Love Sex
&
Other Games
Part 1
by CHERYL McINTYRE
Note From Author:
Please note Love Sex & Other Games is a SERIAL.
If serials aren’t your thing, then please do not read Love Sex & Other Games. Leave that to those who enjoy the fun and anticipation a serial provides.
One wedding, one catastrophic speech, and two lovesick people searching for redemption in each other.
I was supposed to marry the girl across the street—my lifelong best friend and the love of my life, Roselyn Metz. So why am I playing best man at her wedding?
One too many drinks and a vindictive one-night stand lead to a disastrous wedding toast.
But it also leads me to her—Emerson Metz—Roselyn’s younger sister, now all grown up and just as brokenhearted over her sister’s new marriage as I am.
Love Sex & Other Games is a serial—each part is the size of a novelette—and intended for an adult audience. Due to foul language, sexual innuendos, dirty talk, and adult themes, this serial is recommended for readers 18+.
Also by Cheryl McIntyre
The Sometimes Never Series:
Sometimes Never
Blackbird
Before Now
Long After
Always Forever
Let It Be
The Dirty Series:
Getting Dirty
Playing Dirty
Talking Dirty
Fighting Dirty
Staying Dirty
Dirty: The 5-Part Serial Bundle
Grit: A Dirty Sequel
HARD
Villain
Infinitely
Dark Calling
Love Sex & Other Games
Cheryl McIntyre
July 2016
Copyright Cheryl McIntyre 2016
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without prior written permission by the author except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real persons, events, or places are used fictitiously. The characters are the work of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or deceased, events, or locales are coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status, as well as ownership of products referred to in this work of fiction. The uses of these trademarks have not been authorized, nor are they associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Don’t be a dick—don’t steal my work. I put a lot of time and effort into writing this and when you steal it, it’s a slap in the face. If you obtained this book in any way other than a reputable book-distributing site, such as Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Google Play, Smashwords, etc., then please understand you have received an illegal copy, and that makes you an asshole.
Cover design by Daryl Cunningham
Edited by Dawn Decker
2016
Not to sound conceited, but book one in the Love Sex & Other Games serial is for me. Because this story came to me in a dream and stayed vividly in my mind hours after waking. I went into this blind, with only the pieces I was given in my subconscious thoughts, and just ran with it. And I’ve never had so much fun writing.
Table of Contents
Note From Author
The Catastrophe
The Dick Pic
The (Re)Meeting
The Games
The Friendship
Acknowledgements
About Cheryl
Other Books By Cheryl
Don’t let yesterday take up too much of today.
—Will Rogers
THE CATASTROPHE
Cooper
“Fuck it.”
Famous last words spoken by the biggest of idiots preceding monumental mistakes since the existence of man.
I swallow down my eighth—ninth?—shot of whiskey and chase it with the last of my Corona. Leslie, the maid of honor—laughable title for someone who is neither a maiden nor honorable—is staring down at me with a smile faker than her tan and tits put together. Her jaw is set so tight I cringe at the sound of her teeth grinding together. With a sigh, I jerk the proffered microphone from her outstretched hand and push my seat back. Her subsequent smirk is purely evil. The chick is a bitch all the way down to her black soulless core. This is payback for the pump-n-dump—I’m sorry, the one-night-stand—following a weekend’s worth of drinking, which just so happened to be the same weekend as Miles’ bachelor party. Coincidence? Definitely not. I was lit out of my mind, pissed off, depressed…and she was there. When she kissed me, I’m pretty sure I mumbled “fuck it” into those collagen-filled lips as I gave in and kissed her back. Like I said, famous last words.
Maybe I should consider cutting down on the drinking.
Meh, I don’t want to do anything too hasty. Speaking of which…
It’s quiet, everyone waiting for the best man—me—to speak. It’s customary—a ritual of the wedding reception. It’s expected of me. However, Miles and I had an agreement: No speeches, no toasting, no scenes—no problem.
His nervous grin does jack-shit to help me out and once again, he makes it crystal clear where his alliance lies. Not with his so-called best friend, not with his blood—not me. And if he doesn’t see the need to hold up his end of the bargain, then neither do I.
My eyes feel heavy as I scan the eager faces waiting patiently for a heart-felt sentiment from the guy who held the bride’s ring in his breast pocket. I chuckle dryly. They’re going to be waiting for a hell of a long time.
I clear my throat and blow softly against the mic, verifying it’s in perfect working order. With one last glance at Miles—my brother—I start talking.
“I’ve known Roselyn almost as long as I’ve known Miles. For anyone who isn’t aware of this, we moved into the house across the street from hers when I was three. Miles was one. And Rosie, well, she was right in between.” I look at her and she beams back at me, resting her chin in her palm. The brand new wedding band on her ring finger catches the light, winking at me, mocking me.
“And that’s pretty much how it’s always been for us. Miles and me, and Rosie Metz in-between.” I scratch my jaw, rough from a day—or maybe two—missed shaving.
“Living steps away from one of the coolest and prettiest girls either of us Fitzpatrick boys had ever met, it’s natural that as the years went on, we crushed hard. Rosie, on the other hand…” I pause, playfully pointing a finger in her direction. She laughs, knowing what I’m about to say. “She didn’t look at us that way, though. We were just the neighbor boys. Her buddies. Her best friends. But we didn’t mind. Not even a little. As long as she paid attention to us, we were thrilled. The three of us became inseparable—that’s what our parents used to call us. Three bodies, joined together at the hips, isn’t that right, mom?” I find my mother seated straight across from the bridal table. Her smile is tight, forced, a nervous twitch to her right eye as she nods in agreement before finishing off her glass of champagne. Isn’t she supposed to save that until the end of my speech? That right there should be enough to slow my roll, but the whiskey is doing a damn-fine job encouraging me to continue.
“Yeah, joined at the hips. That’s because we went everywhere together. Did everything together. Did you know Miles and I both took Rosie to every school dance until I graduated? Every one.” I chuckle into the mic, but this isn’t humor I feel.
“Here’s something only my dear little brother and I know,” I say saluting him. He rises, uneasy, but I ignore him and keep going. “That year, before I left for college, I entrusted Miles—one third of our conjoined trio—with the secret that I was deeply, hopelessly, madly in love wit
h our best friend.” My voice cracks, emotion trying to clog my throat, but I choke it down. I’ve had years to come to terms with this. Not that I’ve gotten over it—obviously—but I’ve accepted it. Mostly.
“I told him I was going to go make something of myself so that when I came back, I’d be worthy of her. Then,” I meet Miles eyes over the heads of his wedding party, “I asked you to take care of her for me. And you sure did, didn’t you, baby bro?”
“Cooper,” he says, his voice full of warning. For what? He’s already done his worst. There’s nothing he can do to me that could ever hurt more. I keep my gaze set on him. I refuse to look at Rosie, to see the expression on her face. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. She vowed to love my brother until the day she dies.
“What?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “I was asked to toast the beautiful couple.” I pick up my glass of champagne and hold it high. “To the lovely bride and the man who was worthy of her love. Take care of her.”
I empty my glass, toss the microphone to Leslie, and then I walk out of the reception hall and into the cool night air.
~*~
Emerson
Oh, the irony.
I sit totally still, stunned by Cooper’s speech. I guess because while everyone else is entertained or shocked or angry over what he just did—choosing the day of my sister’s wedding to reveal his feelings for her—I am in awe. In awe that a man could be so brave to stand before his friends and family and speak the truth, revealing what’s been hidden inside of his heart. In awe that he knows exactly how he feels, and feels it so deeply.
I sympathize with him. Sorry he had held onto all those feelings until it was too late. And, to be totally honest, I’m jealous.
There is no way in hell I could do what he did. No matter how much I’ve always wanted to.
My eyes shift between my sister’s face, full of a multitude of emotions, none of which I can place, and Miles, his expression clear and easy to read. Guilty, anxious, and angry. I drop my gaze, unable to watch them any longer. Leslie, my sister’s best female friend since freshman year of college, rushes to her side. Several of the bridesmaids join them and they trail off into the hallway toward the bathrooms. My mother’s heals click across the floor as she brings up the rear.
I have no idea why everyone is chasing after Rosie like she’s just received bad news. She’s married. She’s happy. Cooper’s words should mean little to her, yet she’s acting as if her entire reception has been ruined.
Miles heads for the open bar, his posse of groomsmen surrounding him—everyone except Cooper. I feel a stronger urge to chase him than I do my own sister, but I’ve been doing that my whole life…
And me, I’m left alone at the bridal table, staring down at Cooper’s abandoned chair. I notice his cell phone laying forgotten on the floor. He must have dropped it during his speech. Or maybe when he was trying to singlehandedly consume the contents of the bar.
Now I know why.
I toe off one shoe, then the other, leaving them under the table, and duck my head as I stand, hoping to sneak away without being bombarded by great aunts and distant cousins with questions I don’t have answers to. By Cooper’s seat, I kneel, scooping up his phone and the bottle of whiskey he stowed just beyond the draping tablecloth, and discreetly head toward the exit.
The air is brisk, the sky clear. The forecast had called for rain today, but as luck would have it, it ended up being a gorgeous day for a wedding. I sigh, my breath billowing out in front of me before dissolving into the night.
I make my way around the building and into the parking lot. It’s a sea of cars, two hundred guests in attendance, but I spot Cooper’s six-foot-three frame easily, wandering between the line of limos that transported us from the church.
He lifts his head as he hears me move toward him, cupping a hand over his eyes to shield out the lamppost’s glow.
“You forgot your phone,” I say, extending my arm, cell in hand.
“Oh, hey. I thought for a second…” His words trail off and I know what he was about to say. The only differences in appearance between my sister and I is our daily attire and the way we wear our hair. But today, with us both dressed up for her wedding, we could almost pass as twins. That is, until you get close enough to realize I’m younger by over four years.
Cooper thought Roselyn was coming out here to talk to him.
I jerk my head in a subtle shake. Hope is a real bitch sometimes.
He takes his phone, turns it off, and shoves it into the inner breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. I unscrew the lid off the Jack Daniel’s bottle and take a long drink. It burns down my throat and simmers in my stomach. Holy shit, this stuff is nasty. How do people tolerate it?
Cooper watches me, his disappointment slowly replaced by amusement. “What are you doing? You’re underage.”
I lick my lips and hand him the bottle. “Only by ten months,” I reply. “And seriously, this coming from you?” Where I have never been a big partier—the underage aspect having no baring—Cooper has become well acquainted with it.
He cocks a brow and his head at the same time in a you-got-me-there gesture before pressing the rim to his mouth and chugging a quarter of the bottle. I don’t know how he pulls it off without puking. I guess practice makes perfect and he’s been training hard. Since about the time he found out Miles and Roselyn started dating. Right around when I changed up my wardrobe, trading in my sister’s hand-me-downs for band t-shirts and ripped jeans. I can’t believe Cooper and I were suffering over the exact same thing all these years.
I think, looking back, there were probably clues. I was too busy hiding my own feelings to notice anyone else’s.
He gives the whiskey back and gestures to my feet as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where are your shoes, Jailbait?”
I cringe at the nickname bestowed on me at twelve by the Fitzpatrick brothers when I began developing at a rapid pace, catching up to my driver’s-license-carrying sister. Not enough for Miles to ever really see me, but enough for him to try not to get caught looking.
“I haven’t been jailbait for two years, Coop. I think I’m about due for a new nickname. Or, you know, you could actually just use my real name.” I tip the head of the bottle back and swallow down more fire. It’s nice, the way I can feel it swimming through my veins, making my worries melt down to my feet. It’s like I can almost kick them all away. Now I’m starting to see why this is my current company’s favorite pastime.
I shiver as a breeze twists my hair and billows my dress, making my toes curl, seeking warmth. Cooper scrunches his nose and he looks so much like Miles it makes my heart beat a little faster. And then I realize he doesn’t look like Miles. He’s older. So that means Miles looks like him. Or they look like each other. I’m not sure why I’m debating this in my head right now. Probably the Jack.
He takes his tuxedo jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s heavy and long, but it’s so warm. I push one arm through a sleeve, transfer the alcohol to my other hand, and then push the other inside. I must look ridiculous, however, I’ll trade appearance for comfort any day.
“Thanks.”
Cooper tucks his hands into his pants pockets and leans his shoulder into the side of the building. He dips his chin in welcome before coming back to my earlier statement. “Nicknames don’t work that way,” he informs me, his words slightly overlapping.
“I think you’re slurring a bit there, dude.”
He shakes his head, taking the bottle back I have persistently been sipping from. “Nah, I’m speaking in cursive.”
I don’t know why I find this so funny, I’ve seen the meme a hundred times, but a burst of laughter puffs from my lips. “You’re so stupid.”
He grins. “You’re short,” he retorts without missing a beat.
“You’re drunk.”
His smile turns wolfish and he nods at me. “That I am, JB. That I am. And,” he adds tipping the bottom of the bottle
toward me, “I think you might be too. Lightweight.”
“One, stop calling me Jailbait—any form of it. Two, referring to me as a lightweight isn’t an insult. It just means I can get drunk for a hell of a lot cheaper than you can. And three—” I steal the whiskey and take another deep pull. It’s a bit easier this time.
His hand is poised in front of him as if he’s still clutching the bottle. “Miles paid for this bottle, so we’re drunk on him tonight. And, was that three or are you trying to build anticipation?”
I peer at him out of one eye as I force myself to swallow. I’ve come full circle, heading right back into wanting to gag on every swallow. I’m pretty sure I just hit my limit. What Cooper doesn’t realize is we’re not just drunk on Miles’ dime. We’re both drunk because of Miles. And Rosie.
“I don’t remember,” I finally say.
He laughs, his canines shimmering in the overhead light as he throws his head back and that makes me laugh with him. But our humor soon fades as he returns his attention to me in my bridesmaid dress and the sadness looms in his gaze.
“I fucked up pretty bad in there, didn’t I?” His voice is low, raspy, and so sad. My belly tightens. Due to our age difference, Cooper and I have never been close, but I’ve known him my entire life. I hate that he’s unhappy. And I hate that I know precisely how he feels.
“No, it’s all good,” I deadpan. “I don’t think anyone noticed.”
That makes him laugh again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.