The End Zone Page 7

  Just as I round the corner of the street, Chelsea’s blue Buick appears from the intersection. She stops in front of me with a screech and throws the passenger’s door open.

  “Need a getaway ride?”

  “That seems to be the reoccurring theme in my life right now.”

  I hop in, then I watch Amber’s disappearing figure through the side mirror as my heart finally returns to its usual rhythm.

  “More coffee stains?” Chelsea chuckles, her eyes scanning my blouse. I smile, avoiding the full story.

  “That’s right. I’m starting to believe they’re my sign for good luck.”

  Four days before Christmas Eve.

  “You ready?” I ask, staring at the mirror as I fasten my cufflinks. The crisp dress shirt is a Prada, and it’s weird to wear Prada. It’s weird to be able to afford Prada, and I constantly have to remind myself that this is a one-off. I bought this suit for the meeting I had with the Raiders in California because JoJo made me. She said I needed to dress the way I wanted to feel. Well, today I feel like I’m going to fulfill my dream and become a professional football player as of next spring.

  That’s one of two dreams down, one more to go.

  “Just a sec!” my girl calls out from the bathroom at the fancy hotel room. Even though I’ve known her ever since we were kids, there is a lot I’m finding out about her, now that we’re dating. Like how it takes her literally two hours to get ready to go out, even though she doesn’t need more than two minutes to get ready for school when we leave for campus every morning, or that she is really (ironically) horny when she’s on her period, which makes us hella creative in bed (I don’t mind a little blood on my sword), but she does. Or that she is not actually that sensitive or sweet when she has a reason not to be—like that time she came back home and told me how Amber goddamn tricked me into babying her. I still haven’t recovered from that shit.

  Wait, that’s not true. I totally did. But still. What an asshole that girl is.

  “Okay! Close your eyes,” she says. My tie is still loose around my neck, and I frown, turn around, lean a hip against the dresser, and shove my hands into my pockets.

  “All right. Let’s see it.”

  “That’s the whole point, Sage! You can’t see it! Eyes closed, remember?” she squeaks. Squeaks. I make her squeak these days. I never did that when we were friends. She also does a lot of huffing, especially when I ask her if we can have sex in insane places like the plane or the beach. I think she huffs to let me know that the idea is insane, but we still end up doing it all the same.

  “Yeah, yeah, eyes as closed as your legs this evening,” I mutter, squeezing my eyelids together.

  “That’s right, mister. No Christmas quickie in the bathroom.”

  I hear her voice getting closer, and my cock jerks in appreciation. He always liked pretty things, and she is gorgeous eye candy. My girl, with the Chucks and the strawberry blonde hair who is not afraid to run in the rain for me.

  “I’d like to negotiate this part.” I lick my lips, my eyes still closed. I feel her closer. Her heat. Her body. The clack of her heels, which I’ve yet to see.

  “I’m sorry. I do not negotiate with terrorists.”

  I smirk. “Oh, we’ll see about that by the end of the night.”

  “Open,” she says, close enough to me that I can smell her flowery perfume, but not so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. I open my eyes, and she is standing there in a long red dress with a deep slit that exposes a shapely, milky leg. The dress is all velvet, prompting me to want to touch it. To tear it. To fucking eat her out on the floor. But I still want my balls intact when we get to the gala at the Met. She’s wearing minimal makeup—other than her red-hot lips—and a pair of heels where the soles are red. The expensive stuff. What I urged her to buy when I signed the deal with the Raiders, same day I got my suit. Her scarlet lips twitch into a timid smile.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you look perfect, but there’s one thing that’s missing. Accessories. Turn around.”

  Her eyes widen, but she does as I ask. She turns around, and I open the drawer behind me and produce my gifts for her. I pull her hair up to put her necklace on. Nothing too fancy. A pink gold necklace with one lonely pearl. It takes me a few seconds to fasten it—this is not the movies. It’s real life, and my hands are shaking like a motherfucker.

  “Now back to me,” I say. My voice breaks. She turns around. Slowly. So slowly. Super slowly. Why is she so slow? Is this a sign? Shut up, asshole. Just do it.

  Very nonchalantly, like it’s not a big deal, like I’m not shitting myself, I slide the ring onto her engagement finger. Like the necklace, it is simple and elegant. Thin, with one diamond sparkling in the middle. Lonely and rare, just like my girl.

  I don’t ask; I state.

  Jolie Louis’ heart belongs to me. It will always belong to me. It belonged to me the minute she decided to open her rusty window and sneak out of her room to meet me, uninvited, but all the same needed.

  She looks down at the ring, and I expect her to frown, maybe ask a question, but no. She doesn’t do any of those things. She looks back up, smiles, and uses her newly adorned left hand to cup my face and pull me close.

  Outside, a storm is making the newspapers and trash on the streets of New York dance in circles. Inside, it’s warm. We kiss. Like friends. Like lovers. Like everything in-between.

  “I love you, angry boy,” she says, and I answer her with the only thing that pops into my head.

  “I love you, brave girl.”

  One Year Later

  On the eighth beat of silence, she finally opened her mouth.

  It was dry, and numb, and painful from smiling all day, but she wanted to utter these words, even if they were the last she’d ever say.

  “I, Jolie Alexandra Louis, take you, Sage Albert Poirier, to be my best friend, my faithful partner, and my one true love. You’ll be my storm in the summer, my calm under the winter sky, and all the seasons in-between. To have, to hold, to cherish, and to comfort.” She slid the ring with shaky fingers, their childhood tree standing in the background, wrapped in red and white sateen bows. It was a small ceremony, with only their beloved family members and college friends as witnesses. No matter how much of a superstar the boy grew up to be in his career with the Raiders, they were still the same kids from twelve years ago. Humble. Quiet. In love. In love. So, so in love.

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the priest said, his words trickling down the two lovers’ souls, melting like the wedding cake behind them on that hot summer day.

  On the eighth second after the girl vowed to give her all to the boy, the boy smirked and said, “Don’t have to tell me twice, sir.” He pulled the veil off of her face, cupped her cheeks, and kissed her so hard he stole her breath away.

  People bolted up from their seats, cheering, whistling, laughing, and living in the moment. The girl smiled, reminiscing back to the very first time she summoned the courage to follow the broken boy, to follow her instincts, to follow her heart, and to talk to him.

  Their lips moved together in a dance of love and lust. They knew the moves by heart.

  On the eighth minute after the ceremony was over, the girl sauntered across the carefully cut grass to her best friend, Chelsea, putting her hand on her shoulder. Chelsea turned around, her date—Mark, whom she was now engaged to—decided to make himself scarce, muttering his congratulations as he walked away. Sage appeared by his new bride’s side, his smile so big, it hit both women like a sunray.

  “What’s up?” Chelsea asked. She’d recently moved from Vancouver—where she lived with her fiancé—back to Louisiana, where they were both looking for jobs, eager to settle down.

  “What’s your schedule like in eight months?” the girl inquired, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. Chelsea lifted one eyebrow. Sage was on the verge of exploding from happiness. The girl moved her open palm across her white dress, sliding down her flat sto
mach.

  “Pretty clear. Why?” Chelsea probed.

  “Because you’re hired,” the girl said, as all three sets of eyes drifted down to her abdomen.

  The girl got a kiss on the lips from the boy who no longer howled at the moon and cried on a tree. On the forehead. Like friends do.

  Then he kissed her on the lips, like lovers do.

  Then he kissed the inside of her wrists, like soulmates do.

  The End (Zone)

  This year has been an incredible journey for me. My readers, fellow authors, agent, editors, and friends took me places I never thought I’d reach. So much so, in fact, that I didn’t want to end this year without giving my readers a treat.

  The End Zone was never supposed to happen. I don’t usually write novellas. I love evoking my readers’ different feelings and there’s nothing I enjoy more than slow-burn romances. At the same time, I felt like I needed to give you something sweet and cute for the holidays, and I hope I did just that.

  I would like to thank the following people from the bottom of my heart:

  My beta readers, Tijuana Turner, Mia Sparks, Lana Kart, and Paige Jennifer. Thank you so much for putting up with my crazy schedule and for your attention for detail. You make my books so, so much better.

  To my editors, Paige Smith and Tamara Mataya. I love our journey together. Your advice and guidance are everything an author could wish for and more. I am constantly honing my craft and you push me to my limits as I grow as an artist.

  To Letitia Hasser. Please don’t hate me. I know I don’t know what I want half the time, but if it makes you feel any better, you have to put up with it a few times a year. My husband needs to tolerate it three-four times a week at a restaurant or when we choose furniture! Imagine that.

  To my unicorn team—my amazing agent Kimberly Brower at Brower Literary, Sunny Borek, Ella Fox, Ava Harrison, my street team, and my formatter Stacey Ryan Blake. Thank you for being true professionals through and through. I am so, so lucky to have you.

  To the Sassy Sparrows—I love you! Thank you for brightening my day, every single day. Going through this journey with you is such a blessing.

  Last but not least—dear readers, thank you so much for making me what I am today. An author, an artist, and against all odds, someone who can stay at home and write for a living. I do not take that lightly. I will not let you down. There’s so much more to come, and I’m excited for all of it.

  I’m leaving you with a treat I’ve been wanting to share with you for so long—the first chapter of my next full-length, standalone, Midnight Blue. This novel has put me through the ringer and I cannot wait to give it to you. Hope you enjoy!

  Thank you,

  L.J. Shen xoxo

  “Mommy, can I have a cock?” My three-year-old daughter is staring at me with the intensity of a drama major, all big, crayon green eyes and molten gold locks like her father. I spray my coffee evenly between the morning newspaper, the iPad Sage got me last Christmas, and my usual uniform of yoga pants and flirty tank top.

  “Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at my little baby. My. Little. Baby. Let those words sink, Jolie. Who taught her that word? I think I’m going to throw up.

  “Yusss.” Elle hops up on the chair beside me at the breakfast table, making a show of spreading her arms wide before hugging an invisible cock to her chest. Okay. Now I’m definitely going to throw up. Side note: my child is very optimistic as to the size of cocks.

  “My friend Staci has one.” She clutches the invisible cock to her chest, nuzzling her nose against it.

  “Your friend Staci has a cock?”

  Elle nods. “And the cock has a wife. And soon they’ll have little, baby cocks.”

  “Oh. Ohhh. You mean that kind of cock.” My heart rate slows back to beats that don’t threaten to smash through my ribcage. I’m kind of embarrassed my mind drifted automatically to that place. Then again, I’ve been hornier than a unicorn recently. I pat my cheeks with my palms to cool them down and stand up to grab a dishtowel to clean the mess I’ve made.

  “What other kind of cock is there?”

  One day you’ll know, my child. But hopefully not before thirty.

  “I want all the cocks in the world. The mommy, the daddy, the kids…”

  “That could be arranged, if you’d only be so kind as to use another name for the family,” I mutter absentmindedly as I wipe off the fresh stains of coffee on the table. I tell Elle to go pick a pair of shoes ahead of her school day. I know it’s a task that will take her ten to fifteen minutes at the very least. Girl is Oscar-ready every time she sets foot in that pre-school.

  From that point on, I do everything on auto-pilot. Clean the breakfast table. Wash the dishes. Water the plants. Dump food inside Rebel’s bowl (he is our Yorkshire terrier, no need to call CPS). I bend down to pick up a stray Cheerio Elle must’ve tried to slam-dunk into Rebel’s bowl, when my world stops spinning on its axis and hangs over an abyss of darkness.

  The first word going through my mind is no.

  Followed by: Oh, hell no.

  The panic dribbles into my bloodstream in drops at first. Drip, drip, drip. But the trickle soon becomes a stream, and the terror turns to anger as I snatch the small thing from under Sage’s usual chair and stand up, feeling dizzy.

  A lipstick.

  A lipstick that’s not mine.

  The shade too red, too hot, too sexy for yours truly to actually consider buying. I wear neutral colored lip glosses in flirty shades with names like “Summer Rivers” and “Spring Break”. This is a full-blown Marilyn Monroe lipstick. What the hell is it doing here?

  It’s tempting me to spear a steak knife into my husband’s chest. That’s what it’s doing.

  I decide the best course of action is not, in fact, to call him during his training camp in Colorado and yell at him until every vocal cord in my throat tears apart. It is very early in the morning in California, but I know my mama in Louisiana is already up and going about her day. I dial her number, turning my back on Elle’s room so she won’t see her mommy crying. The tears are skating down my cheeks in fat, salty drops.

  How could he do this to me?

  Childhood friends. College sweethearts. Undeniable soulmates. Since we got together four years ago, we’ve been nothing but lovey-dovey. Call me a fool, but I never thought he’d cheat on me. It always seemed like he only had eyes for me.

  I moved to California for him.

  I said goodbye to my family for him.

  I turned my back on my dream to become a teacher so he could focus on his career.

  All.

  For.

  Him.

  “Hello? Honey pie?” Mama chirps and, just like that, my chest crumbles as I heave out a sob.

  “Sage is cheating on me,” the words tumble from my mouth, and I let all the anger and panic building inside me loose. It’s like a river now, no longer coming in trickling drips and drops. I’m mentally rummaging through the catalog of women we have coming into our house on a regular basis as I clutch the lipstick like a weapon. I have friends. Lots of them, actually. I invite them here frequently. But none of them wear a red lipstick. We usually chill in our Lululemons during playdates, drink wine, and try to keep all the children in one piece. Think less The Duchess of Cambridge and more Cameron Diaz leaving Equinox. Still cute, but in a non-threatening way.

  “Jolie…” Mama trails off, a mixture of shock and warning in her voice. “No, honey. There is just no way.”

  “There is, apparently. I found a stranger’s lipstick in my house. So tacky.”

  “Mommy?” Elle is standing at the door, holding onto her Hello Kitty rain jacket, with the ears on the hoodie and everything. “Why are you sad?”

  I wipe my eyes hurriedly, mentally maiming myself for not holding myself together longer, until I dropped her off. “I’m not sad, baby. I’m happy. We’re going to get you a chicken family.” I haven’t discussed it with Sage yet, but screw Sage. “Now let’s get you into that jacke
t.”

  “Jolie?” Mama barks from the other line. Great. “Jolie? I need to know what is happening right now!”

  But it’s too late. I mumble a brief goodbye and tuck my phone into my back pocket. I help Elle into her jacket and drive her to school, where I don’t know how, but I manage to sit through a thorough examination of a Barbie doll’s anatomy, as conducted by Elle and her friend Staci. Let’s just say both girls’ futures as OB/GYNs is secured, in case their masterplan to become astronaut ballerinas doesn’t pan out.

  Once I step out of my daughter’s class, my phone begins buzzing in my pocket. I pluck it out.

  Sage.

  I want to take the call and tell him that he is a bastard of the highest degree, but instead, I let the call die. I need to collect my scattered thoughts before I hear him out. I’m too angry and confused. One moment I think it is all done and dusted, and our marriage is over, and the other, I inwardly laugh at myself for jumping to such an idiotic conclusion.

  And so, I plan to deal with this matter in the same fashion every grown-up woman does—I am going to get shitfaced at home and wait for the problem to solve itself.

  On my way back home (screw yoga. Apparently, life happens when you Shavasana for eight straight minutes in a boiling hot room), I kill three more attempts by Sage to call me. Two more by Mama. It is obvious there is a correlation between the two. She told him. Good. I know it’s only a matter of time until the text messages start pouring in. Of course, there may be a plausible explanation for the lipstick. But the thing is, for some reason that is beyond me right now, I want to be mad. And angry. And unreasonable. Another thing I want: ice cream. No. I need ice cream. Like a flower needs the sun and Taylor Swift needs to stop dating douchebags. The urge is real.

  Sage is quick to deliver on the text messages front.