“That’s the tragic thing. You do. Real, honest-to-God talent. But instead of cultivating it, you waste your time stealing other people’s ideas.”
Her faces scrunches up, going bright red. “I used to think you were nice. You’re nothing but a bitter bitch.”
I have to laugh. “If being a bitter bitch means I’m no longer your stepping stone, then I gladly accept the title.” With that I stand. “Have a nice life, Elena.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says suddenly. “The pressure. My mom. Everyone knows who she is—”
“I don’t know what that’s like?” I gape down at her. “Are you kidding? My dad was a superstar before I was even born. My mom runs her own business. My sister is fast becoming a regular fixture on ESPN. Hell, I’m swimming in a pool of overachieving family members.”
“That’s not the same. You aren’t in those industries.” Her fist hits her chest. “I have to make my mark in this business.”
I could understand. Hell, I could almost empathize. Almost. “Our parents don’t define us, Elena. Our actions do. And yours suck.”
She goes from flushed to bone white. “Fuck you, Fiona.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling now. “You already have fucked me. And yet I’m the one walking out with my head up.”
And I do, leaving my sketches, Elena, and all her bullshit behind.
There’s a faint fishy smell in the air. I don’t want to be around when it grows stronger. Because I left a present for Felix too. Operation Rotten Fish, as Ivy likes to call it.
We did the same prank on our bitchy ex-camp counselor one summer, smearing fish oil under her bunk and on the inside lining of her trunk. Call it a little fuck you for dunking my head underwater when I couldn’t swim, and for telling Ivy she looked like a flagpole when she clearly had worries about being the tallest, thinnest girl in the camp.
By the end of the summer, the stench had gotten so bad, they had to fumigate. But the trunk remained, and so did the smell.
And though I’d like to believe I’ve grown up since then, the thought of all the fish oil I smeared under Felix’s desk and the tables in Elena’s office gives me a surge of satisfaction. Maybe part of us never grows up. I am surprisingly okay with that.
* * *
Dex
“Dexter, man, you’re living the dream!” Shockey, one of my linemen, gives me a hearty slap on the shoulder as we walk to our cars.
“Not my dream,” I grouse.
The “dream” Shockey refers to is the swarm of women currently dogging my every step. Panties in my locker. Tweets offering blowjobs, hand jobs, rim jobs, don’t-know-what-the-fuck-half-of-this-shit-is jobs. Women showing up outside my townhouse. Waiting for me before practice. It isn’t necessarily anything new. All players get this. It’s the sheer volume and intensity that’s driving me nuts.
“Dex.” A pretty brunette saunters up. She’s wearing my jersey, or what remains of it, because she’s cut the sleeves off and tied it into a knot to bare her midriff. “You look tired. I’d love to give you a massage.”
And they wait for me after practice. I shake my head, shrug off her grasping hands, and keep walking. Shockey, on the other hand, slows.
“Aw, honey, don’t waste your time on him. Why don’t you come and keep me company in my post-workout bath?”
The girl eyes me as if she’s trying to figure out if I’ll cave. I don’t break stride. My keys are out, and I’m in my car. Shockey leads the girl away, and I sit back and just breathe in the scent of fine leather.