Taking A Risk by Karen Monroe

Will

Ithink I might kill my team’s starting quarterback—Griffin Mackenzie. We’re friends. I like the guy, but I’m so fed-up that death may be the only recourse. It will not be a quick one either. I think I’ll take my time and savor the joy I’ll inevitably feel.

Off the football field, I’m not a death or destruction type person, but my roommate is pushing me to the limit. First, he left the living room trashed. When I came home, there were half full pizza boxes, two brown paper bags of what I assumed was trash, dirty plates, cups, and silverware on the coffee table.

Had the fucker never heard of mice?

Though, to be honest, that wasn’t what was making me contemplate murder. It pissed me off because right now—at this very moment—I couldn’t sleep because of the noise Griff and his new girlfriend were making.

Ooh, baby! Don’t stop!

Fuck!

Oh shit!

Smashing my pillow into my face, I almost suffocate myself trying to block out the noise. I tried my earbuds, but I had to turn the volume up to deafening levels to block out the moans and groans. If I had a TV in my room, I would have turned the sound to the max, but I don’t have a TV in my bedroom. The nearest one is in the living room and that will only bring me closer to the racket. Seriously, it would be awesome if Griff was the type of roommate who respected boundaries—and obvious sound barriers—but you only needed to meet the guy to know it wasn’t in his repertoire.

Griffin Maxwell Mackenzie III didn’t have a shred of communal concern. The bedroom at his parent’s house was an entire wing—not a room and a bathroom—but an actual wing of a mansion. His only sibling, Davis, had a similar space.

Really, I couldn’t blame the guy, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to kill him all the same. At this point there are only two viable options. I can tell Griff and his girl to shut the fuck up, or I can leave.

The first option isn’t a choice because Griff doesn’t charge me rent. The second means dragging my tired ass out of bed after playing three-plus hours of football.

Placing a hand over my forehead, I close my eyes.

Murder or exile?

Oh, gawd… fuck me. Fuck me!

It feels so good.

Ooh… baby!

To hell with this shit! I’m out of here.

“So,Griff ran you out of the house?”

No point in denying it. “Yep.”

“Was he with that girl from the party?”

I nod, then stretch out the kinks in my neck.

Jax snorts. “I don’t understand that dude. He could get his dick wet anytime he wants, but he’s wining and dining the pussy.”

Of course Jax didn’t understand. He shuffled through girls like a deck of cards.

Shrugging, because to be honest I didn’t understand it either, I changed the subject all together, asking, “Where’s everyone else?” My gaze deliberately roams over the empty back seat. “No one else wanted to roll with you?”

“Naw man, bunch of pussies. You were the only one, Willy Gilly.”

I lean back against the plush seats of Jax’s Audi Q5. “I told you not to call me that ridiculous ass name.”

“You’re actual nickname’s Gilly.”

“And you know I hate that fucking nickname too.”

Jax laughs. “Woof! Someone’s in a mood, but I know what your problem is. You need to get laid.” When I don’t refute the statement, he smacks the steering wheel. “New mission! Tonight, we’re going to find you a snuggle bunny.”

I shake my head, rolling my eyes. Responding to that stupidity will only make it worse. “Whose party are we going to?”

“Who said anything about a party? We’re going to Touchdown.”

Fuck! No wonder no one else wanted to come. Touchdown was a lively restaurant/club near campus. I wasn’t feeling it, but going home wasn’t an option. “Great,” I grunt in displeasure.

Jax leers at me before turning onto the highway. “Snuggle bunnies, here we come!”

He turns up the music and A$AP Ferg’s “Next Level” fills the space. Without thinking, my head bounces to the rhythm. I’m not in the mood to party but if I was, this would be the perfect theme song. Relaxing, I let Jax’s music selections take me away. My eyes close and before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of a brick-lined building with a line jammed to the corner’s edge.

The nighttime darkness illuminates the colorful neon signs in the windows proudly proclaiming Bud Light, Miller’s Draft, and Budweiser on tap. Jax pulls into the adjacent parking lot, where an attendant in a red shirt and blue jeans signals him forward.

“Twenty dollars,” he demands.

I snicker to myself, shaking my head. Entrance to Touchdown is free, but they charge you to park, which I imagine is the modern-day equivalent of highway robbery.

Jax rolls his window all the way down, leaning his head out. “Twenty dollars? What? I ain’t paying you jack-shit.”

“Jackson Bishop!”

A thin black man with a curly top of dyed-blond hair leans through the window. In one sweeping glance, he takes in the car’s interior—me included. “I didn’t expect to see you. We’re about to start double parking.”

I’d worked as a parking attendant in high school. I knew “double parking” was code for extortion.

“And you brought this gigantic monster. William Gilmore, right? I don’t think I’ve seen him here before.”

I’m used to people talking about me like I’m invisible. My size is intimidating, and I look a lot smaller on TV. Most football fans—and non-fans—would rather ignore me. The only people who don’t are members of an opposing offense and their coordinators.

“He’s on the prowl for a snuggle bunny. Help a brother out,” Jax says, with a nod in my direction.

Wonderful!

The funny thing is I’d bet good money Jax doesn’t even know the attendant’s name. They’d probably met before. Maybe? But it doesn’t really matter. Jax collects people, males and females, like… a deck of cards. His privilege is just as bad as my roommate’s. The only difference is Jax doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. He doesn’t have the same amount of spotlight on him, and he can get away with it; His zero-fucks attitude is a product of him wanting to be noticed.

“Alright then. Wait a second,” the thin fellow says, then he swings an arm in a circle and motions toward another similarly dressed attendant standing near the stanchion.

“Keyshawn, move the merc. We got some VIPs in da house.”

“You know it,” Jax adds.

Hearing myself called a VIP isn’t unusual. In this town, all the starting members of the university’s football team are stars. The entire community lives and breathes for the sport.

The stout young teen dashes toward a shiny silver Mercedes Benz while Jax and I wait. I imagine the car belongs to some douchebag frat bro and I’m happy he’ll be double-parked.

Once the space is free, Jax pulls in. “Thanks, my man!”

Yeah. He doesn’t know this guy’s name.

Exiting the vehicle, I take a moment to smooth down my shirt and pat my jeans to loosen the wrinkles.

The one good thing about Touchdown is we don’t have to stand in line. We’re ushered inside with great fanfare. The DJ even interrupts the music.

“Gentlefolk! And by that, I mean ladies, gents, and otherwise. Let’s welcome into the house two starting members for the Tigers: Jackson Bishop and William Gilmore.”

People I don’t know pat me on the back and girls of myriad shades eagerly smile. When I was younger, this type of scene would have thrilled me, but I’m a lot more cynical now.

“Great fucking game!” someone shouts.

I ignore everyone, but the place is so packed I can barely move.

“C’mon,” Jax yells. “My man saved us a spot in the VIP.”

Touchdown operated as a restaurant during the day, but at nights on Wednesdays and weekends, they put up most of the chairs and tables and opened the space for a DJ and dance floor. It was one of the better spots near campus since true clubs were a paucity.

Following behind Jax, we enter a velvet-roped interior, which during the day operates as a seating area. It’s a lot less crowded. I’m thankful we’re no longer shoulder to shoulder.

A paunchy, jowly faced bro with dark overly gelled hair runs up to us, his pinpoint pupils like small, mini marbles. “Jax, my man, you made it!”

The two slap hands like long-lost friends, which is funny, because I’m sure Jax doesn’t know this guy’s name either.

“I told you I’d be here,” Jax loudly responds.

“Perfect night. Plenty of fine women in da house. I got a spot for ya. Just give me a sec to get it clean.”

“I’m going to get something to drink,” I shout. “You want anything?”

Jax leans close. “Don’t. They’ll comp us.”

“Naw, I’m good.” I’d learned early on no one gave you anything for free.

Making way towards the small mini-bar, I wait in the short line for my turn. My gaze flicks over the brunette in front of me. A teal-colored tube dress with holes cut out on the sides silhouetted her profile. She looks kind of familiar, but I’m sure I don’t know her. Her lush apple-bottomed-ass makes me wish I did, though.

Jax is right. I need to get laid. It had been over three months. My body was overdue. The restless, pent up energy I’d been feeling of late was just a by-product of sexual frustration.

When the girl in the tube dress turns a pair of dark eyes on me, I don’t even try to hide my interest. Instead, I smile back.

“Hey, I’m Harper,” she shouts, smiling coquettishly.

“Will,” I respond, but I yell over the music and my name comes out like a bark.

“What?”

“Will!”

“What?”

This could go on forever. Crouching down like a hunchback, I bring my face closer to hers.

“Will!” I say again.

“Oh… Will.”

Glad that’s out of the way, I lean down again. “You a student at the uni?” I need to get that out because the longer I look at her, the younger she seems. The age limit at Touchdown is eighteen, but I know for a fact the bouncers don’t card the pretty girls.

“Yeah, I’m-I’m a senior.”

In high school, no doubt. “Good for you. Have a good night.”

“Wait!” she yells, then she glances at three giggling girls standing at the end of the bar before looking back at me. “You’re not buying me a drink?”

I laugh darkly. Was that her scam? She hung around the bar waiting for some dumb sap to buy her and her underaged friends a drink?

“No, because you and your friends aren’t old enough to drink. And since I’m not in the mood to go to jail, have a good night.”

“You’re so rude!”

I laugh at her outraged expression. “Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart,” I reply with a shrug.

Conscious of being watched, I turn to look at the bystanders nearby. The curious eyes look away when I stare at them. Naturally, there are some advantages to being six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds. One of them is regular sized people aren’t apt to challenge me. They’re too scared. Unfortunately for the girl in the tube dress, by the time the bartender waves us forward it’s clear her jig is up.

“ID please?”

“Um… here.”

The lead barkeep, who sports several tattoos and piercings, stares at the identification. “You live on… 1993 Back Street? Seriously honey, you should have gone with Nsync Avenue. Next!”

Harper stares at me, then her lips curl into a snarl. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

I laugh as I take in her hostile glare. Yet in the next second, I’m confronted with another one.

Cheyenne Meadows.

Great!She’s the last person I want to see.

Harper storms away, but I barely notice. Cheyenne is the bigger worry. She’s pissed, which isn’t surprising. The last time I laid eyes on her she’d called me, “a dick of the worst order.” I wasn’t even sure what that meant, but as we continue to stare, there’s no doubt in my mind she still hates me with a passion. She saunters toward me in a short black dress and matching colored heels until our bodies are inches apart.

“Another satisfied customer?” She asks.

Cheyenne is an outside blocker on the girls’ volleyball team. She doesn’t need to yell. She’s only about four inches shorter than me. In heels we face off toe-to-toe.

“Hello Cheyenne.”

Her lips pucker, like she’s sucking on a lemon. “Don’t say hello to me. What are you doing here? Did you know I was coming?”

My eyes roll. “I came with Jax.”

“Ah… Jackson Bishop, the man-whore. Where is he?” she asks, looking around.

“Hey!” The bartender waves her hand in front of my face. “Serving drinks here. What do you want?”

“He’ll have a Budweiser,” Cheyenne answers for me.

A moment passes while the three of us exchange looks. I want to say I’d like something different, but… a Budweiser had been what I was about to order.

“I don’t have all night. Is that what you want, big guy?” The barkeep asks, focusing on me.

I nod, trying not to blink when she smirks back.

“Bud-Weis-Er!”

Does she do that for everyone? Deciding it doesn’t matter, I snatch up the aluminum longneck she slams on the counter.

“$5.50.”

I reach in my wallet and throw down a ten. She won’t be getting another tip from me. “Keep the change.”

The bartender palms the bill, stuffing it into the cash register. “Thanks, big spender. Next.”

I smirk and step away. Cheyenne follows and I stop, turning to face her. “The last time we talked, you told me to eat shit and die. Do you want to have a civilized conversation now? Or are you planning on cussing me out again?”

Her expression appears sheepish, but with Cheyenne it’s hard to tell. “I was mad.”

“No shit.”

“You could have told me in the beginning you weren’t serious.”

“I did,” I remind her. “You thought it was some kind of game.”

“Whatever! What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like clubs.”

I didn’t think of Touchdown as a club, but…

Tomayto.

Tahmato.

“I still don’t,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

She bats her eyelids in that strange way women do, then tosses her long brown hair over one shoulder. “So… You wanna hang out later.” Her fingernails trail up my T-shirt. “I’ve missed that big cock of yours.”

My dick pulses. Cheyenne is built like an Amazonian warrior, and she sucks dick like a street hooker. But I know better than to go there again.

“I’ll pass. Thanks though.”

“You know what, Gilly?” She sneers my nickname like a slur. “Karma’s a bitch. One day you’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”

I shake my head as I walk away. Cheyenne is a vindictive bitch. I’d recognized the trait early on and ended our friends with benefits status. We had only fucked around a few times, but she caught feelings quick. She started showing up unannounced at my house, and stopping by the complex after practice to hang out. Then she went on and on about how she loved me, claiming I broke her heart.

Beer in hand, I spot Jax in a corner booth and make my way toward him. I’m still irritated by my encounter with Cheyenne. People scatter out of my way. When I sit down, Jax stares at me with a sardonic expression.

“How’s Cheyenne?”

“Still a crazy bitch,” I mutter, taking a swig of my beer. Then I glance at the bottle of water in his hand. “Not drinking?”

“Nope, I’m on the sober train tonight.” He lifts his chin, gesturing to my beer. “Plus, I want a clear head in case Cheyenne kicks your ass. That’s a show I don’t want to miss.”

“Thanks.”

Jax titters like a girl. “What’s her deal anyway?”

“She claimed she was in love with me.”

“One of them, huh? Good thing there’s a lot of potential snuggle bunnies here tonight. I’m sure one of them is not looking for love.”

He gestures toward a group of girls eyeing us from across the room. I glance at them, not really interested. My thoughts are on Cheyenne’s last words.

One day you’re going to get everything that’s coming to you.

Jeeze… What a vindictive bitch!