Page 3 of Play Fake
I recognize him immediately, the deep voice and the smell of his cologne a dead giveaway, even if the impossible size of the man wasn’t so evident.
Just what I need when I’m already exhausted; chaos-fucking-incarnate.
“Waylon, you, of all people, know you shouldn’t be up here,” I grump at him.
Olivia’s best friend is the quarterback for the university’s team, Liam Montgomery, and the reason half the football team is here tonight. Where he goes, they follow. And first in line of that dutiful march is his other best friend, the team’s center and therefore Liam’s personal bodyguard, Waylon Prescott.
“Is that what the rope was for? I thought maybe there was a VIP lounge up here. Youaredressed to give bottle service.” He smirks, as his eyes run over me. I’d say it was with interest, but given how much we hate each other, I know it’s just him buying time to think of an insult.
“Go back downstairs. Before one of your jersey chasers tries to follow you up here.”
Waylon is an all-time favorite on the football team. Straight out of Texas with a slight drawl and all. Constantly smiling. Always cracking jokes. Easy going and always assuming everyone loves him. Because they do, mostly. Especially women, although that likely has as much to do with his looks as his personality, and the rumors his massive size is reflected in all parts of his anatomy.
Have you ever hated someone, but to make it worse, they were undeniably and almost universally attractive, and so you hated them a little more for it? Yeah, that. That was Prescott in my world.
He ignores me, as if I’m not speaking. As if I don’t exist, and presses past me, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling, to the little loveseat where he sits down. I don’t even know if sit is the right word to describe what’s happening. Engulfs might be better. I was truly worried for my favorite little antique, that it might break under his size. At his insane height and build, there probably wasn’t a lot of furniture that didn’t seem to be dwarfed by his presence.
“Not bad, little small though.” He runs his fingers over the couch, and I resist the urge to slap his hands away.
“Waylon, please,” I grit out.
I needed my quiet time. My sanity. And Waylon Prescott never led to either of those things.
He was the mad hatter of the group. The constant jokester. The one who always seemed to be the thinly-veiled catalyst behind the latest team prank. The time they played an entire game of flag football on top of the chemistry building? Waylon. The time they’d turned the quad into a giant cloud of bubbles after renting 20 bubble machines? Waylon. The man who’d once suggested I turn our cute little backyard garden into a mud wrestling pit and start my own divisional mud wrestling championship when I’d griped about needing to find a job that paid better? Waylon fucking Prescott.
“He doesn’t do brunettes.” He takes a sip of his beer. I’d barely noticed he had it because his massive hands obscure most of it, making it look like something he plucked from a dollhouse.
“What?” I furrow my brow. Following Waylon’s logic was hard on a good day. And today was far from a good day.
He pauses for a long moment, his eyes fixed on my dress. There’s just enough light from outside that it shimmers a bit. I wait for some smartass remark. He always has one. I’m sure I’d be called “Sparkles” or “Disco Ball” from now on. Something that would remind me of how ridiculous I’d been to agree to wear this dress.
In fact, he was the reason anyone on the football team who bothered to know or remember my name, called me Mac. Because when we met for the first time and I told him my name was Mackenzie, he’d said, “Mackenzie? Mac? Like a Mack Truck” and smiled this incredibly devious smile. I could still picture it, even now. And I was too dumbfounded at the time to say anything because who the hell does that? Sure, I had extra pounds on me. I had an hourglass figure that was nowhere near the type guys like him preferred, but I thought when we got to college, we were mature enough to not make fat jokes like middle schoolers.
Asshat.I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him through the dark over the memory.
“Lawton,” he says at last, taking another pull off his beer.
A little knot forms in my throat as I feel the creep of embarrassment. If Waylon noticed my interest, then I was being way too obvious because Waylon didn’t notice anything that wasn’t being directly waved in front of him - like the asses of two sorority girls just this evening. I roll my eyes.
“Ooookay,” I say, as if I have no idea why he’s telling me that.
“Just thought you might want to know if you were up here pouting about him not fucking you.” He shrugs.
“I am not pouting, least of all, about who Ben takes home tonight. I’m just getting some peace and quiet and changing my dress.” I hope the exasperation in my voice will send him on his way.
“If you say so.” He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me.
“I do,” I retort, widening my eyes and motioning for the stairs. “Now go.”
“Can you even reach the zipper on your own?” He ignores my instructions, his eyes running over my dress for the third time.
I couldn’t, or at least not easily. I’d forgotten that bit when I’d hurried up here. Olivia had helped me get into the dress, and I’d probably need her help to get out of it. The last thing I want to do is go downstairs and ask because I’ll only get dragged into another round of beer pong.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say at last.
“I can do it for you.”
“It’s delicate. I doubt your giant paws could manage it.”
