89. Horse Shit Decorated in Butterflies
HORSE SHIT DECORATED IN BUTTERFLIES
LAYTON
“Layton, it’s George. Call me when you can. I have an offer you’ll want to hear about.”
I see my agent’s voicemail as it comes through transcribed in my notifications. When I get in the car, I dial him.
“Layton.”
“George. What’s up, man?”
George has been my agent since my senior year at Oklahoma when I knew I’d need representation.
He was fresh in the business and hungry as fuck.
I could’ve gone with a more established, big-name agency, but something about his work ethic and how hard he fought reminded me of, well, me.
His attitude was similar to mine—work like hell, leave no stone unturned, take the savvy risks, and enjoy the spoils of war.
Our partnership has been critical in my short career. He’s one of the few people I can trust in this business.
“Excel wants you to be the face of their athletic wear brand.”
“Dive right in, why don’t you?”
“The money is good. The contract is fair. I mean, don’t murder anyone while you’re wearing their logo or anything.”
“The contract says that?”
“No, but it’s implied in their morality clause.”
“So no murder. What else?”
“Keep your squeaky clean, good ole Texas-boy reputation and your handsome city-boy looks, and it’s all good.”
This makes me laugh. “Is that a direct quote?”
“Yeah. And I threw up in my mouth repeating it.”
“Handsome city-boy looks—is that what did it for you? I mean, they’re not wrong.”
George makes a retching sound from the other end of the line.
“Come on, George. Say it again. You practiced it, right?”
“Shut up, fuck-face. My apologies. Shut up, Mr. Ranger.”
“What are the terms, that is, aside from no murder?”
“Three years, six mil a year. Seasonal ad campaigns. And you need to be seen wearing the product in public. Four million a year in bonuses if you’re wearing the clothes leaving post-season games and photographed in them.”
“So I’m wearing the clothes, then?”
“Fuck yeah. Get to the playoffs and wear that shit everywhere.”
“Sounds like a plan. Did you send it over to my attorney?”
“Doing it now.”
“Thanks, man.” I mean it. I appreciate everything George does for me. Navigating the business of football is way different than navigating the physical aspects.
“You’ve got it.”
“When do they want to launch?”
“When you sign.” His answer is quick and enthusiastic.
“Well, let’s make some money then.”
When I was in high school, hundreds seemed large. When I signed my NFL contract, thousands seemed huge. Now, we talk in millions, and I’m supposed to pretend this is normal.
Maybe one day it will be, but I don’t know that I want it to be.
I never ever wished to be a rancher like Pop and my brother, Braxton. I was brought up in the life. I got out at eighteen and never went back. I’m so very okay with never seeing that anywhere but in my rearview mirror.
That said, some of the conversations I have in life are surreal. Case in point, a company wants to pay me six million dollars a year to wear their clothes.
To wear their clothes.
I’d wear horse shit decorated in butterflies for way, way less.
“Layton?”
“I’m here. Just spaced a second.”
“You not okay with the deal? Do you want me to see if I can get them to go higher?”
“Shit. Ask them. If they want to give more, I’ll take it. You’ve always wanted a bigger boat.”
“Not about me, man. You know that.”
“See what you can do. Let’s get you that boat.”
The silence that follows is a beat too long.
“George?”
“I’m here, Layton.”
“I know and I appreciate it.” I click off. I drive down into the condo parking. I’d lose the call here anyway. Concrete and metal don’t make for great reception.
Riding the elevator up to my place, I take it in with fresh eyes. It’s too stark, too white. Too much like a magazine layout. I try to visualize my nephew, Colt, here and can’t picture him anywhere. Everything is sharp edges and cold marble.
In all fairness, I can’t imagine Colt, Brax, and Emberleigh heading this way anyway. It’s so much easier for me to go home than for people to come visit. But it’s the point.
Screw this. This self-contemplation can be fixed quickly and easily.
I toss on my running shoes and head back out into the sunshine.
I run the city streets, not stopping until the endorphins have taken all the emo-boy from my system and replaced it with testosterone.
I grab my phone and find the group thread.
Me: Interested in grabbing a drink at Tiki?
Carlson: I’m game.
Marshall: Hell yeah. Name the time and I’m there.
Reed: I’m out. Christi wants to go furniture shopping.
Marshall: You have fun with that. Sounds like the fifth circle of hell if you ask me.
Mattis: I’m in. Which Tiki?
Me: Arabel Beach Road
Mattis: Done. Are we using real names tonight or our aliases?
Me: I don’t think General is that great of an alias.
Marshall: Whatever, Flax McCoy.
Carlson: Tonight, I’m Rico.
Marshall: You always choose Rico.
Carlson: Scandinavian man who can get a sunburn by looking at the fucking moon, and women will believe my name is Rico. It makes me laugh every time they call my name. Or scream it when I’m drilling them.
Reed: I’ll take “Things I never want to picture again” for $300, Alex.
It goes on and on. I don’t care how old we are, how successful we are, or how much we grow up, it always comes back to sex. Always.
I set the phone aside as it vibrates with continued messages and pull a meal from my fridge and throw it in the microwave. Two minutes later, chicken breast, blanched broccoli, and sweet potatoes with balsamic vinegar are ready as is the salad Mrs. Turner made when she delivered my meals.
I don’t have to picture my nephew here. This is a bachelor pad of epic proportions, and tonight, it’s getting some use.
Livy
“Sabine, seriously, we don’t need to do this.”
“Yes, we do, and we’re going to do it right.”
“God help me.”
“What was that?”
“I said, ‘I can’t wait.’”
“Liar.”
Yep.
My bestie is here from Delaware. We get together as often as we can, but she never misses spending two anniversaries with me. One that was supposed to lead to my happily ever after and the other when that imploded in spectacular fashion.
Today is the first.
The day Tommy proposed.
The day I thought the life I’d always imagined was mine for the taking.
It’s probably why I’ve been so grouchy this week as well. Because he proved what I already knew—that dream is for other people and not for me.
And we always celebrate this miserable day doing something fun or exhausting, something out of my comfort zone, something ridiculous.
“Those days at University of Delaware were some of the happiest, best memories I have. And every one of them includes you.” I lift my wineglass to her, toasting her. “Love you, sis.”
“If I had a sister, I’d want her to be you. Though, as kids, I’d probably have hated you.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet.”
“Shut up.” Bean uses her stemless glass to gesture to me curled up in my deep sofa. “Can you imagine what it must’ve been like to compete with you? Or to compete for attention when you’re in the room?”
“Oh, I can.”
Tally is formidable. Tally was formidable at eight years old.
I tried to get attention while she was being Tally only to be called gauche for being so brazen.
Daunting versus tacky. It’s a lovely comparison to have made about yourself.
Then again, I wouldn’t want to be considered daunting at that age either.
“Just saying, you’re smart and talented and… plucky.”
“Plucky? Seriously?”
“It’s the perfect word to describe you. Now, enough stalling… Do you want the silver tinsel wig or the Pepto pink one for tonight?”
“What are we wearing?”
Sabine jumps up and grabs a bag from the guest room where her suitcase landed upon her arrival, and returns, flourishing a bag.
From it, she produces a too-short skirt that looks like it’s made of silver disks, a tube top made of pastel feathers, electric-blue hot pants, and a black sequined triangle that is supposed to act as a top.
“And where are the rest of them?”
“Oh, this is the whole thing, so have another sip. Or five. You’ll need the liquid courage.”
“Well, silver will wash the pluck right out of me, so I need the pink wig.”
“Sweet! I get the tinsel one. Which means no silver skirt for me.” She tosses the seven inch by seven inch elastic band at me as she drags the pants her way.
They’re leggings, actually, and make Olivia Newton John’s in Grease look modest. “Which leaves shirts,” she offers, letting it hang out there.
As if.
“I’m not wearing silver disks and black sequins. I do have my dignity.” I feign indignation when I need to actually have it.
She tosses the feathered bandeau to me. “Do you still have those clear stripper shoes?”
“They were a gag and not meant to ever be seen, much less worn. And I was too embarrassed to donate them to charity.”
“So they’re in your closet? Oh, hell yeah.” She jumps off the sofa and skids her way into my bedroom. The sound of things being shifted and moved mingles with her curses and giggles.
She returns with the ridiculous clear platform heels in one hand, and sparkly red stilettos in the other. “Mine,” she says as she lifts the if-Dorothy-had-been-a-hooker shoes.
A few hours later, I pretend life is great. And with this much alcohol, it is.
Lights splash around me, tripping off walls and people alike. Music flies from the speakers and vibrates from my shoes up into the feathers of my barely-there tube top.
I look ridiculous – and that’s the point. Goofing off, dressing up, acting out, and not caring for one darn minute.
This most certainly is not about finding a date, much less anything serious. It’s just two friends who don’t limit “dress-up” to Halloween.
The only rule we have on these nights is we don’t accept drinks from strangers. Bartenders? Yes. Each other? Sure. Anyone else? Never.
There are too many stories, and nothing is worth becoming one of them, so we pregame and play it smart when we’re together. I rarely drink, so it takes next to nothing to get me buzzed. I’d be embarrassed if I cared what anyone else thought about it.
Sabine is on the dance floor, and I shimmy through the crowd to get my groove on.
I danced long enough I can feel the music and where it wants to go.
My skirt reminds me of a belly dancer’s that would jingle if I hit the beat right, so I raise my arms over my head and let my hips lead the movement.
It’s almost hypnotizing, accentuating the music and moving to it, rather than being moved by it.
As the song changes to something sultrier, I play around with the melody instead of the beats and roll my hips, letting the song snake up my body. I meet Bean’s gaze and smile as she winks.
That’s when I feel heat at my back, and a strong arm wrap around my rib cage. It’s firm but not threatening and not too handsy. Warm breath hits the shell of my ear as I hear, “Keep dancing, sugar. It’s so fucking sexy.”
I roll my eyes. So pathetic. Has that line ever worked? No woman believes that crap – well, not after the first loser lies to her. Besides, it’s objectifying and cliché.
I dance my fingers up his forearm, noticing the veins and tanned skin there.
Better still, those muscles that ripple on the top from wrist to elbow, the ones that I can never resist, are sinewy and well-defined.
And oh, so sexy. As my fingers play, his grip loosens, and he shifts to turn me to himself.
I take the opening to slide away, using the discrepancies in our heights to my advantage.
I step outside and let the cool evening air hit my warm, damp skin. I check my watch and see a series of texts from Sabine.
Bean: Hotty alert
Bean: The sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on just wrapped you up, and you bounced.
Bean: This isn’t about tawny, right?
Bean: Tomahawk
Bean: Dammit
Bean: Tommy
Bean: …
Me: No. I’m fine. Back in a couple.
When I walk back into the club, I walk straight into a wall of muscle. His jeans are just a hint too tight on his quads. Long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. Forearms to drool over and a chin that could cut glass.
“Was it my breath? Or were you just afraid of your attraction for me?”
I look up, planning to give the stranger a lesson in polite conversation, and a dose of humility, only to look into the eyes of a grinning Layton Ranger. His smirk fades, and his eyebrows pinch when he sees my face.
He corrects his features quickly. What’s not quick is his measured perusal of my body.
He’s unashamed and unhurried as he takes in my collarbone, cleavage, stomach, and thighs that are exposed way too close to my panty line.
He tips his head as he takes in the shoes and slowly works his way back up, stopping at my belly button.
When his eyes lock on mine, he purses his lips and mutters, “Can’t say I was wrong, though.”
Alrighty then.