Page 53 of Play Fake
“I told you; I’d give you whatever you wanted. You just had to ask me.”
“Fine. Waylon, would you please fuck my brains out?” She asks in the most pained tone possible while pretending to smile through gritted teeth.
I can’t help the laughter that bursts out, but it doesn’t help matters.
“See!” She throws her hands up.
“You’re going to have to ask me nicely, like it’s not the most painful thing you’ve ever done in your life. And preferably when you’re fully sober.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not happening.”
“Fuck, I hope so.” I lean even closer, letting my body brush against hers and taking her chin in my hand, tilting it up and forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Because every time I see you, I get so fucking hard. It’s painful. All I can think about is how good I could make you feel. How much I want to hear you beg me for more. And I’d bet you’ve thought about it too, probably every time you’ve stepped into that shower of yours.”
Her eyes waver at that last little accusation and I smile, biting my lip at the satisfaction of having guessed right. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if she’s ever touched herself thinking about me when I hear someone clear their throat at the bottom of the stairs.
“Kenz! Is that you up there? Are you coming? We’re running up the meter out here and this driver is getting cranky!” Olivia shouts up.
“Fucking fuck,” Mac mutters, pushing away from the wall and sliding past me.
“Here,” I say, pressing the jersey in her hands.
She looks at it quizzically.
“For you to wear tomorrow to the game,” I answer the unspoken question.
She looks at it, and then back at me for a second before she takes off.
“We’ll see.” She calls back over her shoulder as she descends the steps.
* * *
The next morning,I’m up at the crack of dawn to pick up my mom from the airport. I have a few hours to get her to the hotel and then get over to the stadium for game-day press and warm-ups. I yawn and take another huge swallow of the energy drink I have in the car as I pull up to the arrivals gate and park. Mom said she was going to rent a car while she was here, but I still can’t help myself from being here to meet them. Guys will talk a lot of shit about how they don’t need their moms or find them annoying but fuck that. Not me. I love my fucking mom.
I’m sure it hits differently because my dad died when I was still a kid and so I value the parent I have left so much more because of it. I actually think about the day when she won’t be there to stuff me with homemade cooking, won’t text me cute little anecdotes about things going on back home, and I won’t be able to tell her I love her anymore. So right now? I’m going to soak it all in.
I see her and my brother standing by the baggage claim already, waiting for their bags to come off the plane. I just saw them a few months ago over the summer, but even still my brother’s growing like a weed. I think it’s entirely possible he’ll be bigger than I am by the time he’s done growing. But unlike me, he has very little interest in football, other than rooting for his big brother, that is.
He loves video games, paranormal shit, and writing screenplays for horror movies. I am pretty sure he’d love to be the next M. Night Shyamalan. Which would be one hell of a career minus the whole weird lawn mower movie, anyway.
I give them a wave, drink the last of my energy drink, and drop the can in the recyclable bin before I run up to give them both a giant bear hug.
“So where am I taking you guys to drop off your stuff?” I ask after we get through all the usual baggage claim discussions about the flight.
“Yeah, about that. No hotel yet.”
“What? Mom, I’ve got like zero space at my place, and also not exactly a family atmosphere there,” I frown.
“We’ll just be there for a few minutes to put our bags down before the game. Then we’ll go get lunch and head to the stadium. It’ll be like we were barely there. Besides, I’ve got cookies. Growing boys can’t resist triple chocolate cookies, can they?” She waves the giant box of cookies she’s managed to fit into her carryon bag in front of me.
“Triple chocolate?” I say, almost mesmerized because my mother is one hell of a baker.
“Triple.” She confirms.
“Okay fine. I need to call ahead, though, and make sure we’re not gonna run into any shenanigans.”
“Please, not like there will be anything I haven’t seen before. And we can tell Jake to avert his eyes,” she laughs.
I give her a tight smile and pull up Easton’s number on my cell. He is the most likely to be having a sex fueled breakfast in our living room, and since he’s already gotten me in trouble with the women in my life once in the last 24 hours, I’m making sure it’s not happening again.
