Page 76 of Challenge
Now I can add Indie Porter to it, file it away, and move the hell on. She’s a different calibre of the birds I shag, so that’s why I’m still smarting over the whole ordeal. I guess rejection wounds even the most confident of footballers. So in the interest of moving on and gaining back some of my “Camden Harris, knicker-dropping smirk” mojo back, I let my brother drag me out tonight.
“I still can’t believe you bagged your doctor!” Tanner takes a long drink of his beer, then puts it back up to his eye socket. With the other eye open and on me, he adds, “I did not take her for the monopoly squirt and split type. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.”
“If you don’t knock it off, I’ll give you a matching set,” I growl through clenched teeth, balling my fist up beside me. “I’m not kidding, Tan. Leave it.”
“That info was well worth the shiner,” he states, happily rolling the condensation-soaked beer bottle on his eye.
I take a drink of my own beer, mentally junk-punching myself for the eighteenth time tonight for telling him about Indie and me. Or at least telling him a tiny version of it. I’m not about to tell him she was a fucking virgin. I’d never hear the end of it.
I’m not proud of spilling the beans. But I am a bloke, and ever since he got back from their match last week, he hasn’t stopped bragging about the threesome he had on the road. It’s not uncommon for him to brag about his conquests, but for the past ten days I’d been slowly dying on the inside over this Indie thing. I was holding on by a thread.
Then today, after my MRI, he started talking about having a threesome with Indie and her coworker, Belle, who apparently chatted with him in the waiting room while I was suffering through a little piece of redheaded hell. My possessiveness got the better of me. I blurted out that I’d screwed Dr. Porter because I knew he’d shut up then.
You see, my brothers and I have an understanding about women. We call it the Bacon Sandwich Rule. If I lick a bacon sandwich, that means it’s mine and they can’t touch it. Ever.
We apply this same well-thought-out and highly-sensitive philosophy to women, and it’s worked well for us…until today.
The punch went a little something like this:
Tanner starts, “You fucked the redhead?”
“Stop.”
“What was it like?”
“Stop.”
“Were her tits big? They look big.”
“Stop.”
“Was she wild? She looks like a screamer.”
“Stop.”
“Did she suck you off? God, I bet she gives good head.”
“Stop.”
“How were her nipples? Pink or pale pink?”
“Stop.”
“Did she call out my name when she came?”
PUNCH.
I know it was probably a bit dramatic, but bloody hell, Tanner can be a sod. This isn’t the first time we’ve rowed over a girl; however, it is the first time I’ve punched him over one. It evidently still didn’t teach him because he won’t stop running his mouth.
Regardless, I didn’t punch him because I’m still pining over Indie. After our talk today, I know that ship has sailed. Whatever fucked-up thoughts my mind was having over her are well and dead now. I truly think she is incapable of feeling. She’s got her head in the sand so far, she wouldn’t see a connection with someone if her glasses were binoculars.
She set me up so perfectly, though, like a master heartbreaker. When we fucked on that chair…I had hope. But after it was over and I realised she was just saying goodbye, I knew I was doomed.
After that, all sorts of self-doubt began creeping into my mind. Hell, if I can get it in my head that I care more about her than I do about football, my mind is fucked. Maybe tonight is just what I need to get my shit straight again because it’s time for Camden Harris to stop acting like he’s on his man-period.
“Hello, boys. Fancy seeing you here!” a voice says from behind me, and I snap my head around to see who it is.
Nothing could have prepared me for who stands before me.
