Wild Cards

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Ashtyn


I’ve been curled up in bed for the past three hours with my eyes closed tight, wishing my life would stop spinning out of control. Landon and I didn’t get along last night at all. I don’t even know where things stand now.

I look at my phone to see if he’s called or texted. He hasn’t, although it’s Saturday. He’s probably still sleeping.

I slowly head for the bathroom. I’m about to sit on the toilet when I’m suddenly off balance and feel like I’m going to fall in. The damn seat is up. I cringe as I set it back down, silently cursing Derek and fully intending to call him out.

First I need to eat. Then I can confront Derek and head to the field to practice. Though Dieter doesn’t have official practice on the weekends, we don’t want to lose our momentum.

Derek walks in the kitchen a few minutes after I do, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. His long hair is messed up and he looks sweet and innocent. I know guys like Derek, who look innocent but are just the opposite. Falkor, who’d disappeared from my room in the middle of the night, comes prancing in on Derek’s heels.

“Did you lure my dog back in your room last night?” I ask in an accusatory tone.

“He kept scratching on my door and whining like a baby until I let him in.”

“You’re stealing him.”

He shrugs. “Maybe he’s sick of you and wants new company.”

“A dog can’t be sick of his owner, Derek, and I’ll have you know that I’m great company. My dog loves me.”

“If you say so.” He rummages through the fridge, pulls out some eggs, then grabs a loaf of bread from the pantry. “What happened at the beach between you and Loverboy? Looked like you two were havin’ one hell of a night,” he says in a lazy drawl as he makes himself scrambled eggs and toast.

“What happened to my rule about not leaving the toilet seat up?” I counter.

The side of his mouth quirks up. “I’ve got this condition, you see. It prevents me from being ordered around.”

“Uh-huh. A condition, you say?”

“Yeah. It’s real serious.”

“Ooh, I feel so bad for you. You poor baby, being told to do something by a female. That must’ve threatened your masculinity.” I pull out a bag of Skittles from the pantry and sort out the purple ones like I always do, then start munching on the rest.

Derek leans close and whispers in my ear, “Nothing threatens my masculinity, Sugar Pie.”

A tingly sensation zings up my spine when his warm breath touches my skin. I’m momentarily paralyzed.

He opens the fridge again. “Besides eggs and toast, you got anythin’ in here besides junk and processed food?”

I pretend he has no effect on me. “Nope.”

Derek sits down with his eggs and toast, but stares at my collection of purple Skittles with those clear blue eyes that belong on someone who doesn’t leave the toilet seat up on purpose.

“Nutritious,” he says.

“It’s comfort food,” I tell him.

He quirks his eyebrow, clearly amused. “If you say so.”

“Ugh. Don’t tell me you’re a health nut.”

He scoops up a forkful of eggs. “I’m not a health nut.”

“Good. Here,” I say, pushing my collection of purple Skittles toward him. “You can have the purple ones. I’m allergic to them.”

He raises a brow. “You’re allergic to purple Skittles?” he asks, skepticism laced in his voice.

“I’m allergic to purple dye.” I grab an orange one and pop it into my mouth. “But I’m not allergic to the rest of them. I love Skittles.”

“I’m good with my own breakfast, but thanks.” Derek takes bite after bite of eggs and toast. When Julian walks in, Derek focuses on my nephew. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “Want some breakfast?”

Julian nods.

“I can help,” I quickly tell Derek. I need to redeem myself so Julian doesn’t think I’m the worst aunt who ever lived. If I have to work hard and long for that hug, I’m gonna do it.

I start to get out of my chair, but Derek holds up a hand. “I got it.”

After my mom left, my dad never made home-cooked meals. I had to fend for myself and ate what he brought home from the store: frozen, microwavable food and junk. Obviously Derek’s mom spent more time with him than my mom did with me. While it’s not his fault, I’m overwhelmingly jealous.

Julian sits in the chair next to where Derek had been sitting. Derek’s presence in my house makes me feel insignifi cant and unneeded. I might as well be invisible.

“Want some Skittles?” I wave the bag in front of my nephew’s face in a lame attempt to get him to bond with me. I’ve never seen a kid who didn’t like candy. “It’s super good breakfast junk food.”

He shakes his head. My nephew wants nothing to do with me.

My nemesis puts a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and toast in front of Julian. My mouth waters from the smell of freshly toasted bread. Julian eats, humming enthusiastically with each bite. The tune reminds me of our school fight song, which is chanted by the fans during halftime at our games.

Thinking of our fight song reminds me that I didn’t look outside to make sure my house hasn’t been tp’d by Fairfield. It was all clear when I went to bed last night, but Falkor slept in the den and might not have heard anything. I pull back the curtains in the living room. My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the sight of my entire front yard.

No! No, no, no, no, no!

It’s worse than being tp’d. Worse than I could have ever imagined, and completely humiliating.

Toilet paper isn’t hanging down like white flags waving from branches of every tree. Instead, hundreds of maxi pads are stuck to the tree trunks, and tampons are tied to the branches like a bunch of little Christmas ornaments fluttering in the wind.

As if that wasn’t sick enough, all of the pads and tampons have fake bright red blood marks on them. Even my mailbox has pads stuck all over it.

I seethe with anger and burn in embarrassment as I rush to clean up the yard, then suck in a breath when my eyes focus on my driveway. In big letters are two words written in a multitude of pads: FREMONT’S BITCH.