33. Scarlet

THIRTY-THREE

SCARLET

"Okay, here are the rules," Reeves announces, plopping into one of the Adirondack chairs we have arranged around the firepit in the backyard. The gaping holes from where the sleeves used to be on his shirt expose most of his rich umber chest. Scratching at his beard, his full lips smile around his beer as he pulls a swig from it. Then rubbing the condensation into his hands, he explains, "It's like The Newlywed Game except instead of couples, everyone is playing as individuals. So when a question is asked, instead of answering for your partner, you'll answer for everyone playing, giving you a possible total of forty points per question.

"There's three rounds of questions with each round becoming more… intimate," he giddily enunciates, holding up the corresponding number of fingers as my dad adds Remington's name to the family scoreboard he and Roman brought out to the mountains. Spreading out his sweatpant covered legs, his body dwarfing the wooden chair, Reeves continues. "Round one, answers are worth ten points. Round two, fifty points. And three, one hundred points. At the end of each round, the player with the lowest score will be knocked out. If you choose, you can refuse to answer or hear an answer one time without incurring a penalty. Any more than that and you'll be forced to take zero points for the question regardless of if you answered currently for the other players.

"At the end of the game, points translate to dollars with each losing player paying their portion of the winner's score to the pot. So if I scored 300 points off of Colt?—"

"You wish," I snort around the glass mouth of the beer Remi and I are sharing as I settle onto his lap, my bare legs stretching out from under his sweatshirt to drape over the chair's armrest.

"Pssh, it could happen."

"Yeah, and Dallas could win the World Series," Roman quips, popping the top on a Dr. Pepper. "Just because something is possible, doesn't make it probable."

"Is Skip," Remington starts to ask, quickly amending to Colt when my dad raises an unamused eyebrow at him. "Is Colt the reigning champion of Game Night or somethin'?"

"Better," Dad says, sitting back in his own chair, stretching so his unzipped hoodie flutters open to show off the two lines of tattoos he has between his left ribs. The first is the date and time down to the second of when I was born. Underneath that is the second one, stylized to be a perfect match to the first but with two dates and times. One for when we met Roman and first brought him home with us and the second is when the courts officially declared our dad as his foster parent five months later. "No, I usually take the forfeit by the time round three comes up. Reeves is just that bad at this game."

Vehemently shaking his head, Reeves declares, "Not tonight. There's fresh meat at the table. I'm looking at a solid hold on fourth place."

"Funny, that's what you usually place when we play," Dad laughs. Using his beer to point at Remington he offers, "As the aforementioned fresh meat, you get to pick from the bowl first. Pink slips are round one, blue two, and purple three. You'll need to have your own answer written down as well as an answer for everyone else here before the timer goes off."

"Wait, what about the pot?"

"It's the ultimate prize and bragging rights for the next year," Roman answers, popping a deviled egg into his mouth, somehow still hungry after the massive dinner Remington made for Thanksgiving.

"Each Game Night, all the points the winner earns translates to money. They get to keep 10% and the other 90 goes into an account. On New Year's Eve, we do a massive marathon of all the games we've played through the year, which usually ends up doubling the pot by midnight. When the new year hits, whoever has the highest score, which we keep track of on the scoreboard," I say, gesturing to the displayed chalkboard that now has my fiancé's name on it right below Reeves's, "takes the entire thing."

"Okay," Remi slowly responds, biting into a mini pecan pie. "Why do I have points beside my name already?"

Pausing as I bring the bottle to my lips, I look at my dad.

"Not me," he answers, eyes turning across the fire to my brother.

Glancing around as we all stare at him, Roman lowers his soda and asks, "What?"

"Nothing," I smile, getting up from Remington's lap.

Slowly making my way over, Roman shoots up from his chair and puts it between us as he warns, "Squeaks…"

"Ro-Boat…"

"No, uh-uh. You're not making this into something."

Following every attempt he makes to put distance between us, I sing-song, "You like him. You really, really like him."

"Fuck no," he responds, eyes darting every which way. "I'm tolerating him. Completely different."

Smiling even wider, I taunt, "Yeah you do. You like my fiancé. Admit it."

"Over my dead body. I simply pointed out that it wasn't fair for him to join eleven months into the year because, unless he wins every game from now until New Year's, he's all but guaranteed last place."

"So you and Reeves and Dad all spotted Remington and it was your idea."

"Don't look so smug, Squeaks. We made you spot him too."

"That's okay," I assure, feigning to the right. The moment Roman darts to the left, I charge, tackling him with a hug. Arms locked around him, I look up and murmur, "Thank you," squeezing him even tighter as he grumbles, "You're welcome," hugging me back and kissing my head.

"Love you, Ro-Boat."

Ruffling my hair, he returns, "Love you too, Squeaks," before squatting to lift me up and throw me over his shoulder, a high pitched squeal leaving me as the world flips over. Walking back to the circle, my brother taking great care to make sure I'm jostled with every step, Roman stops in front of Remi and says, "I believe this is yours," unceremoniously dropping me like a sack of potatoes onto the dormant grass much to the amusement of everyone else.

"She most definitely is," he answers, helping me up and brushing the dried earth off of me. As I settle back in his lap, he asks, "So how long do we get to answer for everyone?"

"Sixty seconds," Dad answers, already reaching for the start button on his phone's timer.

Scrambling for his marker, Remi swears, "Shit," before uncapping it with his teeth, tip poised just above the white board. "Okay, I'm ready. First question: ‘who was your first celebrity crush?' Well I'm gettin' at least ten points so the round won't be a total shutout."

"Fucking cheaters!" I yell, grabbing one of the mini pies and lobbing it at Reeves while Dad and Roman laugh so hard they're wheezing and Remi furiously writes his answers on his board, his stupid lips quirking up in a smile as his chest rumbles with suppressed laughter.

Catching the pie and savagely sinking his teeth into it while he grins, Reeves says, "After playing Beat Shazam in August, you're up by more than 5,000 points. I'm just trying to level the playing field for everyone else."

"You're the worst," I grumble, putting my marker to my board and beginning to write out my answers.

I'm scribbling my final answer as the timer goes off, the name of my dad's celebrity crush nearly illegible in my haste to finish.

"Markers down," Dad calls out, looking like the damn Cheshire Cat as he drums his fingers on the back of the board. "Remington, it was your question so you go first."

Combing his fingers through my hair, Remi checks, "Just to be sure, I'm assuming no one here will let it fly if I say, Scar."

"Not a chance in hell, lover boy," my dad confirms.

"That's what I thought," he nods. "So I changed my answer to Elle Woods," turning his board around so we can see.

"That's a character!" Roman argues while I wiggle a little victory shimmy in Remington's lap. With a check by my correct answer, I hum, "How's the cheating working out for you, Reeves-e's?"

Not giving up on his challenge, Roman repeats, "She's a character; she shouldn't count!"

"Elle Woods, really?" Reeves asks, hands on the board and chin on his hands as his head bobs from side to side.

"Yeah. I was like seven or somethin' when it came out. My ma had a Blockbuster coupon for a free new release rental, and she got that. It was love at first sight for me seeing Reese Witherspoon in that pink dress and heels. I guess you can say I've always had a thing for highly intelligent, kind hearted blondes."

Surly over the answer counting, Roman interjects, "Okay, okay, we get it," motioning for things to speed along. "Tate's perfect for Squeaks. He's basically spent his whole life preparing for her, and she's been in love with him for like seven years." Then smiling like the Devil himself, he prompts, "Scarlet, your answer."

Sticking my tongue out at him, I mutter, "Remington Tate," waving off my family's boisterous laughter as everyone, Remi included, check off their earned points.

With his lips in my hair, he whispers "I like that I don't have to share your attention with anyone, even a celebrity. Every single piece of you is all for me."

"Are you getting possessive over me, Remi?" I tease.

"Oh baby girl, I'm long past the gettin' stage and full on there," he practically growls, kissing me.

Just as our lips touch, the area we're gathered around grows even brighter for a moment before evening back out to the warm glow of the fire. Separating and looking around our circle, I see Reeves grinning like a fool at his phone.

"Y'all were too cute to pass up," he coos before my phone dings with an incoming message.

Picking it up from the table, I open his text to examine the photo he took. With the fire dancing up in front of us, we're in bright relief in comparison to the shadowy backdrop of mountains and the star filled sky. Though our faces aren't entirely visible, the blonde of my hair and the stack of modified championship rings on my right hand as I touch Remington's cheek are as unmistakable as the bright white number 8 on my back.

Though the photos taken of us while at the Cornucopia Festival made the answer to the nature of our relationship pretty clear, I show Remi and ask, "Can I post it?" since we've never actually talked about just how much we're going to let the world in once we return to Nashville full time.

"Only if you tag me in it."

"And share," Reeves says proudly, a notification banner for Instagram coming down across the top of my screen.

"Reeves!"

"What? He agreed and I wanted credit for my awesome photography skills," he replies, pocketing his phone.

Opening up the app, I read, "‘@s.jones41st and @remington.tate8 out here making the world believe that fairy tales and happily ever afters do exist.'

"Reeves-e's, you're gonna make me cry. Why are you such an asshat when you can be so sweet?" Accepting the collaboration invitation and sharing the full picture to my Stories, I tag Remington so his handle is scrawled across the bottom of his number and promptly shut off my notifications as the heart in the upper corner begins to rapidly ping with likes and comments. Then, as if I'm not trying to determine where in our Brentwood home this photo would best be displayed, I say, "Ro, you're up, but we all know the answer is Emilia Clarke, Reeves, Emma Watson, and Dad, Carrie Underwood. What's everyone's tally?"

"30," my dad, Roman, and Reeves all answer with Remington proudly showing his board and saying, "20," having gotten mine and my dad's answers correct.

Reaching for the bowl, I flip my board around so they can confirm my points as I say, "40," while trying to psychically search out the best slip of pink paper. Finally picking one after passing over four or five others, I read, "‘What would each player say would be their career path if not doing their current job?'

"Damn it," I huff, dropping the paper into the fire. "I'm so getting y'all back for this."

While I'm writing my answers and best guesses for everyone else, Remington moves the hand from my leg up to wrap around my hip and anchor me to him as he adjusts to spread his legs out further. Brushing loose strands back from my face that the fall breeze keeps blowing forward, his fingers drift to the nape of my neck where he starts to rub at the tension filled spots, coaxing my shoulders down.

"Did you always want to be an athletic trainer?" he quietly asks as the line for my answer remains blank.

Resigned to the free points I'm about to give everyone, I snap the marker to the top of the board and answer, "More like, I always wanted to work for the team and have a job where I could breathe in the smell of the grass and dirt, the leather and wood varnish, the smells of all my childhood memories.

"As a girl, the most obvious answer would have been a job in the front office, but I wanted to be a part of the game, get to continue to travel with the players, feel the contagious energy of the crowd. A desk job wasn't gonna give me that, at least not with any sort of regular consistency.

"Very briefly I thought about pursuing coaching, pitching specifically for obvious reasons," I chuckle, gesturing to my dad and Roman. "But you know that's exceedingly difficult to get into these days without professional time on the mound or behind the plate, and while I love the game, it's the mechanics and strategy as well as player maintenance that I'm obsessed with.

"I spent all of the 2015 season shadowing everyone from coaches to photographers who worked for the team down on the field and in the dugout. It was Jennings who helped me realize exactly where my place would be though. He was still a mid-level trainer at the time, but after the first few days following him around, I knew he was right, and ever since then, he's been mentoring me."

"Molding you," Roman corrects. "He hasn't been quiet about the fact he wants to retire and move to teaching since Mrs. Layla got pregnant."

"And now that Hunter's here and he's getting showered with baby snuggles and inhaling that precious newborn smell, he's acting on it," Dad says, looking a little wistful. "Even with the sleepless nights and exploding diapers, those were some of the best days, and they went far too fast. Rushing off the mound during evening games so I could snatch you back from Marcia and do your dream feeding… the little coos you would make while you guzzled your bottle… naps with you on my chest and having your bassinet attached to the bed for co-sleeping.

"That stage, all the stages, go too fast. He's not gonna want to miss any more of it than he absolutely has to. And with you at his side, he'll get to be there for quite a lot. But mark my words, he's not waiting ten years to transition over to teaching. I give it five, tops. And that's only because that's how many years of licensed experience you'll need before he can hand his job over to you."

"You're only saying that because I'm your daughter," I deflect, tucking my hair behind my ear as I look down at where a small bit of ash is floating down to the dormant grass, it's blazing orange hue rapidly fading as it's assaulted by the cool air.

"He's saying it because you're the best," Remington murmurs at my neck, kissing where it slopes and is swallowed by his sweatshirt.

"You said I was coddling you."

I can feel his lips pull up in a smirk against my skin as he says, "You were, but now you kick my butt every freakin' day. I don't know if I've ever been this perpetually sore in my life."

"Are you sure it's from the conditioning and not all the sex?" I ask, slapping both hands over my mouth when I realize just how loud my response was, Reeves laughing so hard, the giant jester tips over in his chair.

"And on that note," Dad says, grabbing his beer and plate of deviled eggs as he stands up, "I'm going to bed." Going around first to Reeves and helping him up before warning with a hug, "Don't even think about repeating what she said," then to Roman giving him a hug and kiss on his head, murmuring, "Night, son," before stopping at Remi and me. "You two," he instructs, using the bottle to gesture between us. "Contraceptives are our friends. Use them. "

"Says the teenage father in the group," Reeves quips.

"Which is exactly why I'm a subject matter expert." Balancing his plate and beer on our chair, he adds, "I'm also an expert in the field of, They're Not Always Effective. Hence my sweet princess, here," cupping my face and squishing my cheeks together. Kissing the crown of my head, he says, "Love you, Scarlet. Sweet dreams." Then letting me go, he takes Remington's hand and nods, "You too, Tate," and Winnie scrambles up from her bed to follow my dad, or more accurately his plate, back into the house.

Even with my dad gone to his room for the night, we finished out the game with the final round coming down to Remington and Roman a little over an hour later. Reeves, per usual, was the first knocked out due to points. At the end of round two, I joined him, Remington having beaten me out by a single question. And in the final round, my brother tapped out on two questions back to back using up his pass and having to take the zero because he adamantly did not want to know if Remington favored domination or submission or even guess at the one kink that would be a deal breaker if his partner wasn't into it.

With a hug that lifts me off the ground and nearly breaks my back it's so fierce, I say good night to Reeves while Remi removes the doused ashes from the firepit. Setting me down, he instructs, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Sugar," giving me a conspiratorial wink.

"Which is nothing," Roman says, playfully shoving him to the side. "So how about this: Squeaks, we leave Sunday; cool it until we're about twenty minutes down the road, yeah? Maybe forty-five."

"Uh, no," I reply definitively. "I lived with you two for over a year. Consider yourselves lucky that I'm foregoing any sort of revenge and will keep things contained to our bedroom and since we don't share any walls, you won't be able to hear us. At least not too much. I get pretty loud when?—"

"Okay," Remi interrupts, clapping his hand over my mouth and pulling my back into his front. When I start trying to nip at his palm, he quietly growls, "Keep at it, baby. You're already gonna be beggin' to finish tonight as it is," before picking me up and announcing, "See y'all in the morning."

Looking over his shoulder, I wave at Roman and call, "Night, Ro-Boat; love you!"

"Hate you!" he returns before making a heart with his hands.

Once upstairs, Remington sets me down on the bed with a soft bounce. Ripping his sweatshirt and my tank over my head, he gruffly says along my shoulder, "You've been squirming on my dick all night long, and I've lost about every thread of patience and restraint I possess waitin' for when I could get back inside your sweet pussy," licking the lifted swell of my breast before undoing my bra.

"Sorry, Daddy," I offer, though the smile trying to pull at my lips says I'm anything but.

Raising an eyebrow, he pinches my nipple until I gasp.

"Do you think teasing me is fun, baby girl?"

When I don't answer fast enough, he flips me around so my legs are forced to stand, the upper half of my body stretched over the bed.

"Well," he muses, "Let's see how you like it," his hand cracking down on my ass, the impact jiggling the muscle.

An unsolicited moan of "Yes," is drawn out of me and quickly followed by a plea for more which he provides, spanking the other cheek then the curve where my butt meets the top of my thighs.

Stopping to sooth the blooming heat that's spreading across my backside, its warmth echoing inside me as my panties grow damp and sticky, he ponders, "Do you think you can last for an hour without coming or begging for my cock?"

I know the answer is an emphatic no. Hell fucking no, if I'm being honest with myself. There's an intoxicating rush of power that comes from knowing that without even trying, I've made him absolutely feral for me. It has me already wet and needy, and he's barely even touched me. Still, unable to admit the truth we both know, I challenge, "Do your worst," biting the duvet to smother my shouts as another quick series of spanks rains down around my butt and thighs.