Gunderson tries to put his arm around me, but I shrug him off. “Come on, let us take you out. We’ll buy you a drink to make up for it.”
Is he fucking kidding me? “It’s going to take more than a few drinks at the damn bar to make up for that kind of shit.”
“Like what?”
I consider it for a few seconds, playing hardball. “Take it off my rent this month and I’ll never bring it up again.”
Gunderson’s lips purse; he glances over his shoulder toward Johnson, who takes my place at the squatting bar with its three hundred pounds.
I watch him for a few heartbeats; I have way more finesse than he does with those weights.
Gunderson whines. “That’s not fair. That’s like me having to pay two hundred dollars of your rent.”
Blank stare.
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” I laugh. “Are you hearing yourself? I just lost four hundred dollars—you know what, never mind. I’ve had it with you assholes. I’ll pack up my shit and move out.”
I rise, snatch the towel out of his hands, and present him with my back, wiping the perspiration off my forehead and chest.
Gunderson sighs from behind me. “Fine. I’ll talk to Johnson.” He pauses. “Sooo…you coming out with us tonight or what?”
Does this guy never let up? And why are they drinking so much during the weekend—I never did that while wrestling for Louisiana. We’re only allowed to go out one night a week—one—and tonight is not that night.
I turn toward him, arching an eyebrow. “Dude, it’s a Sunday.”
“So?”
You know that saying There’s no arguing with stupid? That’s what’s happening right now—I can see by the expression on his face that there is no winning this argument.
I challenge him again. “You buyin’ my drinks?”
The expression on his face is priceless. “What the hell! Now I have to pay your rent and buy you drinks?”
My head tips back and I laugh, pulling out the heavy artillery. “It’s that or I move out. Take your pick.”
“Blackmail? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
I can see the wheels churning and burning inside that thick skull of his, and I know he’s waiting for me to jump up and start shouting, just kidding!
It ain’t happening.
Seconds pass and Gunderson holds his ground.
I hold mine.
He narrows his eyes.
Flares his nostrils.
Purses his lips like a goddamn girl before relenting.
“Fine, but we’re going to a house party instead.”
Cheap asshole.
Rhett
Girls.
They’re everywhere.
Pretty girls.
Unattractive girls.
Tall girls and short girls.
So fucking many of them I don’t know which direction to look first. When my eyes settle on a short blonde with big boobs, I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, letting my back hit the wall behind me to study her from the outskirts of the room.
When she saunters past, my thirsty eyes drink her in from head to toe; with her long wavy hair and petite frame, I appreciate the view from the top of my beer bottle. The cut of her tight shirt. The smile plastered on her heavily made-up face as she settles into her girl pack of friends, draping a bare arm over a brunette with legs a mile long and a skirt twice as short.
Coyly glances over her shoulder.
Catches my eye.
Winks.
I straighten my spine when she does a body scan slowly up and down my physique. Takes in the wide berth of my shoulders, the firm pecs beneath my tight gray shirt. My thick neck. The bridge of my nose that’s been broken twice.
Bruised left eye.
Stitched-up eyebrow.
Then…
The light in her eyes dims, interest fading as quickly as it came. I don’t bother smiling at her; what would be the point? Instead, I cast my gaze elsewhere before she further dismisses me by turning away.
No big deal; I’m used to it.
The fact that I’m not good-looking is hardly a secret.
It hardly matters to these girls that I’m in the best shape of my life; that I’m toned and cut. That I train relentlessly and am in peak physical condition.
That I’m a really nice fucking guy.
That I’m not a douchebag.
That I could fuck all night given the chance. Given the right girl.
They don’t care about any of it; they want someone who looks like they just stepped off the cover of a magazine—someone like Sebastian Osborne or Zeke Daniels, two prize douchebags chicks go fucking wild over. Oz Osborne with his pretty face and perverted mouth, and Zeke Daniels with his dark, moody stare.
Stand me next to them in a lineup? I’m the last guy women notice.
The only thing remotely attractive about me is my teeth; my mom calls it my million-dollar smile because I’ve had so much dental work due to having so many teeth knocked out by a quick knee to the face or an errant elbow while wrestling.
Sucks to be me.
I haven’t gotten laid in ages, and the last thing I want is some drunken pity fuck, a castoff from a triad or the undesirable DUFF.
Gunderson sidles up beside me, shoving another beer into my empty hand. He clinks his amber bottleneck against mine, nudging me with his shoulder. “New Guy, you getting loose tonight?”
Getting loose? What the hell does that mean?
“Please stop calling me New Guy.”
“But that’s your name.”
“No, it’s not. Knock it off.”
“Well, I’m not calling you Rabideaux.”
I laugh when he scoffs out my last name. Rex Gunderson, the team’s manager and glorified water boy, is a couyon—a moron—with balls big enough to tell me my last name is dumb.
I bite at his bait. “Why won’t you call me Rabideaux?”
“Because holy formal. It sounds like a fucking butler’s name, and Rhett is worse. Makes you sound like you’re auditioning for some plantation, Civil War-level bullshit.”
He’s right, it does. Rhett Rabideaux—the whole name is a travesty.
“Thanks for mocking my name, asshole.”
“Admit it, it sounds douchey.”
“I’ll let Mama know you hate it next time I see her, thanks.”
“I didn’t say I hated it, just that it makes you sound like a puss.” He takes a swig of beer, eyeballing a group of girls huddled nearby, one of them surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder at him. “So you gonna let loose tonight or what? We only have one night out this week; you should spend it getting laid.”
Gunderson might be a fucking pain in everyone’s ass, but girls seem to love him. They eat up his pickup lines like filet mignon. The cocky attitude. The stupid expressions. The arrogance and bravado. They love it.
I take a drag of beer. “We went out Friday, remember? You know we’re in fuck tons of trouble if anyone posts anything online.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to start meeting people, dude. You can’t keep hanging out with just us. Put yourself out there, New Guy. Go see how friendly the girls in Iowa can be.” He lifts his bottle. “Those girls right there—the ones that keep looking over here—go say hi.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re not lookin’ at me; they’re lookin’ at you.”
Much as I hate to admit it, Gunderson is right; I haven’t put myself out there. I stay in my room all the fucking time, sticking to myself, here for one thing and one thing only:
Pin.
Win.
Graduate.
Fine, that’s three things. Anyway, it helps that Iowa is nothing but corn, fields, cornfields, and highway. Makes the ‘get in and get out’ that much easier. No attachments. No commitments here. Nothing but all work and no play—I haven’t even allowed myself friends from the wrestling team.
“New Guy.” Rex nudges me back to life. “If you’re going to get laid, you have to be more fucking assertive. You can’t be lazy.”
“Nah, I’m good standin’ right where I am.” Against tacky wallpaper in the back room of a crowded party.
Rex leans against it too, turning to face me. “If you’re going to insist on being a little bitch every time we go out, let me give you a little word of advice: stay away from Oz and Zeke.”
“Why?”
“Dude, they are way too good-looking. Trust me, no girl is going to give you the time of day if you’re standing next to either one of them.”
“I thought they had girlfriends?”
“They do. Actually, I think it only makes them more appealing to chicks.”
“Why is that bad?”
“Do you want girls to bang you or them?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you gay?”
“No.”
“You can tell me if you are.” He holds up his palms. “No judgments.”
“I don’t feel comfortable hitting on women all the time, is all. No big deal.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you comfortable hitting on women? What’s the deal? I know you’re not shy—I’ve seen you have conversations with the trainers and PTs.”
A few of whom are women…attractive women.
“I don’t want to bone every woman that talks to me, Gunderson.”
“I do.”
He says it with such a straight face that I bust out laughing.