chapter eleven #2
I study him for a moment, and for the first time since meeting the inappropriate douche, I suspect Riley may be on to something regarding Ben lacking confidence and being insecure.
It flicks my heartstrings. Delicately. As soft as butterfly wings.
And despite not liking the guy, I can’t help but feel begrudgingly sympathetic.
Insecurity chains us to a place devoid of strength, and we don’t fight those chains because we’ve been groomed to accept them.
We’re taught to measure our appearance against what society deems perfection, and that only ever leads to failure and disappointment.
A demoralizing sense of self-worth. A losing battle we shouldn’t be fighting in the first place.
It dooms confidence before confidence has a chance at prevailing, and quite frankly, it’s unjustifiably unfair.
“You look strong,” I offer, encouraging him. “Aim for his pretty head.”
Ben rears back. “You think I look strong?”
“Sure.” I nod toward Riley. “Hit him where it hurts.”
Standing, he links his fingers together before stretching toward the sky, his trunks slipping down past the top of his ass. And even though society wrongfully deems his appearance less than perfection, his ass crack isn’t something I appreciate in such close proximity to my face.
I lean back, push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, close one eye, and angle my face away, blocking the unwelcome view. “Go get him, tiger.”
Ben roars like a big cat and charges toward the pool, belly-flopping the water like a breaching whale.
Laughter bursts from my chest.
“Jesus!” Riley complains, wiping droplets from his face as Ben resurfaces. “You could’ve killed me.”
Ben flexes both biceps. “We playing imaginary fucking volleyball or not?”
“The ball is behind you,” Riley deadpans. “Serve it.”
Wading through the pool, Ben collects the ball and gives it a useless squeeze, then he tosses it into the air and smacks it with his open palm, roaring like a tiger again when it rockets barely an inch over Riley’s head.
Oops!
I bite my lip as it skims the surface of the water, bounces out of the pool, and rolls to a stop by my lounger.
I’m tempted to toss it back but get up instead and take it to the edge of the pool, where I wait for Riley.
His strong arms sweep the water back with each step toward me, reminiscent of a Baywatch lifeguard.
“Dickhead nearly killed me. Twice!” Riley spits out.
Giggling, I squat and hand him the ball. “Go easy on him. He’s insecure, remember?”
He cocks his head just slightly. “Did you tell him to do that?”
“Do what?” I prompt, feigning ignorance.
“Aim for my head?”
I shrug.
His eyes widen with a wicked glint, and before I can leap back a safe distance, he grasps my wrist and tugs me into the water, his arms cradling my body and preventing me from completely submerging.
“Riley!” I shriek, wiping my eyes before slapping his chest. “You jerk!”
“What goes around, comes around, sweetheart.”
“My cover-up! It’s soaked.” I slap him again, wrestle free of his grip, and plant my feet on the bottom of the pool, trying to remain somewhat pissed at him, but I honestly can’t. I haven’t had this much spontaneous fun since… well… for as long as I can remember. “That was a cheap shot.”
“You telling Ben to aim for my head was a cheap shot.”
“Why?”
“Because he nearly decapitated me.”
Laughing, because he’s absolutely correct, I scruff his wet hair. “Afraid of a little competition, are you?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe.”
His eyes crinkle as he calls out to where Ben is ogling a sunbather at the other end of the pool. “Hey, Michigan. Riles is on your team.”
Ben turns to face us. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll protect you.”
“Protect me?” I mutter under my breath. “More like try to molest me.”
Riley chuckles. “If it comes to that, I’ll protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting. I can protect myself.” I playfully shove him, then wade to the edge of the pool and take the steps out of the water.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I can’t play in this, can I?” I explain, bunching the seam of my cover-up after peeling it from my stomach. “And I refuse to be at a disadvantage.”
Continuing to the cabana, I awkwardly grapple with the drenched material plastered to my arms and back, twisting as I pull it over my head before wringing it out and neatly setting it on the end of the lounge chair.
I then turn back to the pool, finding Riley’s eyes glued to my body like a magnet, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
Heat sweeps my skin, and I’m tempted to wrap myself in a towel or ask him if he’s ever seen a woman in a swimsuit before, when the ball slams into the side of his face.
“Two points to me,” Ben boasts.
I burst with laughter and quickly slip back into the water, high-fiving my partner. “Great shot!”
“He doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. Pretty boy is gonna pay.”
Nostrils flaring, Riley cracks his neck, then snatches up the floating ball with force, ready to pummel his serve—I’m guessing directly at Ben—when he takes a breath and gently taps it toward me instead.
I spring out of the water, attempting to set the ball up, but completely misjudge my leap and hit nothing but air.
“What was that?” Ben prompts, frowning at me.
“I slipped.”
“No shit!”
“Hey! I’m just warming up.”
Truth is, I’ve never played volleyball in a pool before. Once or twice on a court during my sophomore year, but that’s as far as my volleyball prowess extends. Still, I have drive and determination. And I’ll be damned if Ben is going to dub me our weakest link.
Game on!
Swimming toward the ball, I frustratedly snag it then stand before tossing it up and gently serving it to Riley. He slices through the water and spikes the ball, powerful and poised like Poseidon, and once again, my head is in the Greek mythological clouds.
A crack of thunder sounds from behind, and I wonder for a second if Zeus has joined us.
“My gut,” Ben groans. “Fuck! I think you just broke my gut.”
“Shit! Sorry, man.” Riley raises his palms but winks at me. “My bad!”
I spin toward Ben, a ball-shaped impression instantly reddening his fleshy stomach, laughter once again bursting from my chest.
“Hey! Whose side are you on, love?”
“Sorry.” I cover my mouth with my hand and gain my composure. “Yours. I’m on yours.”
“Then put some elbow into it. None of this soft, girly serving shit.”
I’m ready to tell him to shove his words up his ass, because “girly” and “soft” are adjectives that shouldn’t be used when describing something weak. But I choose to bite my tongue, instead brushing off his insult in preparation for him to eat his sexist comment.
“Let me try again,” I say, gesturing for him to give me the ball.
Ben obliges, so I toss it up, this time aggressively slapping my palm to it and forcing Riley to lunge to his right, the ball hitting the water just shy of his hand.
“Thatta girl.”
“Thank you, Ben,” I say proudly.
Tucking the ball under his arm, Riley smirks. “So this is how it’s going to be, huh?”
I lift my chin, confident. “It is.”
“All right then.” Riley spins the ball on the tip of his finger, all cocky-like.
I roll my eyes, unimpressed—my stepfather taught me that trick too.
“My princesses,” Ben coos, arms wide, as Brittany and Whitney walk by the pool, one of them waving at Riley, the other taking a selfie before blowing Ben a kiss.
Ben pretends to catch it, then slides his hand down the front of his trunks.
I all but throw up in my mouth, gagging and coughing.
“You all right, love?” he asks, turning toward me.
I cough again. “Yep, just swallowed some water.”
“Here, let me help.” He goes to rub my back.
“Heads up!” Riley shouts as the ball careens past Ben’s ear.
Taking the opportunity, I step back out of Ben’s ‘harm’s’ way as he angrily scoops up the ball and slams it back at Riley. “I wasn’t ready,” he grouches.
“Not my problem.”
“Two against one?” the tall brunette prompts, placing her manicured hands on her slender hips. “That seems unfair.”
“It’s not.” Riley serves the ball again, Ben and I almost colliding as we lunge and miss, both of us plunging beneath the water.
Planting my feet, I push up and stand, blinking water from my eyes, when Ben chastises me.
“Love! You gotta call for it.”
I chastise him back. “You call for it!”
“I did!”
“Did not.”
He turns his back on the women, his macho bravado waning as he mutters, “I’m sorry. I just…. We need a game plan. I don’t want to look like a fool.”
I glance over his shoulder at the blonde who blew him a kiss, my heart softening for him as she settles on a lounge chair and takes another selfie, completely engrossed in herself and not Ben.
He’s wasting his time with her. If he wants to impress a woman, he’s better off trying to impress someone who’s after more than just his money.
Someone interested in his heart, because funnily enough, he seems to have one buried under a load of insulting bullshit.
“I agree,” I say, patting his shoulder. “We need to work as a team. You stick to that side of the pool, and I’ll stick to this side. You be LeBron, and I’ll be MJ. Two GOATs, okay?”
Before I can duck and dive, he pulls me in for a hug. “Two fucking GOATs! Let’s do this.”
Thinking I’m going to have to pry myself loose before his hands roam where they shouldn’t, he surprises me when he releases his grip and swims toward the ball.
“Mind if I join in and even it up a little?” the brunette asks as she slides into the water, her bikini almost flossing her vagina. “I’m Brittany, by the way. And you are?”
“Riley,” I offer.
Her eyes flick from Riley to me and back again.
“Yes,” he deadpans. “Same name.”
She adjusts her bikini top. “Do you know each other?”
I go to say, “We do now,” when Riley waves me toward him. “Riles, you partner with me. Brittany, you partner with Ben.”
“No!” Ben snaps, hugging my shoulder to his armpit. “We’re GOATs. You don’t mess with GOATs.”
Riley scrubs his palm over his face, and Brittany playfully splashes him. “Hey! You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
My eyebrows hike, as do Riley’s.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“Can I serve?” Brittany asks, clapping for the ball, her breasts also applauding.
Ben grins, his eyes bouncing to the beat of her chest.
“Throw her the ball,” I grouch.
“I will. Just give me a sec—”
“Ben!”
“Okay, okay.” He tosses her the ball. “Spoilsport.”
“Just focus. The blonde is finally watching you.”
He freezes. “She is?”
“Yes.”
To be honest, I can’t tell if she is or if she’s simply admiring her own legs.
“Okay,” Brittany says, twiddling her fingers, “here we go. I may be a little rusty though. I haven’t played since high school.”
By the looks of her, I ascertain that wasn’t too long ago.
She tosses up the ball and serves, and before I can position myself to hit it back, all I have time to do is shield my face with my arms before it slams into me.
“Shit!” Riley hisses. “You okay, Riles?”
I keep my arms where they are, embarrassed but also fuming. “Yep.”
“Sorry, Riley!” Brittany squeaks. “I forgot how good my serve is.”
Dropping my arms and offering her the sweetest of salty smiles, I turn my back on her and Riley and emit a low, feral growl.
Ben smirks.
“What?” I snap.
“If only we had some Jell-O.” He waggles his eyebrows, and at my blank expression, he explains, “For Jell-O wrestling.”
“Just serve the damn ball.”
“Sure thing, MJ.” He tosses it into the air and serves to Brittany. She sets it up for Riley, and he spikes it at Ben, who lunges but misses.
“Yes!” Brittany squeals, launching herself onto Riley’s back, her legs wrapping around his waist. “Great shot!” She plants a kiss on the side of his head, then lets go. “We’ve got this.”
He chuckles awkwardly and momentarily makes eye contact with me as if he’s done something wrong.
He hasn’t. He can piggyback whoever he likes.
“Want to serve, love?”
I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” Ben lobs the ball and serves it to Riley, who returns it but with less vigor, the ball casually sailing toward me. I jump back and set it up for Ben, who slams it toward Riley, but Brittany leaps in front and pops it toward me.
Surging forward, I dive for the ball, but I’m not quick enough to stop it from hitting the water.
Damn it!
“Yes!” she squeals again before draping her arm over Riley’s shoulder. “We make a great team.”
Pissed, I throw the ball at them, deliberately aiming just shy of where they’re standing, sending a spray of water into their faces. “Your serve.”
Brittany frowns, wipes her eyes, snatches up the ball, and serves it back. I spike it with force, but she returns it.
I hit it again.
She returns.
Repeat.
Repeat.
“Stop hogging it,” Ben says as he crosses into my space and hits it back.
“I’m not.”
“Classic Jordan.”
Riley pops the ball up, so I spike it, hard, watching as if in slow motion as it slams into Brittany’s shoulder and ricochets into the side of her head.
Oopsies.
“My eye!” she cries, covering her face with her hand.
Subduing a revengeful giggle, I call out, “Sorry, Brittany! I forgot how good my spike is.”