6. Booker
Booker
I stumble away from her, running into walls and people in my haste to escape. Escape the heavy air of that bathroom. Escape the racing organ beating in my chest telling me to go back.
What the fuck did I just do?
I find myself on the back porch, where I see Beau and Drew on deck for a game of beer pong.
“Shots,” I say, grabbing Drew by the front of his Spider-Man costume and pulling him toward the outdoor bar. Liquor bottles of every shape and size litter the counter-top. I grab a handle of tequila and three of the neon orange plastic shot glasses, pouring us each one.
Beau and Drew stare at me in shock as I throw back the alcohol and pour myself another.
“Bro…” Beau starts, leaning heavily on Drew’s shoulder, “the fuck is wrong with you?”
I shake my head, taking a third shot before setting down the bottle and taking a breath.
We have a game tomorrow. I should cool it.
But, fuck, I need to erase the taste of Maya Winchester from my mouth. From my mind.
“Book?” Drew says, still holding his shot, eyeing me with concern.
I nod, scrubbing my face with my hands. “I just hooked up with Maya,” I say from behind my palms.
Both Beau and Drew’s eyes go comically wide. They know Maya, Coach’s daughter. They know Maya, the spunky, sexy tattoo artist. They know Maya, sunshine reincarnate that everyone at this school adores.
But they don’t know my Maya.
Used to be my first crush.
Used to be the center of my world.
Used to be my best friend.
No one knows that Maya.
For nearly three years, I’ve avoided Maya Winchester like my life depended on it. The first words we’ve exchanged in thirteen years happened that day at the tattoo shop. And now this.
“I’m gonna need you to elaborate,” Beau says, bringing me back to the present.
“Why the fuck would you hook up with Coach’s daughter?!” Drew whisper-yells.
“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know it was her!”
Beau laughs incredulously. “How could you possibly not have known it was her?”
“She was wearing a Ghostface mask! I don’t know, it just…happened.” I’d be panicking a hell of a lot worse right now if it weren’t for the fact that the alcohol I just consumed is taking effect. “I stopped when I realized who it was.”
Since Maya started attending Saint Augustine’s, Coach has announced to the entire team at the beginning of every season to stay away from his daughter.
My friends probably think this is the reason for my freak-out. When, in reality, the truth is much more complicated.
I’ve loved Maya Winchester since I was eight years old.
First, as a friend, then a childhood crush.
When I was old enough and realized our parents could potentially get married, I was confused.
I never saw Maya as a sister. She was always just my Maya.
We were children; there was no lust or deep feelings of romantic aspiration, but the things I did feel for Maya weren’t brotherly in nature.
And then my mom died. My mom died, and I thought now Maya won’t be my sister.
My mom died, and a minuscule, microscopic part of me was relieved, and then that spark of emotion was drowned by self-loathing and hatred and despair. Eight year old me had a problem, and the universe provided me with the worst fucking solution imaginable.
When I came back here—to Pennsylvania—I told myself I would never let myself have Maya Winchester. Otherwise, I’d be taking advantage of my mother’s death.
I won’t do it. I can’t.
But now I’ve talked to her. Felt her skin. Tasted her. And I can’t get her out of my fucking head.
“That’s fucked up, man,” Beau says. “How are you gonna hook up with someone without seeing their face?”
I level him with a glare. “Not the point, Warren.”
Drew laughs, finally taking his shot. “No, I get it. It’s like being blindfolded but reverse. Kinky, but kinda hot”
Beau and I share the same expression, squinting our eyes in confusion before we burst out laughing, the alcohol having finally hit our systems.
We make our way back over to the beer pong game, waiting for it to end. A group of girls approaches us, and as we talk, I see a familiar head of messy blonde curls step out onto the porch.
Maya’s ditched her mask and cleaned up her makeup. Our eyes connect, and I feel myself scowl in her direction.
Looking back down at the girls in front of us, I lock in on the one closest to me and start talking with her individually, smiling and pretending the bane of my existence isn’t standing mere feet away.
The girl—Emma or Emily or something like that—leans into me, hands running up my chest, replacing the echo of Maya’s nails.
I return her advances, pulling her closer, touching her body, and eventually easing her into a kiss.
I lower myself into a deck chair and pull Emma/Emily onto my lap, doing everything in my power to obliterate the memory of the coach’s daughter.
Looking across the porch, I lock eyes with Maya one last time, my hooded gaze meeting her angry one as the girl in my lap leaves hickeys down my throat.
Driving the last nail into the coffin, I let my hands creep up under the girl’s dress, not doing anything more than resting them on her backside.
But my actions have the desired consequence. Maya levels me with a glare filled with so much heated disgust, I should catch fire. She turns and storms away, leaving me to drown, once more, in the tempest of my own making.
Good.
Bile crawls up my throat as I wake with the worst hangover known to mankind. After a long, cold shower, I make my way downstairs for some ibuprofen and electrolytes.
Drew is out cold on the couch, having not even made it up to his room.
Our house is a tri-level; the kitchen, TV room, and laundry are all on the main level. Mine and Drew’s rooms are upstairs, and Gally’s and Simmons’ rooms are downstairs.
I nudge Drew as I walk by, shaking him awake. “Drewski. Get up. Game day.”
He groans in pain, verbalizing how I feel on the inside.
I finish making my way to the kitchen and, after a few moments, he joins me.
He stripped out of the Spider-Man suit, walking around in just his boxers, not giving a damn who sees him. His blond hair is sticking up in all directions, and his eyes are red-rimmed.
“You look like shit,” I say by way of greeting, sliding the bottle of pills across the counter to him.
“Fuck off,” he says, not even bothering to try to joke. He downs three pills dry before going to his room.
After making some food to soak up the alcohol in my stomach, I go back to my room to try and relax before we have to head to the arena.
My room is all black. The walls, the bedding, the furniture.
I’ve got a couple of books, a couple of plants, and some photos scattered around to provide a few pops of color.
But I’ve always liked the color black. Some people associate it with horror movies, or goth aesthetics, or even sadness and depression.
But none of those terms describe why I prefer black over brighter colors.
I think black is soothing. There’s not a million shades and hues shouting for attention. It’s the opposite of overstimulating.
The day Ross Booker picked me up from that cemetery was the day my world became black and white. When we got off that plane in LA, I gazed up at that glass and marble mansion, thinking maybe this won’t be so bad.
And then, that night, when the world had quieted and the cameras had disappeared, Ross Booker decided to beat me within an inch of my life for having the audacity to interrupt his.