18. Montana
18
Montana
T he mud smells like clay and earth, the warm breeze pushing through my hair as I find an open seat on the bleachers, gripping my phone like it’s a lifeline.
I’m anxious. Nervous for reasons I can’t explain.
I can’t stop thinking about this morning and the events with Shane. How he looked at me was in a way any woman would desire. With primal need. Ferocious ferality. He can see right through me. Find those hidden parts within me and put them on display as if they were beneath a spotlight, ready to be picked apart at his pleasure. His lust-filled stare was paired with a provoked torture I couldn’t place. A jealous nature to his tightened jaw, almost as if the cello itself had become a man I’d fucked before him.
He wanted to torment me, tease me, make a fool of me…but I saw clear as day what my presence did to him. And he hated every part of being turned on by his stepsister, but there it was. I had him, but in turn, he had me too. Being on display for the camera was home to me, and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t insanely aroused myself. I’d left that chair a sopping mess, and I resent myself for it. Especially after he so carelessly tossed me out of his room afterward.
Lies and tactics ran endlessly through this man. He was devious and conniving, but to what end? I did what he asked to get the music back so there would be no retaliation. I played his game and could keep him quiet, ensuring I had time to follow through with my plans without him recklessly veering me off a cliff alongside him.
I refocus my attention again when I see the rugby team approaching the field. Guys in tight shorts and striped jerseys fill the grass, my eyes scanning for Wes in the rush of players. I spot his broad shoulders, straight, perfect posture, and that body that screams athlete. He’s chatting with his teammates as they get closer, his sexy half-grin making its appearance.
I wait for him to look up into the stands. He knows I’m coming today. Told me he was excited to see me, yet he hasn’t even searched for me in the crowd. Shane’s eyes would be dead set on me, staring hungrily, hiding away somewhere I can’t see him, but from a place where he could watch.
I shake my head quickly. I hate that my mind went there, comparing the two or even thinking about Shane and his deadly glares.
My worries are effectively erased when Wes flips his hair out of his eyes, and our gazes connect. He gives me a quick side smirk and wink, and all my tension vanishes. Almost all of it. He lines up with some of his teammates and begins stretching his quads when I see him turn and start talking to someone.
Darin.
The moment I see his curly brown hair, my stomach drops to the floor. Wheeter never stood a chance against a crew like this. Entitled. Rich. Ties to the school. They’ve got the city on lock.
The boys laugh at something together, Wes playfully punching Darin in the chest before they finish stretching and start their match.
It’s a confusing game. One I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. Men huddle together like a flock of birds, pushing and pulling on each other in their tiny shorts, knocking each other to the mud with such brute force that I’m afraid their testosterone will infuse into me, too, just as an innocent bystander. Dirt flies as sweat drips, while blood seeps through cuts on faces and knuckles. Before I know it, the match is done, and the boys shift to the sideline, collecting their bags while hydrating themselves from the sport.
The stand disperses around me as players find their fans and take off. I wait at the gate, alone, lingering behind for Wes, when I see him conversing with his teammate, Tyson. The exhilarated and triumphant expression from the aftermath of their win dramatically changes as they talk. Tyson flashes him the face of his phone, and they both glance over at me. I swallow hard, hating the anxiety Tyson now holds in his stance. Side-eyes and faces laced with worry find me.
Mario, another teammate, rushes them, his phone in hand as they gather into a huddle, looking down into his palm. Nausea threatens to cripple me, but I hold my head high and make my way across the muddy field toward them.
He wouldn’t have.
“Wes!” I shout, waving my hand as I approach.
The other guys scurry away as quickly as they can, eyeing me hard as they head toward the parking lot. Wesley drops his head, peering down at his bag. He shoves his sweat towel into it, shuffling the other stuff around before swinging it over his shoulder and gripping his water bottle.
“Wes,” I say again.
His forehead is wet with perspiration, and mud and dirt coat his neck and legs. He ignores me entirely, so I grab his arm, attempting to turn him to face me.
“Wes, what’s wrong?”
He brushes my hand from his arm, turning his back to me and marching toward the parking lot. Stopping to pour some water over his face, he attempts to clean himself of the mud, shaking his wet hair out.
“Wesley, come back here and talk to me!” I yell, feeling all hope slip from my grasp. “What’s wrong? What happened?!”
I think I know exactly what happened. My worst fear, coming to life .
We make it to his truck in the lot, and I almost run into his back when he finally turns to face me.
“What’s wrong?!” he yells, startling me. “What’s wrong, Montana?!”
My throat is thick, and my mouth is dry. Tears pool in my eyes as I peer around the parking lot at a few passing spectators. What does he know? Which part? And how?
“You disgust me,” he coughs out in disbelief. “A fucking low-life whore. I should've listened to them when they said dating you would be a step down from all I deserved.”
His abrasive words shock me, and I stand silent as he opens the door to his truck, tossing his bags in the back.
I’ve been called many things in my life; bitch, whore, cunt, slut, you name it. But when someone of importance uses it the way he just did, it hits differently. It puts you in a situation that’s harder to eradicate and accept, because you know to his bones he believes it. He always has.
I grab at his wrist, attempting to stall him.
“Wesley,” I gasp, taken aback that he’d even consider calling me something so triggering so effortlessly, especially after months of being together. “What are you talking about? Please just talk to me!”
He twists his wrist out of my hand, turning to face me again.
“That video you shared? To the team?” He eyes my body, distaste dripping from his every pore. “It’s like you’re trying to ruin me.”
My lashes flutter, and the world beneath me shifts. My legs become weak and wobbly, and the inability to stand threatens to send me to my ass.
“W-what video?” Think fast, Montana.
“The one you took of yourself.”
Myself…not the one with my stepbrother. At least there’s that.
“The music? The…chair?” I ask.
His eyes circle around me, almost boxing me in with his glare alone. He turns to get into the truck, but I wedge my hand in the door, not allowing him to shut it.
“Wesley, stop…please,” I beg. “That video…”
He shakes his head, glaring out through the windshield.
Think. Think. Think.
“I didn’t share anything, haven’t shared…That video…” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “That video was meant for you. Only you.” I say in a rush. “I have no idea how the hell that got out. Oh my god.” I put my hand to my forehead, attempting to rub down my pulsing temples.
“What are you talking about?” he questions, finally turning to face me.
His eyes find mine, and there’s anger—definitely anger—but also a shred of sadness I can grip onto. That’s all I needed to see.
“I was trying to do something for you. I clearly don’t know what I’m doing. I just wanted to spice things up,” I counter, licking my lips, showcasing my defeat. “It’s just—” I stammer, not knowing what to say. “I’ve been missing you so much, and that wasn’t supposed to go to anyone, only you. Just you, Wes. But, Jesus, if that video is out…”
I rake my hands down my face, tears falling onto my cheeks. I back away from the vehicle, my breaths coming out hot and heavy and my chest feeling like it’s being closed inside a tight cave. I stumble back onto the curb of the lot, unable to see clearly through my now heavily flowing tears.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and I hear his truck door close.
He races to me, sitting down on the curb and wrapping his arms around my shoulders while I sob into his chest.
“Who saw it? All of your teammates? The whole school? Who, Wes?”
“Shit, Montana,” he whispers, an unspoken apology in his tone, as if he’s finally piecing this together. “I don’t know, but the entire team has it. It might be everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” I gasp. “God, Wesley, if your father sees it…if the orchestra…I-I’m…”
A cry escapes my throat as I clutch my face in my palms.
“God dammit,” he curses to himself.
He holds me as I let it out, rocking me and gently rubbing my back. He grips the sides of my face, brushing the wet hair off my cheeks, and finds my gaze again.
“Does Croix have access to your room?”
I stiffen in his hold, contemplating what to say to that. It’s the perfect storm.
Wesley’s face floods with heat at my silence before shaking his head slowly. “I knew it. That delinquent just never learns.”
There’s a promise of retaliation visible in the flex of his jaw. One I wouldn’t mind him capitalizing on if it meant keeping Shane off my back for a while. I know the history here.
“I'm obviously not happy about it—the fact that the guys have all seen you naked and doing those things—because I'm protective of you. You know that. But I knew that fucker would find a way…find a way to get back at us.” He sighs, then refocuses back on me. “You really made that…just for me?” he questions, his eyebrows raising.
“Of course, Wes.” I sigh in his hold. “I know I’ve been so focused on music, and you with school and rugby, but I wanted to do something special for you. I wanted to give you something of me that you could keep. Something to think of when you’re on the road at the next match. Whatever it may be. I wanted you to have a part of me. For yourself. But, clearly, that’s not the case.” I break down into tears again.
“Come here,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me. He holds me, rubbing my back gently while I let my emotions out. When my sobs finally quiet, he tilts my head up, reaching to tuck my messed-up hair behind my ear.
“I had no idea,” he says with a puzzled look. “No idea you were that kind of girl.”
That kind of girl. The sentence forces my nails to drive into my palm, biting into the skin as I try my best not to break before him.
“Me either,” I lie. “But you just… I don’t know. You bring out something different in me. I feel comfortable trying new things with you. Exploring more. At least…I did.”
Studying me for a moment, I can feel his mind racing with ideas. Ideas that only frat boys can dream of. I can practically hear his dick inflating next to me beneath his jersey. They all want a woman who will do all the psychotic things their wives later in life wouldn’t dream of. I’m gifting him a free ticket to Wonderland.
“I’m sorry I said those awful things.” He wipes a hand down his face, smearing dirt down his neck. “It was horrible of me, and I’m ashamed of myself.”
“It’s okay—”
“No,” he interrupts. “No, it’s not. I should’ve known to talk with you first before reacting. I just saw the clip and lost my shit. I’m so sorry, Montana. Truly.”
I nod, accepting his apology but cataloging how quickly the idea of me doing anything on camera quickly sent him to a place where men so easily toss around the word whore .
“I’ll text Mario to get a hold of this guy he knows who can wipe this shit. If it spreads, we can at least work to remove what we can, and then I’ll make sure the boys deal with the rest.”
I sniff, nodding as I look down at my feet. I twist the toe of my boot onto an old cigarette, smashing the remains into a circular smear, wondering what that retaliation against Shane would entail.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your teammates.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he promises. “We always do.”
For a moment, I let myself wish I had someone in my life like the person Wesley pretends to be. Someone truly in my corner, hurting for me, looking to seek justice for a girl who was taken advantage of. A girl who’s working to heal.
But the permanent separation between us lies buried in old money, age-old secrets, and pretentious titles.
If only the “we” he was referring to meant us.