Love Sex & Other Games: Part 1 (2 page)

“I don’t remember,” I finally say.

He laughs, his canines shimmering in the overhead light as he throws his head back and that makes me laugh with him. But our humor soon fades as he returns his attention to me in my bridesmaid dress and the sadness looms in his gaze.

“I fucked up pretty bad in there, didn’t I?” His voice is low, raspy, and so sad. My belly tightens. Due to our age difference, Cooper and I have never been close, but I’ve known him my entire life. I hate that he’s unhappy. And I hate that I know precisely how he feels.

“No, it’s all good,” I deadpan. “I don’t think anyone noticed.”

That makes him laugh again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I murmur softly.

He shifts, giving me his full attention, though I only see
him
from my peripheral, unable to face him while I say what I need to say.

“I think you have to since I spilled my guts all over the floor back there. People are probably stomping them to pieces as we speak.”

I nod, I’m not sure why. Maybe because I get the metaphor. Because I can commiserate.

My chest expands as I pull in a deep breath, and when I release it, it’s with an admission. “I’ve been in love with Miles since I was ten years old. Deeply, hopelessly,
madly
in love,” I add, parroting his speech.

He doesn’t respond for several long seconds. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. My pulse throbbing in my throat. Heat creeps up my neck and settles onto my cheeks. I cannot believe I just admitted I’m in love with his brother. With my sister’s husband. My brother-in-law. God.
He’s my brother-in-law
.

Cooper’s fingers slide slowly, gently, over my hot cheek and down my neck to my racing pulse point. He lingers at my collarbone before dropping his hand back to his side.

“We’re a sorry-ass bunch, aren’t we?”

“Pathetic,” I agree.

“You can’t help who you love, Em.” Em. He called me Em. He pries the whiskey from my fingers and finishes off the bottle, then tosses it into the bushes. “All you can do is try your damndest to find what makes you happy. Find it, hold on to it, and do the best you can to move forward.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” I hear the doubt in my voice, because, I mean, come on. He wouldn’t drink his weight in alcohol if he were.

He shakes his head, his eyes full of pain. I don’t know how I couldn’t see it before now. It’s so obvious. Cooper Fitzpatrick is in agony, plain and simple, and he has been for years. Just like me.

“No.” He shrugs his thick shoulders. “I can’t seem to find anything that makes me happy.”

THE DICK PIC

Cooper

“We still meeting at Feeney’s?” I ask Dante on the other end of my work phone. “I haven’t seen my cell since my brother’s wedding.” Or as I like to refer to it,
The Night I Went to Hell
. “I wanted to check in and make sure nothing came up.”

Dante and I met back in college, both taking business courses. He used his degree to open a tattoo shop. I used mine to climb the corporate ladder. Though our lives have taken very different paths, he’s still one of my closest friends. We meet up the last Friday of every month to catch up and let off steam.

“No, we’re good. I’m almost finished for the day. Sucks balls about your phone.”

“I ordered a new one. Should be here Monday, but I’ve felt naked without it all week.”

“I can imagine, man. Like, how do you live without Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat?” he mocks.

“It’s probably been a blessing after the shit I pulled Saturday.”

“I’m sorry I missed that. I need the deets tonight. You going to be on time for once?”

“Yep, I’m heading home now to shower. I should be there by seven.”

“Perfect. See you then. Oh, and Coop?”

“Yeah?” I say, distracted by the email I’m attempting to return. It’s for an important client and I don’t want it to wait the weekend, especially without my cell.

“I’m bringing you a present.” He hangs up before I can respond. A present from Dante can range anywhere from a permanent marker drawing of dick and balls on my forehead after a drunken night, to an unwanted tattoo of dick and balls on my asscheek after a passed-out-shitfaced drunken night, all the way over to a stripper for my birthday.

I’m not too worried about another set of dick and balls—once he branded my skin for life, Dante seemed to lose interest. But for as often as he gives me shit about remaining single at twenty-five, a surprise hooker isn’t exactly out of the question.

The last woman I slept with was Leslie. When a guy’s three sheets to the wind, lonely, and looking to get laid, a pussy is a pussy, but even I need a palate cleanser. That girl is Satan in heels. I barely recall the sex, not that I’m saying it wasn’t worth it—no, never mind, that’s exactly what I’m saying. No amount of orgasms is worth being indebted to Satan.

At this point, a hooker doesn’t sound too bad.

~*~

So, not a prostitute. At least, I don’t think so.

A fucking double date. No, worse. A blind double date.

“Cooper,” Dante says, standing up from the table and clapping his palm onto my shoulder. He squeezes hard, either in apology or telling me to behave. “This is Alisha.” He gestures to one of the two women seated beside each other. She’s not at all what I was expecting when he mentioned he’d been seeing someone. Dante usually goes for the tatted-up rocker-chick type. This girl looks soft and sweet and I don’t see a single tattoo on her.

I extend my hand to shake and offer her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. Dante’s told us a lot about you.”

Right.
Us
. I glance at the woman next to her and Dante launches into more introductions.

“And this is Mattie. With double T’s, not double D’s.” He chuckles. “Although, I mean, they don’t look bigger than double C’s to me.”

Okay, the shoulder clasp was an apology—he’s not behaving. So what’s wrong with her?

“It wasn’t funny the first time you made that joke, even lesser so now,” Mattie with double T’s states. Dante just grins, unaffected by her response.

I thought it was funny.

And there it is. She doesn’t have a sense of humor, apparently. This is going to be so much fun. Insert sarcasm here.

I shake her hand as well and slide into one side of the rounded booth while Dante lowers himself into the other next to Alisha. I shoot him a look. He cringes and lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

I’ve been unknowingly and blindly set up with a woman who finds her phone more interesting than the people she’s with and doesn’t appear to know how to smile. If I weren’t in need of that palate cleansing, I’d leave Dante to deal with this shit himself.

At least she’s cute.

Fuck it.

“Mattie with two T’s?” I question, attempting to make conversation. “What’s that short for?”

“Matilda. I was named after my great grandmother.”

“Ah, okay.” I press my lips together, trying to find an easy segue to keep the conversation going, but I come up blank.

“Cooper is the Chief Logistics Officer at Mammoth Corporate America,” Dante calls.

I roll my eyes. “I’m CLO of Monmouth Industries.”

“What does a CLO do?” Alisha asks.

“Basically, I make sure everything gets ordered and delivered wherever it needs to go. It sounds boring, but I oversee a lot of departments, and the more you deal with, the higher the probability of something going wrong. It’s a lot of problem solving and juggling. Stressful as hell, but I love it.” I glance at Mattie. “What do you do?”

She lifts her head from her phone and gives the short answer. “I’m a personal shopper.”

Oh, her customers must be thrilled. I almost ask her to elaborate, but her eyes fall back to her screen, so I don’t bother. Maybe she does that personal shopping online and she’s actually at work right now. I consider asking her that too, just to point out she’s being rude. “We ready for drinks?” I ask instead.

“I am,” Dante announces. Damn right he is. His present sucks. I think I would have preferred another dick and balls tattoo.

At the bar, we place the orders and then I nut tap him. He hisses, doubling over, one hand clinging to the counter, the other holding his stomach.

“What the fuck, man?”

“I know,” he pants. “I’m sorry. Alisha said she was attractive and a little slutty, so I thought, you know, perfect fit. I didn’t know she was also an emotionless robot.”

“You’re a terrible friend. And fair warning: I plan to get drunk and completely ignore her the rest of the night.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “Actually,” he continues, “I’m about to make it up to you.”

I cock a brow, scooping up my shot and tossing it back as soon as the bartender sets it in front of me. “How?”

“Emerson Metz just text me.” He smiles, holding up his beer and tapping it to mine. “She has your cell phone.”

The mention of her name makes my gut twist. Because the mention of her name automatically makes me think of Rosie. And Rosie makes me think of everything I don’t have—will never have. And all of that makes me think of the ginormous jackass I made of myself last weekend. I clear my throat and try to feel the relief I know should be consuming me. I have so much information on that phone. It should be a weight lifted to know it’s in good hands.

“How did she have your number?” They know each other only by mutual acquaintance—me. They aren’t friends.

“I have no idea,” Dante answers. “Probably got it out of your phone.” He takes a long pull on his drink and glances over his shoulder. “We should probably get back to our dates.”

“
Your
dates,” I correct. “I came here alone.”

We make our way through the crowd and find our table. Though I was hoping Mattie with two T’s had decided to take off while we were at the bar, I’m shit out of luck. She’s just as I left her, staring at her cell.

“Emerson’s just going to drop your phone off here,” Dante explains as he sets his phone on the table in front of him.

I swipe it up and glance through their exchange before texting her. I purposely don’t tell her it’s me, letting her believe she’s still talking to Dante.

Me: How did you get this number?

Her: Out of Cooper’s phone.

I feel my brows draw together.

Me: His phone is password protected. How did you get in?

Her: His phone is poorly password protected. It took me one try to get in.

I chuckle and lean back into the seat. She’s right. It is poorly protected, but it’s easy to remember my own birthday. I’ve used the same four-digit code for pretty much everything from my locker combination in high school to my bank pin to my phone password.

Me: Find anything good in his phone? Any incriminating photos?

Because I use my phone for work, I’m careful not to use it for anything that could bite me in the ass later. I don’t even look at porn on it—I use my home laptop for that. But I want to see just how much digging she did

Her: I didn’t think to look. I only opened his text messages and searched for a name I recognized. I didn’t want to accidentally stumble upon a dick pic.

I laugh out loud this time and Dante narrows his eyes, watching me.

Me: Why? I thought women loved those.

Her: Ew. Whoever told you that either dislikes you or women. Or both. All men should understand when a woman wants to see your cock, she will ask. Until then, keep it to yourself.

I twitch against my zipper at her use of the word cock. My brain has a hard time—no pun intended—connecting this version of Emerson with Rosie’s baby sister.

Me: So that’s a no to dick pics then?

Her: Did I ask for them?

Me: Not yet.

Her: It’s a no, but thanks anyway.

Me: Just an FYI, guys do not feel the same when it comes to pussy pics. We LOVE receiving them. It’s like Christmas.

Her: Who is this?

I’m not sure how to respond. It was fun when I was pretending to be Dante. It was like playing a game. But I’d never talk to Rosie’s little sister this way. Of course, neither would Dante, and she obviously knows this. I swallow down the rest of my beer and rub the back of my neck.

Dante plucks his phone out of my hand. I can see his eyes trail over the texts and he groans.

“Cooper, what the hell? She thinks this is me and you’re talking about sending her pictures of your dick?”

Alisha noticeably cringes. I’m sure I’ve made a great impression on her this evening. Dante’s fingers move over the keys quickly and I know he’s explaining and probably apologizing for me.

“Where were you even going with this?” he asks, not looking up from his message. “I think she would have realized pretty quickly it didn’t belong to me when a picture of your pasty man-meat showed up instead of my luscious chocolate schlong.”

I make a face at the imagery. “Don’t be racist,” I say instead of answering because I have no idea where I was going with those texts. It’s not like I’d have sent her a picture of my dick. Not on his phone anyway. “All cock matters.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly at me. “You’re going to hell in every faith—including atheism, you know that, right?”

I acknowledge him with a nod of my head. “I made reservations months ago.”

He laughs, but not at my comment, and hands me back the phone. There’s a close-up photo of a—Christ, I don’t even know what that is. Is that a diseased vagina? Dear God. There are lips—very wrinkly lips, and some hair—gray hair, and then… I gag and a little of my beer comes back up. A text follows just below.

Her: Merry Christmas, Coop.