Foolish Games: A Brothers Best Friend Fake Dating Romance

eighteen

#1 at the Box Office: Scream 2

Sebastian Swift

“Yo, Bash,” Melody says, poking her head into my room, her headphones around her neck instead of covering her ears for once.

“What’s up?” I ask, shoving the sexy picture of Viv between the pages of the oversized Rolling Stone magazine on my pillow.

“What was that?” she asks, shaking her lank, greasy hair out of her eyes.

“Nothing you need to know about,” I say, sitting up. “And never date a jock.”

“Eww,” she groans, drawing out the word when she sees the bottle of hand lotion beside the bed. “Were you whacking off in here?”

“Not anymore,” I say, scowling. “What do you need?”

“Batteries,” she says, holding up her CD Walkman. “Got any?”

“Yeah, a few,” I say, sighing and standing from the bed, since seeing my sister killed my boner anyway. “What you listening to?”

“Lisa Loeb,” she says. “Or I was, until this stupid thing died.”

“You know, you could just listen to the radio at home,” I point out. “It has a CD player, and you don’t have to use up your batteries.”

She gives me a sullen look, and I turn to open the drawer of my desk. While I root around through the random crap—scattered pieces of Dubble Bubble, movie ticket stubs, sample strips of Acqua di Gio pulled from magazines, Camel Cash I saved for Lexi, a screwdriver, and finally, a couple loose batteries—I glance at my sister.

“Hey, how’s the piano lessons going?” I ask.

“They’re not lessons if you don’t have a teacher,” she says, shaking her head like I’m missing something obvious.

“But you’re teaching yourself,” I say, plucking the batteries from the drawer. “You know, my new girl plays music. Maybe she could give you a few pointers.”

She snorts. “Like Vivienne Delacroix is going to teach me anything.”

“You know who I’m dating?”

She rolls her eyes. “Everyone in school knows who you’re dating,” she points out. “You’re Sebastian Swift.” She says my name in her most mocking tone, like that’s not really my name at all, and if it is, it’s worthy of her deepest scorn.

That makes me feel a little less shitty that she believes the lie we fed the school.

“So?” I ask.

“So, people think you’re like, the king of Faulkner High or whatever.”

I crack a smile and flop back on my bed. “I am hella popular.”

“Get over yourself,” she says, holding out a hand. “And give me the batteries.”

I know I’m nothing special.

Vivienne’s special. Rob’s special. They’re founding heirs.

I’m just me.

“I just didn’t think freshmen paid attention to senior gossip,” I tell my sister.

“Um, hello, dating a senior guy is insta-popularity for a freshman girl,” she says. “Of course we pay attention to y’all.”

“You’re not trying to date a senior, are you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her.

She wrinkles her nose. “I have to live with you. That’s more than enough to scare me away from boys of all ages. Y’all are all nasty.”

“Good,” I say, dropping the batteries into her outstretched hand. “And Mel? Is there anything you want for Christmas?”

“More batteries would be nice,” she says. “Or you can give me the Rolling Stone collection.”

“Fat chance.”

Dad was a complete music geek, and he took immense pride in his subscription to the magazine. He had two decades organized by issue number, never throwing out a single one. Since I’m the oldest, I took them over when it became apparent he wasn’t coming back. We had to cancel the subscription a long time ago, but we still read the old ones—and argue over them.

“Then batteries,” she says. “And maybe a CD.”

“You want the Spice Girls?” I tease.

She gives me a dirty look. “No. Fiona Apple.”

“What if I could get you something bigger?” I ask. “Anything you want.”

She seems to think it over as she flips the batteries around and inserts them carefully before thumbing the compartment closed and turning her Walkman over. “Maybe one of those inflatable chairs for my room.”

I shake my head. “You’re weird as hell.”

When she leaves, I lay back on the bed, thinking about the bet.

Could I do that to Vivienne?

I mean, I could fuck her. But taking the money from the others for it… I don’t know. It seems shady. Then again, what else am I getting out of our arrangement? It’s not like Viv’s paying me. She’s not even giving me head for pretending we’re actually dating, that she tied me down. I have a reputation to uphold, as my sister reminded me. If I’m going to tarnish that and let a girl lock me down, the least she can do is let me hit it a time or two. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Viv’s only doing it to get back at Chaz, anyway. I’ve seen him skulking around, watching us resentfully. I don’t think Vivienne’s even noticed, but I have. I should point it out to her, tell her that if she wants him back, all she has to do is snap her fingers and he’ll come crawling back. Truth is, I’m not quite ready to let him, even if she is. I don’t want this to end yet.

I’m having too much fun with Viv. I like pushing her buttons and making her squirm. More than that, I want to tarnish her, to get her squeaky-clean rep a little dirty. Hey, if she’s damaging my rep, I can do the same to her. When I sank a finger into her slick cunt while she was driving the Corvette, it was about the hottest thing I’ve ever felt. Not much could top that except feeling that squeeze around my cock instead.

Still, it surprised the hell out of me when she got so turned on with people around. I wouldn’t have guessed sweet little Princess Vivienne Delacroix was freaky like that, but I think she liked the audience. I bet I could have fucked her right then, in front of the whole group, and then my friends would have proof for that stupid bet, and everyone would believe we’re together.

I’m kinda pissed I didn’t do it. Every other time we hang out, Robert is on us the second we show up. The dude’s always hovering. It’s fucking annoying that she’s got such a good brother—and one who’s my best friend on top of it. I should have pushed her when we got home the other day instead of just holding her all night and sneaking out in the morning.

The thought gets me all worked up again, and I pull out the picture she put in my locker and unzip my pants. Fisting my cock, I let myself picture her wrapped around me while I drive her car, riding me while we fly down the highway at a hundred miles per hour. I imagine all the ways I could ruin her for Chaz if she wasn’t Rob’s sister, the things I’d have her do that no good girl would dream of doing. I’d make her tell me all her bad girl fantasies, like being finger fucked in a car with my friends listening to her moan, watching her and wanting her and unable to touch her because she’s mine.

I’d fulfil every single one of her dreams until she knew I was the only one who could give her what she needs. Not to be treated like a princess, but like a needy little whore. My needy little whore.

I stare at the picture, imagining thrusting between her full, smirking lips, coming down her throat. Instead, I cum in my hand because I can’t have her.

That’s what she keeps saying, anyway.