8. Penelope
It’s been two days since Operation Gag-fest took place, and the boys next door have been suspiciously quiet ever since. The amount of swearing those two did when they realized their donuts were contaminated with English mustard was enough to make a sailor blush.
I haven’t seen Tate since. I’m pretty sure he tossed the donuts though, which is a shame. Some of them were still good. I gave him a choose-your-own-adventure box of treats. He had a fifty percent chance of having delicious, mouthwatering Boston Creams, and the other half split between mustard and hot sauce. Guess he just wasn’t taking the risk.
I pat myself on the back. I’ve never been one to prank someone, so I wasn’t sure how it was going to go, but the thrill that shot through my body as I left the box of Cedar-Rapids-famous baked goodies at their door was energizing.
My cousin Karlya is waiting for me at the bar when I get to Heartland Hops. I can’t wait to have a girl’s night with one of my most favorite cousins. She was in town from Wisconsin, with Oli, for the games last weekend, and she stayed for a catch-up-slash-vacation. With all my classes and assignments, I haven’t seen her as much as I would have liked, but for the next two days it’s just her, me, crappy food, an on-demand streaming service, and hanging out.
She grins at me, tipping her chin when she spies me approaching. She whistles, drawing the attention of a couple of people sitting nearby. “Hey, Hot Stuff.” She swirls her finger at me to indicate I should turn around for her. When I do a three-sixty, I finish with a curtsey, flashing my new, chunky, wide heeled black ankle boots.
“You look hot as fuck.” She launches herself off the stool and throws her arms around me. When she pulls back, she slides a glass of whiskey across the bar to me. “You’re already behind. I’m on my second.”
She’s so full of energy, and probably more than just one glass of whiskey, that I’m wondering what havoc is going to befall Cedar Rapids tonight by the time we’re done here.
She watches me, waiting for me to take a drink of the golden liquor. When I do, I close my eyes and savor the light burn as it slides down my throat.
“Feel better?”
I nod, but take another sip. One isn’t enough to prepare me for what she’s about to unleash on me.
“Good.” She nods. “You need it.”
Smiling, I nod. “You know me too well.”
Shaking her head she drags her finger around the rim of her glass. “Apparently not well enough. You wanna talk about the Milkshake Man?” She was with me and Oli that night I dumped a perfectly good chocolate milkshake on Tate’s head. She could also probably tell that I was aching to lick it all off him, too.
“Nope.” I raise my glass. “Maybe after a few more of these.”
She eyes me with her perfectly manicured brow arched high on her face. “I’ll hold you to that.” She clinks her glass against mine and takes a sip. She’s halfway to putting her glass back on the bar when her face falls. “Don’t panic.”
Fuck sake. “In all the history of the fucking world, has that ever worked? When someone tells someone else not to panic, do they ever not panic?” I twitch, my neck prepped to turn to see what she’s looking at.
“Don’t look.” Her voice is hard, but her face remains impassive. She doesn’t want whoever’s behind me to know their presence is impacting her.
“Milkshake Man?” I tip my head to the side in question. Should I be concerned that my neighbor is stalking me? Perhaps. Is there a flicker of hope in my chest that he gets to see me looking this good? Also perhaps.
“Worse.” Karlya shoots back the remainder of her drink.
Who’s worse than the Milkshake Man?
She doesn’t need to say it, I figure it out, but she opens her mouth anyway.
“Your ex.” Her voice is low.
“Penny.”
The single word from behind me makes my blood run cold. Penny. He still says it with a warm familiarity he lost all right to use when I found him in bed with another woman.
Not just any woman. My former best friend.
Why would he come up to me? Why say hi? Why not just leave me the fuck alone? Why the hell is he even here? Of all the places in Cedar Rapids to go, he comes here.
“Dick.” My cousin is savage.
Just like I hate being called Penny, he hates being called Dick. His name is Richard, and I always called him Rich, or Richard, until I found him balls deep in Chloe’s ass in our dorm room in my sophomore year of college.
Then he became Dick.
He groans. I still don’t turn to look at him. And I can tell from the noise he makes that he’s both rolling his eyes and wishing he never opened his mouth in the first place.
“Karlya.”
I don’t know why he bothered saying hello to her. She transferred from Cedar Rapids to Wisconsin at the end of my freshman year so she was here for the entire Dick Chronicles before she left. And she’s even madder at him than I am, which is reflected in the way she narrows her eyes and flips him the bird.
Chloe’s nervous giggle makes me want to throat-punch her. I was with him for six months. And for that entire six months, she was with him, too. They both played me like a fucking fool. She even listened to me crying when I suspected he was seeing someone else.
I was just a fucking idiot and didn’t realize it was her.
Then he had the absolute audacity to suggest we become a thruple. A fucking thruple with the man who cheated on me, and the woman who slept with my boyfriend behind my back for as long as I was with him. Because sure, what could possibly go wrong?
“How are you both?” This fucking asshole still can’t read the room.
Just as I’m gearing up to down the last of my drink and smash him in the fucking face with my glass, Tate appears in front of me, slipping his coat off and smiling at Karlya.
It’s so absolutely perfect that he’s here too for this moment of deep embarrassment and regret. Not.
“Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.” He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
Wait, what? Did he just call me babe? I rub my cheek where his lips grazed my skin.
Karlya’s sporting a shit-eating-grin.
“Karlya.” He nods at her like they’re old friends. How does he know her name? My stomach drops. He must have been hovering nearby for long enough to have heard Dick say her name. That or he really is a fucking stalker.
She attempts to cover her smirk by slipping her thumbnail into her mouth and biting down. “Milkshake Man.”
It comes out garbled, but we both hear what she says, and in response, Tate winks at me. “Drink?” He points at our glasses. He freezes, like something’s just occurred to him, then looks at Dick, flashing him the widest, most obnoxiously blinding smile, he sticks out his hand to where I assume Dick is standing.
“Tate, the hockey superstar boyfriend.” He lifts his hand before Dick can shake his hand, Tate’s limb moving in a blur in my periphery.
I’m rigid, frozen in place. By what, I’m not sure. Shock? Rage? Fear of murdering someone if I dare move or breathe?
“I know who you are.” Tate snorts. “The cheating ex, right?” Then he points to who I assume is Chloe as I still haven’t turned to look at them. “And the former best friend, right?”
He looks to me for confirmation, and I slow my breathing, mostly so I don’t hit him with a head butt square between his pretty eyes.
He shakes Chloe’s hand, then lets out a sigh. “Balls of fucking steel, Dick. I’ll give you that. If I saw my ex in a bar, and I was with my lovely Penelope—it’s Penelope by the way, she hates Penny—the last thing I’d do is bring them together.” Tate turns to me. “Revelton Rye?”
How the fuck does he know all of this about me? That’s my second favorite whiskey. Has he spoken to Karlya?
She looks equally as flummoxed as I feel. Did the bartender tell him that’s what we’re drinking?
“Please.” I manage to swallow down the acerbic insult tickling my tonsils. When Tate leaves, I turn to face Dick and Chloe. “Was there something you needed?” I try to inject impatience and indifference into my tone but I’m not sure how successful I am.
Dick shifts his weight. “I... uh...” He brushes the back of his neck, and suddenly Chloe’s very interested in her fucking feet. “How are you doing?”
When my incredulous stare and lack of response gets awkward enough for good ole Dick, he clears his throat. “Dad was saying they need a receptionist in his office.” He pauses, softening his face. “In case your dad was looking for some work or something. You know... he might want to work with my dad.” He shrugs, Chloe’s eyebrows shoot up like this is the first she’d heard of it, and Karlya snorts.
“Thanks, but Dad got a job.” I turn my back to both of them without saying another word.
After a long minute, Karlya leans toward me. “They’re gone.”
I heave out a long, slow, cleansing breath. “Thank fuck for that.”
Did he really come up to offer Dad a job? How does he think that’s going to go? Dad wants to beat Dick senseless with a fucking bat for Christ’s sake. There’s no way he’d work with Dick’s dad.
“Tate was hot as fuck.” She fans herself. “I love a good pissing contest. If only they’d whipped them out and measured right here on the bar and given us a real show. Can you believe he wanted to offer your dad a job?” She snorts. “Had to be self-serving somehow. Maybe he wanted to crack a window back into your life, because we both know that piece of shit doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his cheating heart.”
Tate reappears a couple minutes later with two glasses of golden liquid. He hands one to each of us. “Ladies.” His smile is hopeful, confident, and Karlya’s face says if I don’t want him, she’ll have him.
I take a long swallow of the delicious drink, enjoying the slow burn.
Tate puts his hand on my lower back, leaning into me. “Gotta keep up the pretense, Pitstop. They’re watching you like a hawk.” He nuzzles his nose against me.
Karlya is watching me like I’m the main character of a daytime soap opera. A smile’s playing on her lips, and she’s got that look in her eye that means she’s scheming. She might be a year older than me, but I’ve known her my whole life, and I can read her every facial expression, every reaction, and every goddamn eye movement.
She’s already marrying me off to this asshole.
I need to get her on Team Penelope. And fast. Before she heads to a local bridal store and picks out some hideously extra bridesmaid’s dress when she should be picking out funeral attire. Because I’m about to kill this arrogant fuck right here in the bar. I didn’t need him to rescue me. I didn’t need him to pretend to be my boyfriend, and now I’m stuck putting on a show for my ex-best-friend and my ex-boyfriend.
I lean toward Tate, and instead of licking, sucking, or nibbling at his ear lobe, I bite the edge of his ear, clamping my teeth down on his fragile skin. He whimpers, grabbing my arm. “Pitstop, I’m going to need a tetanus shot if you don’t let up.” He speaks through a gritted smile, like he refuses to let the charade come undone in front of my ex.
If he wasn’t so freaking egotistical, it might be a little cute. But the fact that he A—assumed I needed to be rescued, and B—that he needed to be the one to rescue me, sits heavy in my stomach like soured milk.
Jerk.
I pull back, enjoying the red marks my teeth left on the edge of his ear. And I sigh. I wanted tonight to be fun, to let my hair down with my cousin, have a few drinks, maybe throw some shapes on the dance floor.
I wanted to stay up past bedtime and wake up with a headache. Because I don’t have classes tomorrow, I have no assignments hanging over my head, and because I stupidly thought I wouldn’t be anywhere near dumb penises and I could just enjoy some girl time.
Quite the fool, am I.
Turns out all the dumb penises are in one place. Sure, I wanted Tate to see me rocking this outfit like the queen I am, but now he’s probably feeling sorry for me. Poor, sad Penelope, cheated on by her ex and her former best friend. Ugh. The pathetic-ness coats my tongue.
“Why do you hate me so, Penelope?” Tate purrs into my ear. He’s not touching me other than his hand placed on my lower back, but I feel that contact everywhere.
It’s in the way my pulse skips in my wrists, the way my mouth is dry but other parts of me aren’t, and the way my body temp has risen by about three thousand, two hundred and four degrees since he handed me the glass of whiskey.
It’s not really him I’m angry at, it’s myself.
My rage is waning, my resolve wavering, like violent waves crashing against well-weathered stone, chipping away at it, tiny little pieces at a time and sweeping it out to sea never to be heard from again.
Why can’t I kiss him again?
He smells like he’s had whiskey, too. Did he get the same kind he got me? Does he like craft whiskey too? Or does he like mainstream brand names?
The tip of my tongue burns with curiosity, but I bite down so the questions don’t fall out.
Over Tate’s shoulder, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze on me. Expecting to find Dick’s weasly eyes meeting me across the bar, I instead find Chloe. She gives me a small smile, picking her hand up like she’s not sure whether she should wave at me or not.
The hate-fire burning inside my body for my former boyfriend and best friend is stronger than the hate-fire that should be burning in my bones for this delicious tall drink of water standing next to me with his hand on my body.
“Tate?”
He looks at me, eyes wide, like he’s stunned I actually addressed him by his name. “Yeah, Pitstop?”
“Kiss me.”
He purses his lips. “What’s the catch?”
I sigh.
“Are you going to bite my tongue off and keep it in a jar on your nightstand?”
“That’s an idea.” I tap my chin with the tip of my index finger.
“You want to make a scene in front of your ex, don’t you?” He searches my face, and I’m glad of the low-level lighting in the bar that hides the heat creeping into my cheeks.
I bite my lip, guilt seeping into my veins. He’s right, I do want to use him to emphasize my point to Dick and Chloe. It’s childish, it’s petty, it’s wrong, and I shouldn’t have asked him. But I also want a reason for him to kiss me.
“It’s okay. Vengeance is as old as time itself.” He stares at me long and hard, like he’s trying to find a way inside my eyes and into my soul. “And fully justified when you’ve been hurt by people you trust.” There’s no pity in his eyes, only understanding, and part of me wonders if someone has betrayed him in his life before. I doubt it, he’s just like my brother Oli, another golden boy, popular, talented, and from a line of NHL royalty.
I need some flaws to reappear right now, because standing so close to him in a heady whisky haze, I want him to consume me. Does he still kiss the way he did last year? Or has a year of being a player—on and off the ice—made him even better with his mouth?
He strokes my cheek, leaving a trail of sizzling energy across my skin as his fingers glide along my face. My eyelids flutter closed on a long breath.
Pretending to hate him is exhausting.
It feels much nicer to just sink into this facade for a few minutes, get what I crave, what I need, and pretend it’s because of those assholes across the bar. I don’t give a fuck about them. Sure, they hurt me. Sure, they embarrassed the fuck out of me. But they deserve each other. And I deserve better than both of them.
But I want Tate to kiss me.
In part, to see if my memory is playing tricks on me. He can’t be as good a kisser as I remember him being. Can he?
My body leans toward him. I need to know, the craving building inside every piece of me is urgent, spreading like some kind of brain-cell-eating disease. I’m not thinking rationally. I don’t want to think rationally. I don’t want to think about all the reasons why I can’t, why I shouldn’t...
I want him to kiss me. I want to lean in to him, my body making the decision for me.
I pause with our noses touching. He glances down, then back up to my eyes. I fucking love his eyes.
“Kiss me,” It’s somewhere between a whisper and a demand, he hears it, and when he does, he sweeps his lips against mine with a hum.
“Like this, Pitstop?”
I shake my head, our noses brushing against each other. “No.”
Karlya’s probably ordered popcorn at this point. I feel her eyes on me, taking everything in. And I’m sure Chloe and Dick are getting rink-side seats to this little presentation. That’s all it is, all it can be.
Tate pecks the tip of my nose, then each of my eyebrows, making a grumbling sound come out of my mouth. He tips his head and grins. “Not like that either?”
Another shake of my head as I lick my lips.
He puts his lips next to my ear. “I could kiss other places, but we’d get kicked out of here, and we wouldn’t be allowed back.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Might be worth it.”
If he doesn’t hurry up and kiss me, I might very well remove his tongue and put it in a jar on my fucking shelf. Right next to jars with his cock and balls, too.
I grab him by the scruff of his dark shirt, catching his jacket in my balled up fist.
“I love it when you get feisty, Pitstop.”
“That’s my MO.”
He grins. “I’m well aware.” He slides a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, catching my mouth with his. His lips are every bit as soft as I remember them being, and I mentally kick myself. Fuck. I wanted them to be like sandpaper, rough, ragged, and not at all enjoyable to kiss.
This isn’t good. Except it’s very, very good.
When he licks the seam of my lips with his tongue, I’m half-tempted to keep them closed and deny him entry.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
Did I really believe he’d be a terrible kisser after a year more practice? Or was I secretly hoping for a reminder of just how skilled he is so I can revisit that particular spank bank material later tonight when I’m alone in my bed?
Either way, the urge to stomp on the brakes is strong. But his other hand loops around my neck, his palms now cradling my face as he continues to tease at my mouth with his.
Karlya makes a whooshing sound, like watching us kiss has made all the air rush out of her body. “Just kiss the man, Pen.”
She has no such reticence about me kissing him.
He smiles against my mouth. “Listen to your friend, Pitstop.”
“Cousin.” I correct.
“Listen to your cousin, Pitstop. Let me kiss you.”
So I do.
It’s slow at first, like it’s been years since we’ve experienced each other’s mouths, and we need a moment to adjust. But the hesitation doesn’t last long. He tips my head back like he did that fateful Halloween night and owns my mouth.
He growls when I let him kiss me, all teeth and tongues clashing together right there in the bar. It’s gotten busier, but the ambient noise of the bar isn’t drowning out the blood surging through my body and my pulse hammering in my veins.
This guy can still kiss.
Wowsers.
He doesn’t let go of my face, he holds me captive while his tongue explores every crevice in my mouth. His tongue presses against mine harder and harder like he’s trying to convince me to give in and let him own me.
It’s only when my body relaxes, that he eases off the gas, kissing me with a lazy cadence like it’s a summer’s afternoon, and we’re out for a walk in the sunshine. Oh, my god, I want him to kiss me forever.
When he pulls back, his chest heaves with gargantuan effort as though he has to remind his body how to breathe.
Makes two of us. My breathing isn’t much better, though I’m almost frozen, like he’s overloaded my system, and I need to wait for everything to reboot and start up again. I just stare at his lips. His beautiful, swollen, dangerously addictive lips.
Without saying a word, I pick up the glass on the bar and swallow the last dregs of my drink.
“Karlya?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I need to leave.” I haven’t broken eye contact with Tate, and he’s still holding me, his shoulders rising and falling with hard breaths. The way he’s staring at me, the heat licking in his eyes, his lip nipped between his teeth, reminds me of a predator in the wild, staring down his dinner.
If I run, he’ll chase me and tear me limb from limb.
If I don’t, I’ll die anyway.
Karlya grips my elbow and pulls me away from the silent stand-off. I stumble out of the bar in a heady daze, eventually we come to a stop and she pulls out her phone. “Lyft,” is the only explanation I get.
“Thanks,” I mumble, idly trailing my fingers across my still-tingling bottom lip.
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for the poor, unsuspecting patrons of the bar who didn’t need to see that Milkshake Man of yours rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless right there over the counter.”
“Nuh uh.” I make a guffawing noise that only makes her raise her brows.
“Don’t.” I cover her whole face with my hand.
She snickers. “We need more alcohol.”
She’s not wrong.
The car ride back to the dorms is blissfully quiet, and I keep my eyes pointed out the window to my left so she can’t stare into my brain matter.
We get to the door, and she pokes me in the side. “Prepare yourself, Peppy.” When we were little, she couldn’t say Penelope so Peppy was what she called me. “It’s almost time to spill those guts of yours.”
I swing open the door, and turn my head to her as I walk forward, straight into something sticky. Sliding my hand on the wall, I grope around for the light switch. What the fuck is in my hair?
As soon as the light comes on, Karlya gasps. There’s globs of silly string around the room. That prick somehow managed to string it across the door so I’d walk into it face first. Except I didn’t, I walked into it side-face first, so it’s now in my fucking hair.
There’s a large piece of paper sitting on my bed, and all it says is “Your move. – T.”
Thirty seconds ago, I wanted to kiss him again. Now? Now I’m going to fucking kill him.