Sidelined (20 page)

Mitch’s eyes go wide. “No. Shit, I don’t even know why there was her. You were so locked away studying, and I went out with the guys, and she was there…”

“I don’t want the play-by-play of how you fucked her. Thanks.” I screw up my face.

He runs his hand through his hair. “Come on, Mace. Give me another chance.”

I look away and shake my head.

“Is it Jack? Because you didn’t look all too serious on Saturday night.”

“It’s not Jack, okay? Even if I weren’t sleeping with someone else, it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Mitch leans forward. “Sleeping with? So, you’re not even dating?”

Fuck.

“I have to go.” I get up and walk to the door.

I yank it open and dig for my keys in my pocket. I pull them out and unlock my car, but before I can get in, my arm is grabbed. Mitch spins me and pins me to his body. His hand cups the back of my head and he pulls our mouths together without hesitation.

And, like a fool, I just stand here, his lips on mine. I don’t even move as the forceful caress of his kiss sends a familiar, comforting shiver down my spine.

He releases me and glances at my mouth. “Tell your fuck buddy he’s playing to win a whole lot more than the Super Bowl this season.”

Then he turns and gets in his BMW. I stare at the bright-blue vehicle as it reverses, turns, and pulls away from the bar.

A deep breath fills my lungs.

Well, that went well
.

Jack. Mitch. Jack. Mitch.

They are two very different guys I’m trying to compartmentalize in my brain, but I can’t, so I have my new Post-its to leave a whole bunch of notes to self to remind me to split them into two people.

Mitch: Knows me well. Fucked my cousin. Dated for three years. Fucked my cousin. Is in love with me. Fucked my cousin. Knows my favorite food. Fucked my cousin. Knows exactly how to make my hot chocolate. Fucked my cousin. Has (now) promising career aspects. Fucked my cousin.

Clearly, writing Mitch’s notes is just going around and around in circles.

Jack: Knows my body well—okay, very well. Buys me real coffee. Cooks me bacon. Brings me tequila without question. Is very fond of eating pussy. Has a motorcycle. Has a long contract with the Vipers that makes him a lot of money.

Okay, sheesh. Comparing their careers is shallow, I know, but a girl has to think of this stuff, right? Future maybe scenarios and all that.

Shit. Why am I even comparing them? Is there even any point? I know I can’t get back with Mitch and that Jack and I aren’t serious.

“Tell your fuck buddy he’s playing to win a whole lot more than the Super Bowl this season.”

Isn’t that like the guy equivalent of a war declaration? And why, oh why, do I have to be the prize?

I mean, I’m good with a penis. Specifically Jack’s penis. But I’m not war-worthy. And he isn’t the kind of guy to fight for one girl when he could get ten in as many minutes.

So…what I’m saying is that I’m going to have one guy fighting a losing battle and one less fuck buddy.

Fantastic.

The last ten days have gone fabulously for me.

I look up from my notes and stare at the TV. I’m watching the Vipers win another game of the season, even if I don’t really understand anything happening in the game. I know that Jack got the first touchdown and that’s…pretty much it, actually.

But I figure it’s more than I knew last week, so there’s also that.

A whistle is blown. The game is over now, and both teams are walking off the field. Field? Pitch? No, wait. Field. Yes. Ugh. This would be so much easier to understand, or even pretend to, if I had been the kind of girl who wanted to do the quarterback in high school.

Shoulda been a damn cheerleader.

I look at the pink-and-yellow mess of notes on my table and… I smell burning. Shit! I run to the stove, shut it off, and stare at the mangled mess of pasta in the pan.

“Ohhhh,” I moan, grabbing my wooden spoon and prodding the shells. They’re all stuck to the pan, and I wrinkle my nose. “How the fuck do you burn pasta?” I mutter, grabbing the pan and dropping it into the sink.

I sigh and look around my kitchen. I’ve pretty much lost all desire to cook right now. So…fuck it. I grab my phone and call the pizza place down the street. When I hang up, I drop onto the sofa and change the channel.

Friends. Perfect.

I swing my feet up onto the coffee table, the action scattering the Post-its all over the floor. I look at the mess and shrug. Damn, I don’t care. I’m too tired to care, if I’m honest…

My buzzer jolts me out of a hazy half-sleep state. I look at the clock hanging on my kitchen wall. Damn. I’ve been asleep for the last half an hour.

“Hello?” I ask the buzzer.

“Pizza for Macey.”

“Yeah. Come in.” I hit the button to unlock the door and grab my wallet from my purse. I’m rifling through the bills in there when there’s a knock at the door. I open it without looking. “Two seconds,” I say, finding a five-dollar bill tucked in between the twenties. “Here.”

I look up at Jack.

“Thanks, babe, but I already got it.” He grins and pushes the door open. He lifts the pizza over the top of my head and strolls past me.

“I—what? That was the pizza guy.”

“Yeah. I know. Grabbed him as he opened the door and paid him.”

I frown and point the money at him. “Pretty sure he isn’t allowed to do that.”

Jack holds his hands up. “Don’t ask me, baby.” He opens the pizza box and pulls out a slice before tearing off a big bite.

I stare at him, but since he paid for it, albeit very sneakily, there’s nothing I can do to argue with him. Bastard.

I grab a piece before he eats it all—because I know he will—and take it over to the sofa. I drop back onto the cushions and rest my feet on the table again, my eyes firmly fixed on the TV. It’s the “We were on a break!” episode, and for the first time ever, I grab my remote and turn off Friends.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Your carpet get into a fight with a stationery store?”

“Huh?”

He nods toward the mess on the floor.

“Oh…that. Notes to self,” I mutter, dropping my foot to kick them under the sofa.

“You remember to write down the orange juice one?”

“No, actually. I forgot.”

He licks his fingers and comes over. I kick a little more frantically, because, well, explaining them is going to be awkward. Jack grabs my pen and the orange pad and scribbles on it.

Note to self: Get a second carton of OJ for Jack.

“Noted.” I pull the square off the pad and drop it on the floor with the others.

“Why is my name on the pink notes?”

Ah, fuck.

“And Mitch’s on the yellow?” He turns toward me. His face is dangerously close to mine, and there’s a glint in his eyes that… Well, I don’t know what it is, but it sure as fuck isn’t good.

“I was…drawing up a pros-and-cons list,” I mutter.

“Seems to be a helluva lot more yellow than pink, baby.”

“Well, in my defense, half of Mitch’s say ‘fucked my cousin,’ which adds to his total.” I smile weakly.

“All right, I think I’m gonna regret askin’ this.” Jack sits up straight. “Why are you making pros-and-cons lists?”

I open my mouth and close it again. Shit. I was kind of hoping to avoid this conversation.

“Promise you won’t get mad,” I say softly, looking down.

“M, talk to me.”

“I…” I swallow, sensing that that’s the closest to an agreement I’m going to get. “I saw Mitch earlier.”

I wait, but Jack says silent.

“I asked him why he was outside my apartment yesterday.”

“Doesn’t take a fuckin’ genius to work it out,” Jack grinds out.

“He wants me back.” I look at the TV. “He…doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not in love with him.”

“You sure about that, Macey?”

I frown, snapping my eyes to Jack, who’s now leaning against the table. “Of course I’m sure!”

“Yeah? ‘Cause you don’t seem to hesitate running to him when he comes knockin’ at your door.”

“What are you saying?” I stand up slowly, my stomach twisting at his words and the implications of them.

“According to you, he broke your heart so fucking badly that you hate him. Yet, when he knocks at your door or hangs out outside your apartment, you’re not exactly hesitant when it comes to runnin’ after him to see what the fuck he wants. Yet you can’t call me.” Jack turns slowly. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ saying.”

“According to me?” The words fall from me in disbelief. “
According to me?
You think I want him here, fucking with me again? You think I want to sit there and listen to him declare his seemingly endless love for me while begging me in the same breath to give him another goddamn chance?”

Jack pushes off from the table and walks to the door. His fingers curl around the handle and he looks at me, his green eyes on fire, so angry that they’re sending tremors through my body. “You answer him?”

“What?”

“He begged for another chance. Did. You. Fucking. Answer. Him?”

“I...”
I never did.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Jack yanks the door open. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m pretty fuckin’ good at decision making, so I’ll save you the trouble and decide for you.”

He disappears through the door.

“Jack!” My feet carry me to the door, but not before he slams it behind him. “Fuck!” I fall against the cold, hard surface and flatten my hands against it. “Fuck,” I whisper, my forehead resting against the door, too. “Fuck.”

It would be easier if humans were programmed to not feel. If, when we evolved from ape to human, we hadn’t developed complex emotions. I’d be happy to be delighted over a banana, to be honest.

The problem with emotions is that they’re almost impossible to block out. Trying to ignore them is futile, because they’ll consume you. Emotion will drag you down to the depths of their all-encompassing suffocation until they own every part of you.

And I’m not okay with that.

I don’t want emotion. I don’t want to feel the way I do right now.

Guilt snakes through my veins. Regret tinges every single one of my muscles. And the ache of sadness? That’s worse because it floods my veins and my muscles, crawls over my skin, constricts my throat.

I should have said no so I could say yes. Because in three hours, I’m supposed to arrive at my parents’ with Jack in tow. And I have no idea how to explain this fucked-up situation I’m in without my brother whipping out his handcuffs.

I stare at my essay, but it’s pointless. The fucker isn’t going to write itself, and I’m in no state of mind to write it. Damn. Why’d I even bother with college? I hate law. It doesn’t interest me the way forensic science did. Sure, my ex–cop dad and current–cop brother like it. They would. They like…people. I kind of don’t, despite the fact that I work in retail. I’d rather be way behind the scenes in a lab, determined to find that one strand of DNA that could make or break a case.

So I take a deep breath, grab my purse and car keys, and head to drop out of college.