15. Season Tickets
15
Tessa
Four days. It’s been four days since the cock-cookies incident, and Riggs hasn’t retaliated. Every morning, I peek out my window to see what outrageous prank he’s played on me this time, but there’s been nothing.
I’m relieved. Honestly, I am. There’s no disappointment that swirls in my gut, making me heave a sigh as the anticipation floods right out of me. Honestly.
I grit my teeth and try to focus on the true crime show I’ve been watching for the last half hour. I was disappointed when yet another day went by with no prank from Riggs. As much as I hate him, and I do, this little war between us has been…invigorating.
And when he caught me filming him with the cock cookie and took that ferocious bite, I was sure he’d be plotting his revenge as soon as possible. I’d counted on it, already coming up with ideas for what I’d do next.
I showed the video to the girls, giving them a good laugh, then deleted it. As much as I relish the prospect of embarrassing my enemy, I don’t want to mess with his career. I’m not sure if a video like that surfacing would cause him any real problems, but I wasn’t willing to take the chance.
But he doesn’t know that.
I sit up straighter. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t pranked me back yet. Maybe he’s holding his breath, wondering when I’ll unleash that video on the world. The prospect confuses me. On one hand, the thought of Riggs living in constant fear seems like just desserts. On the other, I’m kind of bummed it has possibly ended our little war.
“Ugh,” I sigh leaning back. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
I don’t want anything to do with that asshole. I should be ecstatic. Over the moon. Dancing a jig that he’s finally decided to end this thing and leave me alone.
I hear my phone chime, but the sound is muffled. I stand up to see if I’m sitting on the device, but it’s nowhere in sight. Shoving my hand down between the couch cushions, my fingertips graze a smooth surface, and I pull the phone out with a shout of victory.
Opening my texting app, I frown, seeing the message from a number I don’t recognize.
555-6547: I appreciate your discretion.
Must be a wrong number. I close out the app, but before I can set the phone down, it chimes again.
555-6547: With the video, I mean.
I fall back onto the couch, all the breath whooshing out of me as it becomes clear. The messages are from Riggs.
“What the hell?” I murmur as my thumbs tap out a reply.
Me: How did you get this number?
I tap send, then hover my thumb over the “add contact” button for several beats. I shouldn’t. I should just fucking block him. Fuck. I tap the icon and save his number.
Jackass Supreme: This was your number in high school. I took a chance that it would still be the same.
He still has my number? After more than a decade?
Jackass Supreme: Anyway, thank you again. I really do appreciate you keeping it to yourself.
Me: Oh, my friends had a big laugh watching you chomp a dick.
The three dot bubbles that indicate he’s responding pop up for a few seconds, then disappear. A trickle of guilt wiggles through my chest, and I hate it. I should let him stew. Heaving out a long breath, I tap out another message.
Me: Relax. I deleted the video.
Jackass Supreme: You did?
Me: I did.
Jackass Supreme: But…why?
Me: As much as I hate you, I have no desire to mess with your career. I want to annoy and embarrass you in person, not on the internet.
As soon as I tap the send icon, I kick myself. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Why did I go into so much detail about my motivation? I could have just told him the video was gone and left it at that.
Riggs doesn’t respond, and after several minutes pass, I realize he’s not going to. I set my phone on the coffee table and lean back, kicking my feet up beside it. I’m determined to relax and forget about Riggs Malone. He’s nothing to me.
Nothing. At. All.
Twelve years ago…
The boys don’t notice me, and I have no choice but to stop and listen because they’re blocking the entrance to my classroom. I know I heard them say my name when I rounded the corner, and a queasy feeling roils in my stomach as I listen to their crude laughter.
“No way is Malone going to win that bet.”
Grady Hollis’ voice booms down the hallway, slapping into my skin as every muscle in my body locks up. Bet? What bet?
“That dumb little bitch Tessa White is too frigid to open her legs, no matter how much he fucking begs for it.”
My lungs deflate, and no matter how hard I try to breathe, I can’t get enough oxygen. I’m a bet?
I spin around without a sound and run in the opposite direction. My feet nearly skid out from beneath me as I swing toward the bathroom. Without slowing, I push the door open and rush into a stall, locking it behind me. Leaning against the wall inside, I let the tears fall.
Riggs doesn’t want to be with me.
He doesn’t even like me.
He made a bet with his friends that he could fuck me.
How could I have been so wrong about him?
It’s been two days since Riggs texted me, and I haven’t heard from or seen him since. Apparently, my decision to delete that video ended our war, and his dealings with me are just a blip in the rearview mirror.
I’m totally fine with it. One hundred percent A-okay.
The noise level picks up in the shop, and I look over to see a large group of people crowding into the store. They’re chattering excitedly, and I hear the word “Bandits” echoing back and forth between them.
Riggs must be out there.
I steel my spine, mentally preparing myself to come face to face with him, but he never appears. The crowd quiets down once they get their coffees, treats, and a book from the shelves that line the walls. Everything goes back to normal, and I tell myself it’s for the best.
Later, when things calm down, I tell my baristas I’m leaving for the day. My mood soured when Riggs didn’t come into the shop, and I’ve been mentally berating myself for that fact for the last few hours. It’s confusing and annoying, and I need to go home and figure some shit out. I refuse to let Riggs Malone’s return disrupt my entire life.
I push through the exit with that thought, then freeze when I see my car. It’s completely covered in Bandits’ gear. Flags, pompoms, magnets, streamers… It looks like the stadium’s gift shop puked all over the vehicle.
And across the windshield is a banner with Rigg’s stupid face and a red heart with the words “Malone’s #1 fan” printed across it. Sublime residents crowd in beside my car, taking pictures and grinning at me when they spot me.
I rush forward and rip the banner from the windshield. Folding it to hide the picture on the front, I open my car door and toss it into the backseat before turning back to the crowd.
“Move along folks. Nothing to see here,” I call out, shooing them with my hands.
I heave a sigh of relief as they start to disperse. Turning around to face the car again, I start plucking Bandits magnets off the door and hood. That’s when I see it. An envelope tucked under the windshield wiper, previously hidden by that hideous banner.
Pulling it free, I read the words printed on the front in messy cursive. “Thanks for deleting it.”
This is how he pays me back? By vandalizing my car?
Some rational part of me knows he didn’t actually vandalize it. He just…decorated it without my knowledge or consent. But I’m mad, and I don’t think straight when I’m mad.
I start to rip up the envelope, but before I make the first tear, I realize it’s not just a note. There’s something inside. I lean up against the side of my car, take a deep breath, and open it. Pulling out the paperwork inside, I start to read.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, my eyes so wide, they’re burning.
My name is printed across the top of a receipt for a set of four season tickets to the Bandits. Home side. Club level. On the fifty-yard line. Quite possibly the most expensive seats in the stadium. I know. I’ve checked.
Holy shit.