“Coach. You said a trainer and a coach.”
“I want to run my own gym someday. I’m a gymnast.”
Kipton closes his eyes and moans, “Jesus. You’re getting hotter and hotter. Keep talking.”
I laugh and see him smiling. He’s looking up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, waiting for me to continue explaining. But I want to be lying next to him—my bed never looked as inviting as it does in this moment.
“Sophie, he’s a wrestler. You’re speaking his language right now. He spends a lot of time working out too,” Cara chimes in.
“A real wrestler or a fake one?” I scrunch my nose at the thought of him standing in a ring pretending to be a testosterone fueled maniac. I understand it’s a production and its purpose is for entertainment and shock value, but it’s not the same.
Kipton sits up quickly; resting his weight on his forearms and asks, “What do you mean a fake one?”
“On TV. The guys who dress up in crazy costumes and fly around the ring.” I definitely have his attention now.
“You don’t enjoy that?” he questions.
I’m afraid of offending him, but it’s too late to cover my tracks. Instead, I answer honestly. “Not so much. It’s not what collegiate wrestling’s all about, so I can’t really compare the two.”
“That’s for damn sure.” He shakes his head back and forth with a dazed expression on his face. “Where the hell did you come from, Sophie?”
“Um. Ashland?”
Before Kipton can respond, Cara chimes in again. “Sophie, he’s just happy you’re on the same page as he is as far as the sport goes. He hates that shit on TV. Plus, you’re into sports. Looks like I’ve hit the roommate jackpot.”
Kipton sits up slowly, his eyes never leaving mine each inch he moves. Although it makes me self-conscious and nervous, a part of me likes it. His love of wrestling explains why his body is absolute perfection. Between his muscular shoulders and stocky build, my eyes have trouble deciding where they want to look first. And his eyes, the most crystal clear blue I’ve ever seen—the perfect complement to his brown hair and exactly what I was referring to in my earlier description of my dream guy. Not to mention wrestlers are tough and sexy as hell. That’s reason enough for the attraction.
“I gotta get going, Cara, but call me if you need anything, okay? I’m not far.” He turns his head in my direction. “That goes for you too, okay?”
I’m too surprised to say anything so I nod my head in agreement. I want to tell him I’m not usually this tongue-tied, but of course those words won’t come out of my mouth either.
“Thanks, Kippy. We’ll be good. Promise.”
“You better be.” He turns to leave but stops. “I almost forgot, the wrestling house is having a party tomorrow night. You both should come.”
Before I have a chance to process the invitation, Cara starts jumping up and down. “I’m allowed to come? Sophie you’re already my good luck charm. He wouldn’t let me within a mile of the wrestling house last year!”
Kipton rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Cara, you’re being dramatic. But there wasn’t a chance in hell I was letting my little sister near the house. You’re too innocent for that fresh meat shit they pull.”
Cara shoots him the evil eye and I have no choice but to laugh. She stands up taller and raises her chin as she makes her point. “I’m a mature woman, Kippy. I’ve had sex.” It’s probably not the best point to make with your older brother.
“Cara, really? I don’t want to hear about my baby sister doing that shit.” He runs his hands over his face in frustration, most likely trying to erase the toxic words from his memory. I can’t say I blame him. Some things are better left unsaid.
But Cara shrugs her shoulders and continues to fold her clothing as if it’s common knowledge. “I’m being honest. I’ve done it. It is what it is, Kippy. In fact, I plan to do it again in the near future.” She sticks her head out of the closet and giggles while she watches her brother cringe.
Growling, Kipton looks like he’s two seconds away from passing out or going postal. My vote is for the latter. “Don’t make me regret this, Cara. I know you want to go out so I’d rather you do it somewhere I’ll be. At least that way I can keep an eye on you and make sure no assholes try to pull anything.”
“Please don’t tell all the guys I’m your sister and ruin it for me,” she begs.
“Ruin what?”
“Nobody will want me if you threaten them all.”
“Cara,” he warns.
“Please, Kipton,” Cara begs again.
“She’s breaking out my full name, Sophie. She means business.”
I smile when he includes me in the conversation, but don’t dare put my two cents in. He plays the protector well and I’m not about to start off on the wrong foot with either of them. She doesn’t know how lucky she is to have someone watching out for her all the time. I’ve always been on my own in that department. Unless you count Mr. Owens, my pseudo grandpa, who lives next door to my mom. He once caught a boy trying to climb into my window and pelted him in the ass with a rock from the driveway.
Kipton turns to me and asks, “You’ll come to the party too?”
“I have practice early in the morning. It’s probably not a good idea.” Despite what I tell him, this is the first time I actually want to go to a party even though I’ve never had anything to drink before. I’ve spent too much time watching my dad get drunk and ruin his relationship with my mom to know the stuff isn’t anything to play around with. In fact, I’m probably the only twenty-year-old on campus who hasn’t experimented with alcohol.
Nothing good ever comes from whiskey and beer.
Whiskey and beer.
Hovering in a corner next to the bannister, dad throws an empty bottle of whiskey against the living room wall. He’s cussing mom out for forgetting to buy him a pack of cigarettes on her way home from work. I sit in the corner chilled to the bone not wanting to watch the scene unfold, but too scared to make a run for it to my room. If he spots me, he’ll only get angrier. I’ve learned to stay out of his way, especially when he’s been drinking.
Not backing down from his harsh words, mom goes toe to toe with him, firing back a slew of bitter comments of her own. The shouting continues to escalate until it comes to a crescendo—his fist making contact with the drywall. Little pieces of chalky powder fall onto the beige carpet below. The gaping hole left in the middle of the living room wall is evidence of his uncontrollable anger.
Mom’s half in shock yet not entirely fazed by his predictable tantrum. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Dean? Who’s going to pay for that?”
A hallow laugh erupts from his intoxicated mouth. “Don’t I make sure the bills are covered every damn month? Yes, I do. Because your worthless ass can only manage a part time job.” He absentmindedly massages his hand, wiping the blood leaking from his cracked knuckles onto his jeans. Another fight will follow when she can’t get the blood stains out of his pants.
Mom throws her hands in the air, rage winning over level-headedness. “I’m busy taking care of our daughter which is a lot more than you can say for yourself. When’s the last time you did anything for either of us without being asked?”
“You’re the one who got pregnant, Victoria. I told you kids weren’t for me. And, don’t get me started about her. I don’t think that’s a conversation you want to have with me right now.” He grabs a handful of tissues out of the box and wraps them around his hand.
Please stop pushing him, mom. Please.
“Don’t you dare make her out to be a mistake, Dean. So help me, God. She’s eleven years old. She needs two parents who love her. Not one responsible parent and a drunk. I’ve missed out on a lot over the years. You haven’t made any sacrifices when it comes to her, that’s for damn sure. Because you’re too busy with your pants around your ankles in the ally next to the goddamn bar.”