Page 43 of Penalty Shot

“Is he bothering you?” I ask through the vise on my windpipe. “Because I can straighten that out right fucking now.”

“No! No, it’s not that.” She shakes her head. “He’s, he’s not like that. Still, I don’t want to see him, and I hate that he’s part of this at all.”

“What is he doing here if you didn’t invite him?”

“He’s head of marketing for a travel brokerage. She hit him up for donations.” Elise shakes her head. “Probably the same way she sprung it on you. Ma is relentless when she sets her mind on something.”

“Were you with him right now?” I ask, hating every word of that question. “I mean, before you found me.”

“No, but I saw him talking to Ma. I could tell they were about to launch a missing person alert.”

“Want me to get you out of here?”

“I’m not running off. Just wanted to grab a minute, you know?”

“No need to explain yourself. I got you.”

Her smile is hesitant, lips red and glossy. “I realize you’ll have to go before the full dinner service, but can you stay with me for a while?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” I’m shocked how much I mean it.

With a nod and the clicking of heels, Elise leads the way back to the crowd. We grab drinks immediately. Champagne bubbles tickle my throat. When Elise’s lips touch her own glass, I can’t swallow.

I was distracted by her worry earlier. Now I’m simply and utterly distracted byher.

It’s taken less than two days of Elise returning home for my delusions to come crashing down. Delusions bolstered by funnypictures and kind messages and easy chatter.Friends without benefits, my ass. It’s a pledge that’s turned into a curse.

For weeks, I’ve told myself that Elise and I are building a strong foundation for friendship. The problem is, that foundation sits on top of something volatile and explosive. The effortless companionship we share is piled over the blood-thickening lust coursing my veins and hardening my cock.

I want her. I want her so fucking bad.

I do this thing when I’m stressed. I imagine the events in front of me as if they’re happening in a fictional world. A storyboard unfolds, like acts in a play. It allows emotional distance and helps me manage uncomfortable situations.

This coping strategy has the added benefit of restraining me from impulsive and vindictive acts, such as throwing the contents of my champagne flute at my ex-boyfriend’s smug face.

Tonight, I imagine reentering the ballroom as the beginning of Act One.

A woman, let’s call her Seraphina—because not enough women are called Seraphina—attends a fundraiser organized by her mother. Unbeknownst to her, her mother invited Seraphina’s disgruntled ex-boyfriend, Morton Milton (a truly ridiculous alliteration of a name to reflect his pompous hypocrisy) to add to the silent auction and help raise money. Morton donates an expensive vacation package to London including flight, hotel, and theater tickets.

It is an obvious ploy to get Seraphina’s attention, since it was the kind of trip they talked about when they were lovers. She sees through the bullshit and is disgusted by Morton’s fuckery. She would very much like to take the poster of London featuring the prize and break it over his head.

However, making a scene in front of hundreds of other guests would be bad for the fundraiser and she really does like the YMCA. Instead, Seraphina—

“You look like you need this.” Randall swaps my empty champagne flute with a full one. His casual yet dependablepresence calms me.

“Tell me what he looks like, and I’ll work the room with you.”

“By the entrance, wearing a tux. He’s biracial, half Chinese and half Scottish. Do you see him?”

“The guy that looks like Keanu Reeves?” Randall asks in the same cadence as one would saythat piece of shit?He isn’t the first to make the comparison to the actor.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Anyone who makes you this uncomfortable shouldn’t even be in the same room as you, Elise. Public ballroom full of people or not, you shouldn’t have to feel this vulnerable. Does Geraldine know?”

I squeeze his hand to reassure him. The only reason I’m this on edge is because I was surprised. Any other time, I would have already told Miles Wallace to go fuck himself. It’s not the kind of conversation that suits a charity event, unfortunately.

“I don’t talk about Miles with my mother. Forget about him. Let’s say hi to some of the community center reps. They’re the most fun to talk to,” I say, leading him to a corner where a small group of camp supervisors and YMCA administrators are standing.