Page 18 of Dirty Roulette
“Uhh... there is a Mexican party down the street.” He points cheddar-covered fingers to the house behind us. “They had tacos... and I won it in a poker game, and became some niños God Papi... I think they called the cops. I got lost.”
“Right...”
I watch an officer lunge at someone in the grass, tackling him to the ground as I drive off. Payton is passed out with her head against the window. In the rearview mirror, Charlie sits with arms crossed and the pissed-off stare she keeps throwing at me.
She doesn’t get it. An invitation to join the football team at GCU is rare, you gotta have skills for Coach Storm to notice. Out of everyone he scouted in the area, he offeredmehis card. The smell of cut grass, digging up graves with cleats, and the ball cemented to my chest as I bolt past the faded touchdown line is the best definition of me.
I earned my position.
Big-Shot-Daddy, a lawyer, bought his way in for Brody to be the quarterback. Thomas’s law firm became the football team’s biggest donor. He funds everything, including our scholarships and housing. Brody runs the show. What he says goes. One wrong word and you’re off the team. Dirty Roulette is just another way for him to maintain his control over everyone.
He shouldn’t have made the cut – I watched that Neanderthal during our senior year of high school lose his shit on the opposing team’s coach. He decked him over some stupid illegal fumblerooski play. It was high school, and the janitor was the referee.
The coach said he’d never play again, but during our freshmen orientation he came through the double doors wearing his jersey and flashed us his smug look. I hadn’t even gotten my jersey yet. A trash can and shredded expulsion papers landed the Dean a pay raise and the Audi she parks in her designated spot. Questions don’t need answers when Daddy is sucking the Dean’s clit.
There’s no way Brody Thomas maintains a decent GPA when he’s hungover most days in class. He gives professors flack when they don’t cater to him, yet somehow he still carries high honors. I, on the other hand, have spent months surviving off four hours of sleep so I can barely maintain my 4.0 on top of hitting the gym twice a day and giving my all to the three-hour-long practices we have daily.
Outside the stadium Brody and I can never find medium ground, but once the helmet slides on, we are a different breed. He’s my teammate and I’ll have his back even if my knees shatter and I’m hauled off on a stretcher with a concussion.
I spent my summers with him and the team, going to parties and having the time of my life, but this was the first summer I ignored the invites. I trusted him on and off the field, letting my guard down only to be betrayed and tackled to the ground. Out of all the girls he canhave, he took mine, and I don’t know how to put it behind me and walk onto the field like it never happened.
Knowing Brody, he’ll force me to swallow my pride and play next to him. He’s chained up plenty of teammates threatening to share their secrets. If a guy has a foot fetish, he knows about it. The guys on the team who have a thing for ass fucking each other, he got videos of them too. He’ll put your secrets on blast. When he gets a hold of a girl’s nudes, it’s all he needs, and it makes them squirm and listen. All I want is to catch the ball and run.
I have no idea how to protect either of these girls, and they are moving into the dorms this week with Cheer Phi scholarships. That’s an extra fifteen grand in the bank. They pay girls to cheer and, damn, they are good at it too.
It feels like tonight has been an eternity, and driving home is just as painful. Luckily, we beat my mom by twenty minutes. When she stormed in, she was pretty drunk herself and went straight into the bedroom without a word.
Mom didn’t bother to question the commotion in the bathroom between Charlie and Payton arguing. Nick passed out on my dad’s recliner. The pillow of choice is his ten-pound bag of popcorn. At some point around four in the morning, I crash on the couch.
It doesn’t feel like I slept for more than ten minutes. Sunlight bleeds through the curtains and mourning doves sing nonstop. They purposely loiter in the thick, untrimmed bushes by the sliding glass door.
A streak of light meets my eyeballs.Fantastic. The fan blowing hits the hanging blinds just right. I pat around the couch, looking for my cell. The light bites the lids of my eyes when I press the side button. It’s seriously ten in the morning. I groan. There’s no way I can packup the rest of my things and get it to student housing. Not with this blistering headache and cottonmouth.
I sit up and my first sight is Nick’s hand flopping over the lounge chair, covered in a rusty crimson layer. Flaky and dry. It’s mostly on his index and middle finger, but it climbs up his palms, twirling around to his elbow.
“Nick...” I poke him in the chest. “Dude, you need to shower. You got shit all over your hands and mouth. Dude...What the hell...”
Charlie strolls out of the kitchen dressed in a baggy shirt and booty shorts. She slurps on a bowl of cereal. Payton follows behind her. I swallow down the lump in my throat as I stare at a Ramones tee, barely covering up Payton’s best Saturday underwear, knowing her black panties are still in my pocket. A half-eaten Twinkie lays dead in her hand.
“Is that period blood?” Charlie’s nose curls up.
“Eww. What was he doing last night?” Payton asks with half the Twinkie lodged into the side of her cheek. My mouth waters, revisiting her kiss, her breasts in my hand, and the knife searing my balls off when she admitted she was a virgin. A piece of frosting rests at the corner of her lips, and my heart spasms as she licks it off.
“He hooked up with Naomi last night.” Charlie shrugs.
“Gross,” Payton says without emotion and turns on her heels down the hallway.
Chapter seven
Payton
Iwake up the next morning like nothing happened. No hangover, just an overly dry mouth. Tap from the bathroom sink saturates my tongue. The water runs on high, and I dip my head, taking mouthfuls. I rest over the counter and stare into the mirror, my chin and neck drenched. A nest of hair is matted on my right side, and my mascara is smeared. It’s Crypt Keeper bad.
I lick the water off my lips, and Ryder crashes into my memory bank. The smoky taste of his tongue on mine sinks to my thighs. I can’t believe I acted like a dog humping him until I... My chest collapses miserably. I want to jab a knife in my heart and rip out this feeling rampaging through me. Oh God. I’m mortified.
Vodka poison is instant zombie juice, and it enslaves everyone’s brain to do stupid things. The ache in the pit of my stomach tells me to lock up the grinding fest and pretendlike nothing happened. At the same time, Brody wants me to sleep with Ryder, film it, and send it to him. All for pom-poms in a football stadium, a shot at living ina sorority house rent-free, and finally getting out of Cloud Nine for good
The door creaks open, sliding clothes into the corner of the wall. It’s musty here. Blotches of toothpaste litter the ceramic sink, runaway strands of hair stick to everything like glue, and every type of lipstick scatters across the countertop. Charlie weasels her way past me and drops her shorts, plopping down on the toilet.
