Chapter Eight Taissa #3
“This will be more convincing,” she assures him. “It’ll show our level of…” Do not gag. Do not gag. “…intimacy. The paps will eat it up.”
Kion snatches back his notebook and pen. “You’re insane, Cho. But fine. I’ll put my hand on your baboobie.”
“Bahoochie.”
“That’s what I said.” He wracks a hand through his wavy hair.
No, it’s not. “We’ll commence the Bahoochie Formation now.”
“Brilliant,” he snaps back as they both stand. His cheeks are tinged pink with what Taissa assumes to be anger. Sighing, she turns around and tugs up the hem of her dark green, oversized Banallan, Scotland tee, allowing him access to her back pocket.
“Well? Go on.” Next to her, he’s eyeing her arse in a way that reminds her of a basketball player calculating the distance to the hoop.
“Merlin,” mutters Kion.
“What’s the delay?”
“What cheek, Cho?”
She chokes on her own spit. “Excuse me?”
“What cheek do I grab?”
Honestly. Taissa closes her eyes and hopes he doesn’t notice that one is slightly larger than the other. “The one furthest from you, numpty.” (It’s possible that’s the bigger one.)
And then his hand is sliding into her back pocket, cupping her right cheek.
She clenches. She can’t help it.
“That was interesting,” says Kion.
Taissa refuses to look at him. He refuses to look at her.
I do not like the feeling of this, she thinks determinedly to herself. I do not like it at all. It is not making me think of other things, like how his hand would feel on—STOP!
“So we just bloody walk around like…this?” demands Kion. She can see why he sounds incredulous. Something is missing in their formation. His hand is in her back pocket, but her hands hang awkwardly by her sides.
Right.
“Locke,” she says, “I will now put my arm around your waist.”
He grumbles something as she slides her hand around it, trying not to notice the way the fabric of his black shirt drags underneath her palm, or how broad he is. Morgana.
There. Formation complete.
Neither of them moves.
“We walk now,” she grits out.
“Right.”
“Slow down,” demands Kion as she takes off. “You’re dragging my arm. By the way, is there a reason you’re still wearing your slippers, Cho?”
She glances down, where her bunny-clad feet walk on the pavement. Combined with her worn jeans and baggy shirt, it’s certainly a Look. “Cronus ruined my only trainers with his wee jobbie. I can’t wear my riding boots out without giving everything away, so…”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Not all of us can afford piles of fancy footwear anymore, Locke.”
He has no response to that.
Taissa keeps her eyes straight ahead, silently fuming as the tavern comes into view, twining ivy and blooming flowers growing up its white-brick sides. She spots the paparazzi, two figures with black cameras loitering across the pavement from the pub.
“There they are,” she whispers, looking up at him. “Look happy and in love.”
“I would rather not.”
“You have to.” Her own grin feels forced. She hears the snapping of the cameras. “They’re watching.”
It’s like a rictus appears on Kion’s face. He looks vaguely constipated.
“Good grief, man,” she hisses. “Sometimes I worry about you.”
“Sod off.”
The cameras snap as Taissa pushes open the door to Tally Ho.
She remembers the tavern from her last visit into Pinion, that final match where everything had gone awry.
The day before, she’d grabbed a quick lunch at the pub that was the town’s most popular establishment.
It was always bustling, tellies playing the latest carriwitchet matches.
Taissa had never thought that the infamous Tally Ho (which served the largest steak-and-ale pie she’s seen in her life) would ever need publicity.
Yet as she pushes open the weathered, brown door, the pub inside is…silent. Very different from her last trip, where it had been jammed, wall to wall, with rowdy customers laughing boisterously over their mugs of ale.
Now, the bar is empty save for the bartender and a few lone drinkers, all of whom look up sharply as the bell over the door tinkles, signaling their arrival.
The signed, framed photographs of the Stymphs hanging on the walls look a bit dusty, like they haven’t been wiped clean in some time.
The televisions hanging above the bar are shut off.
Setting down the rag he was using to clean a glass, the grizzled bartender stares nastily at Kion and Taissa. “What’s this, then?” he asks out one side of his stubbled mouth.
“Roger,” greets Kion, not very affably.
“You ain’t welcome here,” Roger spits.
Taissa frowns, eyeing the walls of NCL Stymph paraphernalia. “Uh—”
“Should take the lot of it down. All shit. Only fucking thing it’s brought me is embarrassment and bloody bills I can’t bloody pay on bloody time. Been fucking months since I served a fucking steak-and-ale.”
“Wow,” she mutters, “he has a dirtier mouth than you, Locke.”
“Sank to the bottom of the Minor League,” continues Roger, and one of the lone drinkers raises his glass in agreement.
“Fucking embarrassment to this town, if you ask me,” he calls.
Roger’s beady eyes snap to Taissa. “Ain’t you the cheater? What the hells are you doin’ here?”
Her shoulders fly back like she’s a puppet on a string. “Politely fuck off,” she sneers back.
Roger gapes at her.
“What was that you were saying about a dirty mouth?” Kion’s hand is still in her pocket, something that she is, unfortunately, acutely aware of. Morgana, his hand is almost as big as her entire chee—
“How dare you?” Roger’s jowl is trembling, and Taissa suddenly remembers the photographers outside. She clears her throat.
“Unless you’d be willing to make us one of your delicious steak-and-ale pies,” she adds through her teeth, smiling as hard as she can with a friendliness that borders on psychopathic.
Roger looks slightly scared but recovers quickly.
“Fine,” he growls. “You can sit over there.” He points to the table in the farthest corner of the room, but it’s near a window, which serves their purpose just fine.
“Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, and bloody hells, don’t ever fucking smile at me like that again.
” As the barkeep stomps off, Taissa nudges Kion.
“Disband from the Bahoochie Formation.” Although it’s become rather comfortable, being cupped.
She’s almost disappointed when he slides his hand out of her pocket, and as they make their way to the table, she withdraws her arm from his waist. The air in the pub suddenly feels much colder.
Taissa glances outside, where the paps are still snapping away.
Kion seems to be fighting the urge to send a vulgar gesture toward them. “What paper are they with, again?” he grumbles.
She squints out the glass. “I don’t know. Maybe Wily Witch?” That’s the most gossip-oriented paper, although they’re all loquacious when it comes to UKHC drama. Taissa shrugs, turning back to Kion. “Lean forward.” A limp yellow flower in a glass sits at the center of the table, between them.
He looks immediately suspicious. “Why?”
Honestly. “We’re not going to snog. Just…look like you’re engaged with what I’m saying. Like you actually care.”
Rolling his eyes, Kion obliges. The intensity of his gaze is staggering. Somehow it conveys the heat of a thousand suns. Taissa frantically searches for something to say. He beats her to it. Numpty.
“Edward Becerra is off-limits.”
What on earth? Taissa stares at him. “What does this—”
His dark eyes are flashing. “You said it yourself, Cho. We need to sell this. I don’t want to see you batting your eyelashes at him because if I see that, that means somebody else will, too. Right now, you’re mine.”
Why are her cheeks heating? Why is warmth curling low in her stomach? Taissa grimaces, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. You’re mine.
“The papers need to believe us,” he continues, and just like that, the moment is gone. “So does the team. So does everybody. That’s the condition for you playing here—”
He’s interrupted by Roger slamming down a gigantic steak pie in front of them, followed by two mugs of sloshing beer. “Enjoy, wankers,” he sneers before stomping back off toward the bar.
Taissa grabs a fork and knife, cutting a slice out of the pie with more focus than necessary. You’re mine. You’re mine. Kion’s words still ring through her head in a most unusual way. She bites into the pie with vigor, chewing furiously as Kion watches her with an inscrutable expression.
The last thing she’s going to do is get confused. This is fake. All of this is fake.
It just needs to look real. And there’s a surefire way to do that.
“Get out your phone,” she says abruptly.
“What?”
“Your phone,” she snaps, already taking out hers and tapping away, re-downloading Cauldron, which she deleted right around the time she started to get death threats.
Sighing, Kion pulls his out of his pocket as she logs into her account, @taissacho_official. Taissa studiously ignores the floods of messages she’s missed over the last two years. Most of them seem to be deeply unpleasant. “What’s your Cauldron username?”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe that you don’t know it?”
Taissa grimaces. She’s stalked him before, as he’s certainly done her. In the search bar, she types in, “@key_on_lock.”
Punny. She doubts he came up with it. It was probably Knox.
Unlike the other player, Kion has no sense of humor.
His profile picture, a shot of him flying on Cato’s back with a trophy in a hand, greets her. And although it physically pains her to do it, Taissa clicks Follow before demanding Kion do the same. He glares but obliges.