Challenge (32 page)

“We’re going out,” I proclaim, pausing in front of the on-call room door where I find Belle standing at her locker. This sense of urgency has been coming on ever since Cam left a few hours ago. “We’re going to get dressed up. I’m going to let you do my makeup, and we’re going on a mission.”

“Well, yeah,” Belle replies. “I already told you a few days ago that Old George has Irish Way playing in the beer garden. I got us tickets for tonight, our first Tequila Sunrise night. Don’t you remember?”

I bite my lip at the realisation of how utterly vacant I’ve been all week because this doesn’t ring any bells. Well, no more. I’m done feeling the sting of that slap on my hand. Cam’s completely over me and probably off screwing a new girl as we speak.

“That’s right.” My eyes narrow with strategy. “Old George is perfect.”

Belle frowns. “Indie, you’ve been weird all week. What is going on with you? I saw Camden Harris’ brother Tanner today at the hospital, so I know he was here. Did something happen between you two? Your eyes look a bit more Tarsier Primate today than usual.”

A tiny part of me wants to tell Belle everything—to blurt out every nasty word that was said between Camden and me. But then I would have to tell her I let him push into me without a condom. That I knew he was doing it and I wanted him to do it. That I craved the feeling, but then, like a lunatic, I wigged out on him afterwards. I accepted him, rejected him, and then slapped him. She’ll think I have schizophrenia. Sharing will only shine a bigger light on how truly detached I can be, and I don’t want Belle to see that side of me. She’s the one person who embraces my quirks. I don’t want to wreck it. Plus, I need her to keep me going on this Penis List mission.

I defiantly raise my shoulders and reply, “Nothing bad happened with Camden. I accomplished my goal, so it’s time to move down the list. Tonight we’re on a Penis Number Two mission.”

She eyes me skeptically. “Shag ‘em and bag ‘em is more my gig…But hey, you are officially deflowered, so who the hell am I to judge? Just call me your wing-woman, darling.”

“Two more, please!” I shout down to the cute bartender and blink slowly, appreciating the cut of his jeans. “You know, those jeans would look even hotter on a footballer,” I slur over my shoulder to Belle. “God, they can wear jeans!”

“Too right,” Belle growls, raising her glass in a toast to hot thighs. “I’m craving a footballer for myself right about now.”

My brows raise. “I’m not craving a footballer. Come on, we’re here for Penis Number Two. Stay focused.”

“Well, Stanley is right there. Primed and ready.” She points toward the end of the bar where Stanley quickly looks away.

I shake my head. “Why does he always end up everywhere I am?”

“Because you invite him,” she sings.

I sigh. “I know. He asks and I don’t want to be mean. Stanley is a nice bloke.”

“So why don’t you put him out of his misery and shag him?”

“His eyes are too brown,” I grumble.

She begins to argue with me as the bartender sets down our tequila. We grip the glasses in our hands, do a quick cheers, and gulp down the spicy liquid.

“Tequila Sunrise!” Belle shouts, giggling happily. “Well, just straight tequila I guess, but the sentiment is there.”

“Tequila Sunrise,” I murmur, propping my head on my hands.

Belle whacks me on the arm. “All right, we’re good and buzzed now. It’s time to get serious about Penis Number Two before we get so pissed we can’t pick a good pecker.”

Turning away from the bar, we lean our backs against the dark lacquered wood and admire the scene for a moment. Old George’s beer garden is a gorgeous outdoor sight at night. It’s located in the alley behind the pub and is completely ensconced in high lattice fencing covered in crawling ivy. Rustic picnic tables fill the left side, but they’ve removed several for a small dance floor and the band on the right. The ground is all original cobblestone—there’s probably horse manure stamped into the divots from the Medieval era. Because of this, you can always spot the regulars from the tourists. The regulars are in sensible flats while the tourists wobble around awkwardly in heels. It’s not a proper night at Old George if you don’t see at least three girls take a tumble. Top the entire scene off with string after string of Edison bulbs and you have the most gorgeous, glowing, backyard party you’ve ever seen.

“I love Old George,” I coo.

“I know, love. You look fab tonight, too. Have I told you that?”

“You look better,” I murmur.

Belle is kitted out in black leather leggings and a studded, black tank top that makes her look as badass as the combat boots she’s rocking. I’m a bit more colourful in floral print leggings and a fitted white T-shirt that Belle says makes my tits look great. Wearing my hair down is usually the only accessory I need to spruce up an outfit. That and my black vintage eyewear.

“Okay, so let’s do this.” Her gaze narrows on the crowd. “Are you sure you don’t want to give Stanley a shot.”

“I’m sure.”

“So what’s the type you’re looking for?”

My face turns serious. “Penis Number Two type. Sweet, sensitive, and a nurturing lover. Must cry when he comes.” I giggle as I remember that little tidbit from our list.

“I meant physically,” Belle says around the straw of her drink.

My brows rise. “I don’t know…I guess I like light hair.”

“What else?”

“Maybe tall and broad.”

“Yes…”

“With eyes that smoulder.”

“Got it.”

“And I wouldn’t say no to some abs.”

“What about another crack at Penis Number One?” she asks, her eyes locked on something behind me.

“That’s not what—”

She grabs my chin and turns my head toward the far back corner of the beer garden. Despite the darkness, I can make out the outlines of two huge, strapping men sitting on top of a picnic table. It looks like a hairy and non-hairy set of twins.

“Oh no,” I say.

“Surprise!” she giggles and clutches my arm, yanking me in that direction.

I
AM A MAN WHO
gets what I want.

I am not a man who’s used to losing.

I’ve lost a handful of football matches, tickets to Coldplay once, and a bet with Vi over how much food her dog, Bruce, could consume in thirty seconds.

This isn’t a proud list.

Now I can add Indie Porter to it, file it away, and move the hell on. She’s a different calibre of the birds I shag, so that’s why I’m still smarting over the whole ordeal. I guess rejection wounds even the most confident of footballers. So in the interest of moving on and gaining back some of my “Camden Harris, knicker-dropping smirk” mojo back, I let my brother drag me out tonight.

“I still can’t believe you bagged your doctor!” Tanner takes a long drink of his beer, then puts it back up to his eye socket. With the other eye open and on me, he adds, “I did not take her for the monopoly squirt and split type. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.”

“If you don’t knock it off, I’ll give you a matching set,” I growl through clenched teeth, balling my fist up beside me. “I’m not kidding, Tan. Leave it.”

“That info was well worth the shiner,” he states, happily rolling the condensation-soaked beer bottle on his eye.

I take a drink of my own beer, mentally junk-punching myself for the eighteenth time tonight for telling him about Indie and me. Or at least telling him a tiny version of it. I’m not about to tell him she was a fucking virgin. I’d never hear the end of it.

I’m not proud of spilling the beans. But I am a bloke, and ever since he got back from their match last week, he hasn’t stopped bragging about the threesome he had on the road. It’s not uncommon for him to brag about his conquests, but for the past ten days I’d been slowly dying on the inside over this Indie thing. I was holding on by a thread.

Then today, after my MRI, he started talking about having a threesome with Indie and her coworker, Belle, who apparently chatted with him in the waiting room while I was suffering through a little piece of redheaded hell. My possessiveness got the better of me. I blurted out that I’d screwed Dr. Porter because I knew he’d shut up then.

You see, my brothers and I have an understanding about women. We call it the Bacon Sandwich Rule. If I lick a bacon sandwich, that means it’s mine and they can’t touch it. Ever.

We apply this same well-thought-out and highly-sensitive philosophy to women, and it’s worked well for us…until today.

The punch went a little something like this:

Tanner starts, “You fucked the redhead?”

“Stop.”

“What was it like?”

“Stop.”

“Were her tits big? They look big.”

“Stop.”

“Was she wild? She looks like a screamer.”

“Stop.”

“Did she suck you off? God, I bet she gives good head.”

“Stop.”

“How were her nipples? Pink or pale pink?”

“Stop.”

“Did she call out my name when she came?”

PUNCH.

I know it was probably a bit dramatic, but bloody hell, Tanner can be a sod. This isn’t the first time we’ve rowed over a girl; however, it is the first time I’ve punched him over one. It evidently still didn’t teach him because he won’t stop running his mouth.

Regardless, I didn’t punch him because I’m still pining over Indie. After our talk today, I know that ship has sailed. Whatever fucked-up thoughts my mind was having over her are well and dead now. I truly think she is incapable of feeling. She’s got her head in the sand so far, she wouldn’t see a connection with someone if her glasses were binoculars.

She set me up so perfectly, though, like a master heartbreaker. When we fucked on that chair…I had hope. But after it was over and I realised she was just saying goodbye, I knew I was doomed.

After that, all sorts of self-doubt began creeping into my mind. Hell, if I can get it in my head that I care more about her than I do about football, my mind is fucked. Maybe tonight is just what I need to get my shit straight again because it’s time for Camden Harris to stop acting like he’s on his man-period.

“Hello, boys. Fancy seeing you here!” a voice says from behind me, and I snap my head around to see who it is.

Nothing could have prepared me for who stands before me.

“Dr. Ryan,” Tanner leers. “Nice to see you again.”

“Call me Belle,” she says with a giggle.

“I prefer Dr. Ryan if it’s all the same to you. And hello to you, too, Dr. Porter.”

Indie’s eyes haven’t left mine the entire time. She’s staring at me with a sort of shocked, embarrassed half smile—one that makes me wish I could read her mind. I know I just saw her today, but seeing her now, under the moonlight, dressed in street clothes with her hair down…well, she looks like the woman I used to know. Not the one I forced myself to make peace with earlier today.

Belle jabs Indie in the ribs with her elbow.

“Ouch,” Indie says through clenched teeth. “Hi, Tanner.” She looks at me. “Hi, Cam.”

“Hello,” I reply. “Is seeing you here really just a coincidence?” If so, the fates are cruel, cruel bastards.

Her brows lift. “I have a feeling this isn’t a coincidence.”