Chapter 12

Twelve

“Revenge is an ugly disease.”

~ Logan Carrington

“You misled me when we pulled up at Costumes and Toys.” A wicked smile flashes on her face as her bouncing body moves in through the automatic doors.

When we pulled up to the store, I thought, Okay, she’s kinky and maybe it’s my lucky day. How wrong was I to think it had anything to do with sex?

I watch Emmy make her way to the wall displaying the wigs, ignoring the urge to grab her body and tell her how fucking sexy she looks in her tight black dress and the shoes. Yeah, don’t get me started.

“C’mon.” She gestures, calling me over. “Pick a wig.”

“A wig? When I said let’s have fun, what part of that screamed wig shopping?”

She shoves a brown, shaggy piece into my chest. “If you wanna play, you gotta keep it a secret.”

Placing a blonde wig over her head she turns to face me, seeking my approval. I shake my head instantly—I don’t want to be seen with Florence Henderson.

She searches the wall again and grabs a wig styled in a bob.

“It’s pink,” I say.

“Well, duh! What do you think?”

“The paparazzi will find you in a heartbeat,” I tell her.

I scan the wall and notice a subtle black wig. Removing it from the hook I place it over her hair, carefully tucking in the loose strands underneath. Her deep blue eyes stare back at me oddly. With just this one gaze, I’m taken back to a time when life wasn’t complicated. When the biggest hurdle was making it home before Mom, so I could cover the gashes on my leg from when I fell over jumping off the tree to prove I could fly.

And I got this—all from this one stare.

“That’s better.” I smile.

“Now you.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Now stop being a baby and pick a wig.”

Considering I’ve never worn a wig in my life, the choice seems overwhelming. I settle for a dark blond wig that makes me look like Justin Timberlake from his NSYNC days. It’s either that or a poorly cut piece that will made me a dead ringer for Ozzy Osbourne.

“Great! Now you need facial hair.”

I point to my chin. “I have facial hair.”

“Hmm… yeah, but you’re not hairy enough. You need to look like a man enjoying a Saturday night in Hollywood. Not like Logan Carrington, soccer extraordinaire, taking Emerson Chase out on some wild sex ride.”

I can’t hide the smirk. “We’re going on a wild sex ride?”

“Does it look like I’m dressed for a wild sex ride?” She pauses. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

I can see the blush, yet she’s quick to busy herself, picking up a mustache that will make me look like an aging porn star. “Is this absolutely necessary?” I ask for the final time.

Ignoring my question completely she finds a hideouslooking pair of reading glasses, thrown into a clearance bin. She also pulls out a bow tie.

“We’re set,” she beams, deliriously happy for someone who looks like she should teleport back to the seventies with her glasses.

“I’ve never looked more ridiculous.”

“I’ll argue that. Remember that Christmas jumper you used to wear? The one our neighbor knitted for all of us, but your snowmen looked like two giant dicks?”

She had to bring it up. That jumper still gives me the chills, yet my mom insists on keeping the photos of me posing in front of our barely decorated tree. The snowmen did look like two giant dicks. The neighbor absolutely had dickon her mind when she was knitting that piece of shit.

“Point taken. Where to now?”

“It’s a surprise... you’ll love it.”

* * *

The bar’s full of people, but it’s expected for Saturday night in LA. There are groups who have empty glasses littering their tables, laughing heavily as their waiter brings a fresh round. There are a few couples who are keeping quiet but engaging in conversation. The music’s loud and streaming through the giant speakers—an R&B remix with some ‘Country Grammar’ to start it off.

There’s one small table available in the middle. We maneuver our way through the crowd, quickly securing the table which remains dirty with used glasses. The bar stools are high, giving us an advantage and bringing us to eye level with those dancing.

Aside from the dirty glasses, there’s a menu in the middle of the table. I’m starving and can’t wait to order then I realize it’s a menu of songs—karaoke songs.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I pull the song list out of her hands, demanding she think of something else to do.

“We need more booze. Loosen your panties mister because karaoke is fun. It’s something I neverget to do. Look at all these people,” she lowers her voice while leaning in, “They have no clue who we are. We can do anything we want.”

Emmy has a point, not one person has recognized us so far. Everywhere you turn, someone has a phone out taking selfies or photographs of their friends.

“But it involves singing,” I complain.

“Please?” Pouting her lips, and with eyes wide begging without shame, I finally give in.

“Fine. But stop giving me the puppy-dog look. Order a round of drinks so I can gear myself up, and don’t pull any girly shit out like Abba or something.”

She whistles for the bartender, looking terribly pleased with herself when he comes over quickly. I can’t hear what she’s ordering but it doesn’t matter. I’ll drink whatever to lessen the embarrassing performance which is about to happen.

“All right…” she raises her cocktail and presents her toast, “… to fun times. Let’s go wild and live life to the fullest, if only for tonight.”

We clink glasses, the both of us drinking it in one hit.

“Damn, woman...” I almost choke back the burn, “… you could drink me under the table.”

“I could also fuck you under the table,” she suggests with a straight face. “Or both.”

I fucking love her boldness. Never wanting to admit to her that her smart mouth challenges me like no other woman has. When Emerson Chase comes out to play, you better have your A-game on because she never, ever, backs down.

I lean forward, bringing my face close to hers. “You’re a fucking tease. Always have been.”

“Whatever.” She grins, pushing another glass in front of me. Does she want me to be legless tomorrow? I can hold a decent amount of alcohol but I’ve started to feel the effects. “You never look at me that way.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, yeah… like when?”

“Graduation day,” I tell her. “You wore this pink dress underneath your gown. When the strap of your shoe came undone you leaned forward to fix it. I saw your white lace panties peeking through.”

She laughs, her beautiful smile unable to hide. “So, you caught a peek at my panties? You really were deprived.”

“You were bare.”

“Was I? I don’t remember.”

“I do.” Raising my glass to my mouth, I hide my smirk. “I wanted to fucking eat it.”

Her laughter slows down, becoming serious with heavy pants. Mirroring my moves, she hides behind her glass while gazing at me longingly. I want to kiss her mouth, tease her lips with my tongue and fucking taste her. Beneath my shorts my dick rages hard because all it wants is her.

“Is it hot in here?” She fans herself with a napkin, breaking my gaze.

“You tell me.” I graze her arm with my fingers. “How wet are you?”

Her foot travels up my leg, resting in between on my crotch. She pushes against my cock, hard. My body jerks forward at how sensitive it is to her touch. When I see her bite down on her lip, I’m ready to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her senseless in the restroom.

“Jane Smith…” The name is called, Emerson pulls away reluctantly.

“Okay, I’m up next. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” I force a smile, not being too sure this is the greatest plan in the world.

For one—I can’t sing.

And two—I hate singing.

Karaoke bars are for the brave. Those willing to make an absolute fool out of themselves and continue to go back for more. That, and everyone will be able see my cock standing proud because I have no chance of taming this wild boy.

She happily makes her way onto the small stage. With microphone in hand, she sways slightly, unable to contain her energy. “This performance is dedicated to all the women in the room that just want to be free. Screw men... we don’t need them.”

There’s a loud cheer from the crowd—mainly women, of course. Some of whom turn to look at me wondering why she’d say that if I’m her boyfriend, or they’ve spotted the fake mustache which isn’t hard to do. I find myself sinking into the seat, taking the remaining glasses with me and downing them in one go.

The music begins and I don’t recognize the song until the fourth line. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she sings loudly, drawing the crowd in. “And don’t tell me what to say...”

The fire in her tune makes her belt out the song in a pleasant voice. I didn’t think she could sing this well. Why haven’t I noticed before? It makes me feel like there are so many things about Emmy I’ve never noticed before or, at least, ignored because I didn’t think of her in any way besides being Ash’s annoying twin sister.

Things like, how she twists the ends of her hair when she’s telling a story, or how when she laughs her eyes light up and you find yourself smiling even if the story isn’t funny. How she crosses her legs and tucks her foot behind her leg, and how when she leans forward the view of her tits is fucking magical.

The song wraps up and she receives a standing ovation. People yell “Girl Power,” and fist-pump the air. On her way back to the table women stop her and give her a hug—an odd sentiment from a stranger. She lingers and gets caught in conversation enjoying her newfound freedom as a nobody.

I stand up, clapping my hands as she walks back while I notice the sweat glistening against her pale skin. Fanning her face again with a napkin, she can’t hide the smile while trying to catch her breath.

“You were amazing. Too amazing. I think they all think I’m the douche you need to dump. Who needs dick? Girl power all the way.”

She clutches her stomach, laughing. “That was so...” I wait for her to finish, realizing her smile begins to disappear and worry lines cloud her beautiful face. “I felt free.”

I pull on her hand, motioning for her to sit down. This mood shift annoys the fuck out of me. One minute she’s Miss Confident and the next she’s controlled by that fucking moron, Wesley Rich. I saw it in the limo the way he manipulates her, and she justifies it by saying it’s all for the cameras. Their relationship is nothing like mine and Louisa’s.

Fuck, don’t even think about her now.

You can’t compare Emmy and Louisa.

“Why do you constantly remind yourself that you’re trapped? What’s a piece of paper, Emmy? A contract means nothing if you’re unhappy. I don’t fucking get it.”

“Out of all people, Logan, you should understand. Your life revolves around your name signed on the dotted line. You’re bound, legally, to the Royal Kings. Imagine if your coach started treating you like shit and you had no way of getting out?”

“He does treat me like shit. I just suck it up,” I tell her, firmly. “The difference is, that I want to play. I wouldn’t know how to exist without my name on the dotted line.”

“Well, lucky you.” Her sarcasm becomes bitter. “Why can’t we all live like Logan Carrington?”

I remind her to keep her voice down, the mere mention of my name could alert people to our presence. The last thing we need is to be caught out.

“This is who I’ve become. I’m not like you and Ash, I don’t have a passion that is my reason for living. I wake up every morning thinking what have I gotten myself into? The fame and money got to me.”

“It did,” I admit.

“I was like the popular kid in school except with a ton of money. Somehow I got caught up in being bigger than the rest of them.”

“You are.”

“Will you stop agreeing with me?” she complains, disappointed the glasses are empty when she checks each one.

“You want the cold, hard truth?”

“Maybe... I don’t know.”

“You have changed. You’re not the same, and the fame did get to your head. But it’s gotten to me, too, and to Ash. We’re no longer kids from Green Meadows. People depend on us.” I maintain my focus on her, trying to make some sense with what I’m attempting to get at. “If this isn’t the life for you then move on. Tell the network you’re done and move out of your apartment. Why you’re still with him is beyond me.”

My last comment only riles me up further. My blood is pumping furiously as I’m reminded how after tonight we’ll go our separate ways and her direction is toward someone else’s dick. Maybe it’s an unfair assumption, but it still fucking pisses me off that she goes home to him despite what excuse she lays on me.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“Yeah,” I drag, leaning back on my chair.

“I’m sorry, Logan.” She straightens her posture. “How about you get up and sing now?”

“About that...” I attempt to think of a valid excuse. “How about we mark this as an IOU?”

“That never works,” she huffs. “You used to do that in Monopoly until you were so broke you had nothing left, and still forced us to play because you thought you could make a comeback.”

I smile, purposely playing with my mustache to annoy her. “Would a man with a mustache make false promises?”

She laughs, tossing her hair to the side and leaning forward. “A man with a mustache is a sign of false promises, but I’ll believe you... on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We ditch this place and find something else fun to do.”

I smile. “Deal.”

* * *

On the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue, we cross the lights and follow the stars embedded in the pavement. I’ve visited this place a few times but don’t see the big deal. The street’s full of tourists who are snapping away as they capture this once-in-a-lifetime moment. They’re rowdy and loud for being so late at night. Aside from taking pictures, a few homeless people walk up and down the pavement talking to themselves, and a few begging for money. I reach out of my wallet and pull out a few bills, handing it to an older lady with a shopping cart and a half-knitted hat.

“You know she’ll probably spend that on a bottle of Jack?” Emmy tells me.

“Well, so be it. If it makes her happy then let her live for one night.”

In front of the Chinese Theatre, we both notice a few paparazzi lingering near the street post. Emmy pulls my arm, looking left and right before crossing the street and dragging me with her. When our feet hit the footpath, she turns to me with fire in her eyes and asks, “What name suits a man with a mustache?”

“Huh?”

“Burt,” she says confusing me even further.

Her hand is buried in mine—the touch of her skin electrifying me though I try to ignore the way it’s igniting my whole body.

Emmy leads me to where the paparazzi stand and begins talking to them. “Hi. You look like you can take a great photo.” She smiles innocently. “My husband Burt and I would love a photo just there in front of the Theatre. Would you mind taking one for us?”

He shrugs, barely speaking a word as he takes the phone from Emmy’s hand. What the fuck is she doing? Has she seriously asked the paparazzi to snap a photo of us? Why the hell does she always want to play with fire?

We both walk to the spot she mentioned.

A few smiles and it’s over—no biggie.

“Turn around, Burt,” she whispers.

I spin around without thinking. The palms of her hands grace my cheeks, pulling them down until our lips are touching. I should be shocked. But instead, I move my tongue against hers as if I’ve waited a whole lifetime to kiss her. Even with the mustache in the way, the sensations which barrel through me are foreign. I’ve kissed many women in my lifetime, but none that make me question my entire life as much as this moment.

It could be seconds, yet it feels longer. Her tongue pressuring mine in a forceful wrestle that leaves my cock stirring inside my pants.

Fuck.We shouldn’t be doing this.

I pull back, holding her arms at bay. “Emmy, we can’t do this. Look around…” I motion my eyes to the paparazzi who begin walking toward us, phone in hand and looking equally annoyed for taking up his precious time.

She takes it from him, giving thanks before opening her mouth. “Just live a little, Burt. I bet all you do is play soccer then go home and watch porn, then wake up and play more soccer.”

Confused by her mention of porn, I furrow my brows and purse my lips waiting on a further explanation which never eventuates.

“Yeah, I live and breathe soccer. I do watch porn on occasion but the real thing is much better.”

“And, I bet you don’t have time for relationships?” She stands tall, straightening her posture as if she has a hidden agenda.

“What’s your point, Chase?” I ask, annoyed.

“We’ve always had fun together even when we hated each other, right?”

I nod, waiting for her to continue.

“So, let’s have fun, Burt. No strings attached, I promise. I don’t need strings... trust me. I just don’t want to think about anything but the moment I’m living in, and if you happen to be there... well, then hip hip, hooray.”

“You want to have fun without strings?” I repeat. “Is that what you’re saying?”

This time, she smiles. “Yep.”

In a lifetime full of propositions, I’ve never expected Emerson Chase to propose something like this. She’s hurting, drunk on revenge, and out to make Wesley’s life equally painful. I know that, I’m not stupid. I’m the pawn in her game and when she’s done playing, I’ll be on the sideline watching her live her life with someone else.

I need her. Regardless of her conditions.

Keep the emotions away, take what you want, and reap the benefits from the scorned.

“On one condition,” I tell her, plotting it out so I get what I want. “You stop calling me Burt… and this mustache needs to go.”

“Deal. But it stays on until we’re back at your hotel.”

“Hotel...” I repeat, caught off guard.

Running her hands along the front buttons of my shirt, she looks up at me with fire in her eyes. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough, and maybe I underestimate your ability to read between the lines, Carrington…” She pauses, lowering her voice. “Sex. Fucking. That’s what I’m talking about. Are you in?”

She wants me as much as I want her.

There are no more questions, no more rules, no more anything.

I’m in—all in.