CHAPTER 8 KAYLEE
“Come on, Luke. I’m twenty-two, not fourteen.” I roll my eyes at my brother petulantly, contradicting my words with my behavior. “Almost twenty-three.”
He laughs. “Your age has nothing to do with it. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I challenge, hand on my hip.
“Because there’s going to be a minimum of twenty guys on the team there, and I just don’t think it’s the best idea. This isn’t just a party for us. It’s a work event.”
“Bullshit.” I narrow my eyes, and Luke flinches the same way he does every time he hears me curse, which only makes me want to curse more when I’m with him…to prove he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.
I’m not the little girl he still sees me as, and I just want to have some fun. “Will you be drinking?” I ask to prove it’s more than a work event.
He shrugs. “Probably.”
Ellie, his wife, snorts from her spot on the couch.
“He’ll be whiskey drunk by the time he leaves, and that’s a guarantee.
” She stands and saunters over to join our conversation.
“Luke, just take her. She’s new to town and has two brothers who play pro football.
At least let her take advantage of that.
” She looks over at me. “Besides, if she’s there, I’ll have someone to talk to. ”
Yes! Ellie to the rescue.
I raise my brows at Luke hopefully, and he slides his arm around Ellie’s waist then narrows his eyes at me. “Jack is going to kill me. No flirting with anybody on the team.”
I hold up both hands innocently. “As long as everyone’s wearing their jerseys, I’ll know who’s on the team and who isn’t.”
Ellie laughs. “Can you imagine? Twenty guys in their jerseys at a pool party in the off-season. Calvin would have a conniption fit.”
Luke rolls his eyes. “This is a terrible idea, but I’ll pick you up at noon. Can I ask why you’re begging me for the invite and not your roommate?” He’s referring to our brother, Jack—best friend to the party host, Ben Olson.
“Because I knew he’d say no.” I wiggle my fingers and bolt for the door because I need to get the hell out of here before he changes his mind. “Gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I head home and rip my closet apart in search for any outfit that might work for tomorrow. I come up short.
I decide to text Ellie.
Me: What are you wearing to the party?
Ellie: Probably shorts and a t-shirt with a swimsuit under it.
Boring.
Ben’s parties are renowned for their celebrity sightings, and if I’m meeting hot celebrities, I need to dress the part.
Me: Okay, I’ll see you there!
I settle on my shortest shorts and a tank top that leaves little to the imagination.
I choose my sexiest black bikini to wear under it in case I decide to go swimming. It’s held up by big gold loops between my boobs and by my hips and it makes me feel sexy.
I can’t wait for tomorrow.
I head over to my mom’s house to eat dinner with her, and I find her standing at the stove stirring something when I walk in. I walk over behind her.
“That smells good.” I peek over her shoulder and see a pot of tortilla soup.
“It’s just about ready.” She’s been experimenting with cooking since we moved to Vegas, and I’ve enjoyed being her guinea pig.
She didn’t cook much when I was growing up, so she never taught me how to do it, either.
I’m a disaster in the kitchen, and she used to be, too, but she’s trying to learn.
I, on the other hand, have zero interest.
I grab some bowls and spoons out of the cabinet.
“How was school today?” she asks.
I shrug. “Fine.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand with hers. “It’s just your first year, honey. It’ll get easier.”
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m pretty sure I’ll never find out. I can’t keep working a job I can’t stand, but I really sort of thought I was stuck in it until my conversation with Ben.
Once our soup is ready, we sit across from each other at the table.
“Any plans this weekend?” my mom asks as we each blow on a spoonful of soup.
“Luke offered to take me to this pool party tomorrow,” I say. I leave out the part about how I had to beg for an invitation.
“Is Jack going?” she asks.
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Sounds fun. You be safe, honey.”
“I always am, Mom,” I say.
“I know, but you’re my little girl. The boys…they can fend for themselves, you know?”
Right. It’s the same conversation every time, and frankly I’m getting tired of it. I’m constantly cast in that role—the little girl, the baby sister, the innocent one.
I’m not little. I’m not a baby. I’m certainly not innocent.
Maybe it’s time to prove it to my family.