this is a test. He’s waiting for a reaction from me. I’m weakened, falling under his spell. A sweet yet bitter fog only he can create around me. It’s sexual and completely inescapable.
Needing a breath, probably about as much as the girl he’s kissing, I attempt to break free, blinking rapidly a few times, but for the life of me, I can’t. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to?
Just then, Shade lifts his sunglasses and winks, pulling away from the girl and then leading her inside the house, out of my line of sight.
Utterly embarrassed and well, exhausted, I return to the guest house feeling like I should pack my shit and mark this adventure in the “I tried it, but fuck that shit” category.
Why didn't you warn me?
Who thought it’d be a good idea to take me, a girl who stalked him on social media, slept with him only to have him forget and then wham, I’m supposed to be his personal assistant while he fucks other girls?
Not exactly how I pictured my life. But then again, I never thought Asher would kill himself. I never thought I’d actually have a night with Shade, and I certainly never thought I’d get this job.
What I do know is two can play this game, and I’m determined to do my job, a job that doesn’t include A, sleeping with Shade Sawyer, and B, caring who he fucks.
Katy Perry definitely had it right when she sang “Roar.” I’m living in that song now. He’s pushed me past the breaking point with that kiss. I’ve got my eye on the tiger.
Wait, shit. . . that’s not the right line, is it?
Maybe I’ve got the eye of the tiger?
Whatever. I’m tired.