16. Brooke #2
“I beg your pardon, darlin’,” Jasmine says, tilting her head and lowering her voice into something wicked and smooth, “but I’m not the one who rides .”
I choke on my milkshake. “So what—you’re a pillow princess?”
She grins like the devil herself, slow and smug. “Nope.” She takes a bite of her fry, chews, swallows. “I’m a top .”
I blink. Once. Twice.
And then I burst into laughter, slapping the table hard enough to make our fries jump.
Jasmine leans back like she’s proud of herself, which—she should be. Because I’m flushed, grinning, and more than a little flustered.
“God help me,” I mutter, reaching for a napkin. “That’s some nasty talk for the dinner table.”
“Oh, then you do not want to know what’s going on in my head,” Jasmine purrs, leaning even closer, her voice dripping with slow, teasing heat. Her gaze trails lazily down my body, and my knee knocks under the table like I’ve been physically struck.
She’s looking at me like I’m dessert.
And just when I’m convinced she’s about to lean across the table and kiss me—right here, in this godforsaken diner, in front of God and the ketchup bottles?—
The bugger behind her snorts.
And by bugger, I mean Landon , who insisted on tagging along for our date in the name of "Jasmine's protection."
Jasmine’s eyes close like a glitch in the system, her head dropping forward with a pained little sigh. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Baby,” I whisper, reaching across the table to tap her hand with mine, “I got a shotgun and access to at least three undisclosed backroads. We can make it look like a hunting accident.”
“Is it too early to say I love you?” Jasmine mutters, lips twitching.
“I believe that’s step one to a U-Haul?”
“No one’s moving in,” Landon drones from the booth behind us, not even bothering to turn around.
Jasmine leans back and glares in his direction, voice dropping into a growl. “So help me, Landon, if I hear your voice one more time, I will pull your larynx out and play jump rope with it.”
“Ouch, Peach ,” he pouts, finally turning in the booth next to ours and placing a hand dramatically over his heart while the other hangs over the edge of the chair onto our date side. “You are so mean to your side piece.”
“Side piece?” I choke, blinking. “You proudly want to already take a backseat to me.”
“I mean,” Landon shrugs, “I was here first, but I can’t really compete with the red hair, hazel eyes coke-bottle body combo can I?”
“No you can’t, can you?” I smirk, flipping my hair to the back.
“I mean I do have a huge--”
Jasmine grabs a fry and flings it at his head. “I swear to God?—”
“It’s okay,” I say, laughing as I grab another fry from her plate. “He and his huge ears can be the flower girl at our shotgun wedding.”
Landon opens his mouth, but Jasmine is faster. “I think you’ll look pretty in a flowered dress, don’t you?”
“I think I’d look better as the groom,” Landon murmurs low in Jasmine’s ear, and the way her neck flushes—slow and pink like a creeping blush—makes my lips part on instinct. I take a slow breath through my nose.
Oh.
She turns, pokes him on the nose without missing a beat, and winks at me over her shoulder like she didn’t just short-circuit my central nervous system.
“Nope,” she says, voice sweet and teasing.
I grip my milkshake and take a long, steadying sip to cool myself down.
She’s right.
Every second Sunday, I go to church with Timothy Keiths, all pearls and fake smiles, just to keep my parents' illusions intact. Three hours of scripture, southern guilt, and pretending I don’t dream of sin.
But a Landon-Jasmine sandwich?
That would be sinful.
I’d love to watch him toy with her, slow and cruel, while she fights not to give in. I’d die to watch her squirm, her lips parted in half-begged moans while he draws her out, while I edge myself watching her fall apart.
The thought alone makes me clench my thighs beneath the table.
“So…” I say carefully, pointing my straw at the two of them, “how long has this been going on?”
Jasmine smirks, flicking her eyes toward Landon with barely concealed amusement. “Yeah, Landon. How long have you been stalking me?”
“ Stalking? ” I choke, some of my milkshake spitting onto the table as I cough.
Landon snorts like a bastard while I scramble for napkins, trying to mop up the evidence with the leftover ones from our greasy cheeseburgers.
“About five months, then,” he shrugs, casually brushing a strand of hair off Jasmine’s shoulder like he owns it.
“I’m sorry, why is no one else alarmed by this?” I snap, looking between them like I’m the only one who hasn’t been handed a script.
Jasmine just chuckles, eyes glinting with that usual mischief.
“Trust me, I was pissed. Furious. But then…” She shrugs. “He kind of grew on me.”
“Aww,” Landon says mock-sweetly, “because you like me.”
“Nah,” she deadpans, not missing a beat. “Because you’re fucking fungus. And I can’t afford enough antibiotics to get rid of you.”
Landon clutches his chest like she shot him. “Peach, how dare you? I thought we were getting along.”
I sit back, watching them volley insults like foreplay and wondering how the hell I got lucky enough to land a front-row seat. Then Jasmine turns to me, brows furrowed in that way she does when she’s trying to read between the lines.
“Why are you so comfortable with this?” she asks, leaning forward just enough that Landon can’t reach her hair anymore. “You said my complicated situation was, and I quote-- perfect. What gives?”
I take a massive gulp of my cookies and cream milkshake, stalling as my eyes flick around the diner—linoleum floors, too-bright lights, half-eaten burgers—before landing back on both of them. They’re both staring at me now, suspicious.
“I’m not out of the closet.” The words fall out before I can stop them.
Shame and anxiety crawl up my throat as Jasmine’s eyes widen like I just told her something dangerous.
“You came on to me,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to piece the whole thing together—but her body reacts faster. She jerks away like she’s done something wrong.
“And you two were making out in the middle of the quad,” Landon adds dryly. “I think you’re out, or sorry to tell you but the closet is transparent.”
I try to laugh. It doesn’t stick.
“People on campus think I’m bi-curious, and most people in this state think I am straight,” I explain, brushing a fry crumb off my lap. “Because I’m publicly dating Timothy Keiths.”
“Wait—like NFL first draft, golden-boy, America’s darling Timothy Keiths ?” Landon perks up, eyes narrowing.
“You fucking know him?!” Jasmine blurts, fully turned toward me now.
“Yup, he’s my beard,” I admit with a shrug. “Has been since I tried to come out to my parents and they rejected it.”
Jasmine’s smile fades. Her expression shifts to something sadder. “I’m sorry. What do you mean… rejected it ?”
I shake my head. As much as Jasmine makes me feel like I could tell her anything, that day is still a wound that keeps expanding in my chest and if I think about it, I’ll crumple under the despair and never have hope that I can be who I want to be.
Right now, I need hope. I need to keep my head down and keep my relationship with Timothy in the press, but until then I am the All-star American sweetheart who wears promise rings to church, and is on her way to marriage with Timothy Keiths.
So I give her the version people can swallow.
“Let’s just say they ain’t too keen on me being gay.”
Jasmine looks down into her Coke. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” I say, more firmly this time. “I got it handled. But for now… I can’t be out and proud with anybody who ain’t Timothy. So I get it if this—” I gesture loosely between her and me “—can’t be more than what it is.”
“I can’t ask you to stay in the closet. That’d be selfish. And trust me—I am selfish. Just not in ways that don’t make sense.”
What I don’t say is this: when I turn twenty-five, when the trust fund unlocks, when I can finally stop playing Southern Sweetheart for my father’s public image?—
I want her. I want this. And I want to be loud and proud about it. But that’s a conversation for another day. She can do what she wants for now. Have her fun. Live in the open, and I will be her secret until then. Sounds sad but it’s the truth for now.
I clear my throat and change the topic.
“I’m guessing you’re bisexual though?” I ask, tilting my head and pointing casually between the two of them.
Jasmine glances at Landon, her cherry-glossed lips parting before closing again. Then she nods. “Yeah. But I’ve only just started exploring the whole guy part of bisexual.”
“Lucky guy,” I murmur, smirking as I reach for another fry. “Any reason why he’s your first guy?”
Jasmine swallows, her gaze flicking down for a second before she glances out the window. “Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly thrilled with how men treated me and my mom.”
I nod slowly, watching her more carefully now. “So the best man you know is… a stalker?”
She laughs, light but sharp. “No. The best man I know is a construction worker—Tommy. My best friend’s dad. But yeah… my stalker’s a far second.”
“Why am I always second?” Landon whines from his seat, running his fingertips along the curve of her neck, leaving fire red beneath his touch.
“Hmm…” I eye him up and down, then smirk. “Because you can’t keep up, buttercup.”
He groans just as his phone buzzes on the table. One glance at the screen and his whole posture shifts. He stands with a sigh. “I’ll be back in two minutes. Don’t move.”
As he walks past me, I lean casually against the table—just enough for my hand to dip into the open fold of his coat pocket as he slides past the table. His key fob slides into my palm so smooth it’s like second nature.
“We’ll behave, promise,” Jasmine calls, sipping her soda with a sly grin. He grumbles something under his breath as he walks off toward the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear.
As soon as he rounds the corner, I lean in toward Jasmine, grinning like the devil. “Wanna ditch the guard dog?”
“Hell yes, babydoll,” she grins back. “Where are we going?”
“This cowgirl’s gonna teach you how to ride. ”
Jasmine nearly spits out her drink laughing. “You’re out of pocket! ”
“And you’re out of time. Let’s go.” We slide out of the booth and dart through the diner’s side exit, trying—and failing—not to giggle like teenage delinquents.
Right there in front of the diner is Landon’s matte black Rolls Royce, parked right where we left it when he drove us here.
“Don’t tell me you—” Jasmine starts.
I flash the key fob like a magic trick. “He shouldn’t walk that close to a pickpocket.”
“You’re insane. ”
I shrug. “You like it.”
She snorts. “Unfortunately.”
We climb into the car—her into the passenger seat, me into the driver’s like I’ve done it a thousand times. The engine hums awake like it knows it’s in the hands of a chaos demon.
Just as we’re pulling out, Landon explodes out of the diner, still on the phone. He freezes when he sees his car in motion, then starts sprinting toward us. “ JASMINE! ”
Jasmine rolls down the window just enough to shout, “You got to learn how to keep up, sweetheart!” before flicking him a wink.
He nearly trips over the curb. “Jasmine when I get my hands on you! Your ass is mine! ”
But it’s too late. I hit the gas, laughing as we peel off down the road.