CHAPTER THREE
SCARLET
I pace around my apartment running over what Angela said. She’s a reporter. She’s only trying to get to you, elicit a response.
It worked. As much as I want to believe Josh would never cheat on me, I can’t be sure any more. I can’t be sure of anything. God, it was so good in the beginning. Jensen was the one who went off the rails. I don’t know how it turned into this.
I run my hand over my shelf of Babushka dolls. There’s even a Victory FC one, a present Josh brought home after he and Jensen were selected. I was happy, deliriously so, even though things were already going downhill. Here is the fork in the road, I thought, the path to change.
“At least you haven’t changed, Won Ton.” My pug lifts his head from his pillow. “Well, maybe a little fatter, but more or less the same.
I sit down, the fridge and half a tub of salted caramel ice cream calling, but I can’t seem to get Angela’s words out of my head. She’s getting to me.
The encounter with Jensen was another thing altogether. It always is. I can’t deny there is a chemistry between us. He might be the best player going around—on and off the green stuff—but the Jensen I knew all those years ago is still under that skin of bravado and rippage. And god is he ripped. Josh has a body, but Jensen… Call the fire brigade. Spill a freakin’ dam. He’s so cut and perfect it’s certifiable. Nothing but ovary-exploding, get-in-my-bed goodness.
His bed’s never empty, of course. That’s the problem. There’s no shortage of bimbos looking to be WAGS… or BAGS, as I’ve dubbed them. Thing is, he’s bedded all these woman and not once has Jensen made a move to settle down. Guess it wouldn’t play with the whole ‘bad boy of soccer’ thing, insert relevant balls pun.
He only has eyes for you.
I wish. We have something, yes, but neither of us is going to act on it. Jensen had his chance.
I drum my fingers on the table wishing I could hunt down Hermione and steal her time-turner. Life with Jensen… It could be amazing.
Who are you kidding?
Won Ton’s running figure-of-eights around my ankles, his beady black eyes looking up, a perpetual pout on his face. I rub him behind the ears. “What do you think about it all, huh?”
He gives me a gruff! and darts back to his bed. I’m tempted to do the same, but I’ve got to talk to someone about the business with Angela. As much as it would be nice to hit up Jensen, I’m not exactly in the mood to walk in on him ‘making the love’ with his latest accessory. Besides, if Josh ever found out he’d never forgive me. It would be World War Three all over again. No one wants that. I’m happy to play Switzerland for now.
No, if it’s going to be anyone, it has to be Josh. He is my boyfriend, after all, not that he’s been such a winning example lately. He’s had an hour or two to sober up now, or maybe I want him to be drunk. Booze is, after all, the cheapest truth serum out. I’ll ask him straight about what Angela said. If he denies it, fine. If not? Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Like he’d ever tell you. Don’t be so stupid, Scar.
I want to believe it’s baseless, but often the wildest rumors are born from some kind of truth. It doesn’t matter. I need to hear it from his lips and his alone.
I stand, set, scooping my keys off the table and telling Won Ton not to wait up. Momma’s headed to the Hills.
*
The streets are surprisingly busy considering it’s heading past midnight. I see a line snaking around a corner half a block for one of the newest clubs on the strip, Coco. Jensen’s probably in there already with a couple of girls dripping off him. He likes to party after a big win. Who can blame him, really? He works hard, plays hard. He deserves to reap the rewards.
So does Josh.
I think back to the way Josh spoke to me in the parking lot. Even though I know it was the bourbon talking, it still scared me. There was genuine hate there.
In contrast to the sparkling city below, the Hills are pin-drop quiet. I pull up to Josh’s place. His Mustang’s in the driveway—alone. So far, so good.
The lights are off as far as I can tell, no music. Maybe he really is asleep in there?
I consider calling this off and heading home, but I’ve come all this way. The least he can offer me is a kiss goodnight, an apology. That’s his strong suit, the groveling, knee-busting sorrys that always lure me back. I’m a sucker for it.
Damn straight, Oprah-Walters chides.
His doorbell could wake the dead, so I knock on the door instead and wait.
“Josh?” I call out, only a neighborhood dog barking in reply.
I knock again, a little more forcefully now. On the third the door swings slightly ajar. Idiot forgot to close it properly. It reminds me of the time Jensen walked in on us at college. He stood there with the weirdest expression on his face as I tried to gather the sheets and what was left of my modesty, scrambling off Josh for the bathroom. Jensen didn’t looked shocked. No, he looked sad.
I push the door open and take a step inside, calling, “Josh? It’s me.”
In the dark I kick something round and hard, cussing as it rolls into the kitchen. Looked like a skull. Wow, now you are seeing things, Scar. What next? Professor Plum emerging from the living room with a candlestick?
I’ve always been a scaredy-cat, the dark so final and all-consuming. I still use the Buzz Lightyear nightlight I’ve had since I was seven. Buzz—now there is a man. Woody’s nice and all, but Buzz… To infinity and beyond alright.
“Josh?” I call again, a little more urgent as I hunt for the lights. Damn place is all remote, WiFi’d, connected, and voice-activated. Whatever happened to a simple light switch?
I curse again as I bump into a wall, the stairs before me that lead up the second floor and bedrooms. I’m sure I hear something up there, a short grunt that has to be Josh talking in his sleep. He once recited half of Independence Day.
A large void above the stairwell provides modest illumination as I ascend the stairs, a Banksy piece of a girl picking grenades out of a garden framed beside me. Josh probably doesn’t even know why he bought it himself. Half of the crap in this house is straight out of the Robb Report. Jensen? Still living in the same crappy two-bedder downtown he has for the last couple of years. Even his Charger remains as it did in college, not hotted up and sprayed the brightest shade of orange possible like Josh’s Mustang—cursed thing’s a rolling seizure.
“Josh?” I make it a loud whisper. Still no reply.
I hit the top of the stairs and hear his voice again, muted, but it sounds different.
I approach his door, lean against it. He’s moaning in his sleep, but there’s another sound I can’t quite place.
Let him sleep. Deal with it in the morning.
I strip off my jeans and blouse, opening the door and moving into the darkness of his room. There are no windows in here. It’s pitch black the way Josh likes it and precisely why I don’t like to spend too much time at his place.
The moan comes again, low, the sheets shifting. Whatever he’s dreaming about, it must be damn good.
I don’t speak as I pad across the carpet, the cold sending a dimpled layer of goosebumps rising to the surface of my skin.
When I’m close enough, I take hold of the sheets and pull them back, sliding in. Josh is on his back, head whipping to the side as he groans again, almost in agony. I get a whiff of alcohol, but it’s nowhere near as overpowering as before. There’s another smell, familiar, but one I can’t quite put my finger on.
I run my hand across his chest, and that’s when I feel it—hair. It’s too thick to be Josh’s, in too much abundance. I run my hand lower and it hits something hard and round.
What the hell?
“Josh?” I stammer.
“Josh?” comes another voice, female.
He sits up like he’s just been given a lightning-bolt enema, something else lifting towards the base on the bed. It’s at precisely that moment I realize what’s going on.
“Scarlet?” whimpers Josh, and I hear the fear in his voice, the surprise. I run my hand across the bedhead and hit the light. Even before my finger presses the switch I know the horror that awaits.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but when they do it is a nightmare of such magnitude I literally cannot breathe, lungs seized tight.
Josh sits up, naked, his cock hard and glistening in the light. I’ve seen that sight before, but it’s what’s between his legs that scares me the most.
It’s that Latino girl I’ve seen hanging around the players. She’s naked too, her caramel skin striking against Josh’s, her nipples tight berries. She wipes her mouth as she looks at me, dabbing at the corner of her lips.
I realize now what I can smell—sex.
She shakes the shock off fast. “You must be Scarlet,” she says. “I’m Carolina.” I notice she’s pierced below, a diamante heart where her belly button should be and one of those loopy poetic quotes tattooed down her side.
I back off the bed and stand, covering myself even though I’m still in my bra and panties. Never in my life have I been so humiliated. Angela was right.
You knew it. You knew all along.
I start to back towards the door. “I, I—”
“Scarlet, wait.” Josh tries to get off the bed but gets his foot tangled in the sheets, half-hobbling, swearing, reaching out for me like I’m a life boat adrift. “I can explain, please.”
“Josh, I—” I don’t know what to say. The shock is still washing over me. If I came in and they were doing it, that would be one thing. But letting her, her go down on him, an act so private, so intimate… That’s unforgivable.
This Carolina reclines on the bed, hand on her chin. “You should stay, honey.”
I can’t even make myself mad at her I’m so fixated on Josh as he scrambles towards me, the sheets bunched up in his hands in some vain attempt to cover his erection, the erection that was in her mouth only moments ago.
I turn and run through the door, almost tripping on my clothes and swinging back to gather them up.
“Scarlet!” yells Josh. “Wait!”
It’s too much. This was the last thing I needed tonight. And this one? Out of all the girls, he chose someone like her, a hussy, a wannabee WAG?
I hit the bottom of the stairs and head for the front door, but Josh is faster. He rushes past me and closes it, standing in front and blocking my path.
I stop, keep my distance. I cry hard, don’t even try to stop it now, and the whole thing made that much more humiliating because I know she is still upstairs listening, probably loving every damn second of this mess, waiting for her moment to make Josh her own with her mouth, her dirty hole, do things I won’t.
I never swear, but Josh has pushed me too far. “Fuck you,” I stammer, blinking briny tears from my eyes, lashes stuck together in clumps below. My lips quiver, body shaking on the spot.
He has his hands out trying to calm me down, but what does he expect? That I’m just going to up and forgive him? Not for this betrayal. It’s not possible, no matter how much he begs and grovels. Words can’t fix this.
“Why?” I don’t even know why I’m asking it. “Why, Josh? Why are you doing this?”
He runs his hand through his hair, huffing, his free hand opening and closing rhythmically as if grasping for a solution. His cock’s deflated, a saggy sock of flesh hanging against his thigh. “Baby.” He’s bringing out the big guns now. “I know how this looks, but it’s not what you think.”
I wipe watery snot from mouth. “No? I think it’s exactly what I think.” I can’t believe he’d try to deny it. “Are you saying there’s not a strange girl, naked, in your bed, our bed who wasn’t just…” I can’t even say it.
He takes a step closer. I take one back.
“Look,” he says, trying to be the voice of reason, “training’s been rough. I needed to blow off some steam.”
I clench my arms tighter around myself. “Is that what you call it? I deserve a better excuse than that, Josh.”
“Baby,” he pleads again, stepping closer and then back, scared I might lash out, “it’s a lot of stress. I need to go wild every once and while. No big deal.”
I take a step forward, the anger rising, my confidence lifted momentarily. “No big deal?” I laugh. “You’re sleeping with someone else. You’re cheating on me, just like the reporter said.”
A new terror slips into his eyes. “Reporter?”
I ignore it. “Does she mean anything to you, Josh? Are you in love with her?”
“No,” he shakes his head, turning sideways as I come forward again, covering himself protectively, “they don’t mean anything to me, baby. You have to believe me. It’s only a bit of fun.”
He realizes what he’s said and starts hitting himself in the head. “Fuck! Fuck!”
I lower my eyes, can’t even look at him anymore. “How many, Josh?”
“Baby…”
“Tell me, honestly, how many?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He’s growing frustrated, irritated, turning in a second with that Jekyll and Hyde routine I know so well now. “Fuck, Scarlet, can you give me a break for once? So I sleep around. So fucking what? We fuck, what, once a month now? That’s not good enough. I’ve got needs.”
I cannot believe what I’m hearing. “Are you kidding me, Josh?”
He remains firm. “No.”
“You think you can do better?”
“Maybe I can.”
So this is it. “Okay. Why don’t you try it out then?” The tears have dried, my skin stiff and acrid.
He keeps his eyes pinned on mine. “Maybe I will, find myself some real hot ass instead of a moany, whiney bitch like you.”
That’s it. I walk past him and this time he doesn’t try to stop me. “Goodbye, Josh,” I tell him, throat burning as I open the door.
I turn, one final look, and take in his sad, deflated dick. “You know what, Josh?”
He doesn’t reply, but stands there with hands on his hips exactly like he did when Jensen scored that goal.
“You might be all Mr. Playmaker on the field, but you never made me come, not once.”
He watches me, but I can see it’s a bullseye right into that over-inflated ego balloon he calls a head.
I turn and slam the door behind me, hurrying to my car and backing out of there as fast as possible. I notice a set of black skid marks running up the street. Guess I’m not the only one who wanted to get out of here in a hurry tonight.
I shift into first and drive away, one eye on the front door of Josh’s place. It remains closed. It’s not until I hit the highway, still sitting there in my bra and panties, the tears come again, great hulking sobs wracking my body and causing the wheel to shake in my hands. I don’t even know why I’m crying, why I’m letting him make me feel this way, like I’m worthless, second rate.
I think of him and immediately I think of her—on top of him, sucking him off, begging him to do her in the ass, her stupid damn tattoo and piercings and… God, I’m crying so hard the road’s nothing but a blurry mess before me, watery blobs of black and white.
I pull into a rest stop and slump over the wheel, let my tears fall to the tops of my thighs and roll down into the upholstery.
It’s done.
It’s over.
Somewhere in there, among all the anger and sadness and self-loathing, Oprah-Walters perches herself by my ear and whispers, You’re free, honey. You’re free.