The Games We Play - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

END OF MAY
"That's it! I'm swearing off men! Men are over!"
Despite the bass-boosted music that can be heard from the goddamn moon, my announcement manages to turn the heads of mingling bodies nearby as they all stare at me with weird, confused frowns.
Let them stare. I'm too drunk to give a fuck right now.
Okay, so maybe heading straight to a house party right after a breakup and getting shitfaced drunk probably isn't the best for myself or the general public.
But there is literally no thought process involved in deciding to come here whatsoever.
Then again, there's rarely a thought process in any decision I make.
I slump back into the sticky leather sofa with a heavy sigh. "So, do I go to the shelter, or do the cats just appear on their own?"
"Noooooooo!" Jude drawls as he presses himself up against my side and pouts, smoothing a hand over my head like I'm a dog. "Your face is too pretty, and your titties are too big to die alone!"
"The titties didn't save me tonight, Jude. Even in pink lace, they didn't do shit," I sigh as I stare down at the girls.
Visually and physically measured at an astounding Double-D, my tits are always, always, always the first thing people notice about me. And although Mom swears it's my smile that turns heads, my smile isn't on my fucking chest.
"That is not their fault," Tasha says, pointing an accusing finger at me from where she kneels on the other side of the solo cup mountain atop the coffee table. "That's on the sad excuse for a male with the audacity of a baby carrot and thirty seconds of stamina."
"It is more like a thumb!" I cry out, my bottom lip feeling heavy and wobbly and tears beginning to pool at the corners of my eyes. "When I tried to jerk him off, it just felt like I was giving him a fucking business handshake!"
There's a pause in the group surrounding me—an astronomical pause of silence that's louder than the music—before they're all erupting into chaotic laughter.
I fold my arms across my chest defensively as my usual embarrassed-but-pissed-the-fuck-off pout takes over my face.
My eyes narrow on each and every one of them. "Y'all are bitches."
That only makes them howl louder than the music.
There are about eight of us in the circle—although it only really starts with me and Jude.
When I marched in through the front door of the house, tears in my eyes and both hands like Arthur's fists, Jude was standing in the foyer flirting with some long-haired guy. But the second he saw me, he ditched the Ponytail, pulled me into the living room, and demanded to know everything.
I'm not supposed to be here tonight.
I'm supposed to be on my back, on my knees, feet at my motherfucking ears, and my mouth in a permanent "O" shape.
And instead, all I am is entirely disappointed.
It was all going so well. Great—actually—as it had been for the past month.
Connor Booth was cute—so damn cute—and tall too. He's on a tennis scholarship and an avid gym-goer. He dresses well, he is clean, and he smells good. He's kind and funny and polite. I never have to open a door, tie my own shoelaces, or pay for my own meal when I'm with him.
On paper, Connor is a diamond in the goddamn rough that is the current horrific state of the male population on Earth.
With summer break around the corner and Connor soon heading to France for a tennis comp, we both decided tonight is the night. The big woo-hoo. The pièce de résistance. The wham bam thank you ma'am.
Good ol' fucking.
He picked me up, took me to a very fancy Italian restaurant that overlooks Lake Norman, and then we headed back to his with a bottle of chilled white wine and takeaway dessert.
I'm prepped. I'm ready.
I went out and bought an adorable pink, lacey lingerie set. I spent hours on an outfit and ended up choosing the first one I put on; a tight, boat-neck tank in chocolate brown, a tiny black mini skirt, and black knee length boots with a big enough heel to make me feel tall.
My hair brown hair was washed, conditioned, silky and rolled down my back in shimmery chocolate waves. I smelled like a fresh vanilla dream and I'm waxed everywhere.
Covered in enough moisturiser to slide across the bed like a damn penguin.
We sat on the couch, sipped the wine, had a few bites of the tiramisu, and then I was straddling him while his tongue is down my throat. Connor picked me up in his big tennis-toned arms and carried me to his bedroom where we hastily undress each other.
Then I died.
Or at least the horny butterflies between my legs did.
The second that poor little thing popped out as he dropped his underwear should have been the second I got the fuck out of there. Thank God for that one Yankee candle burning away in the corner because otherwise, the look of pure and utter shock plastered across my face would've been more visible.
But I still chugged on ahead—lay there on my back with my fingers politely clasped on my bare stomach and waited while he pulled a condom out of a box labeled with S.
S for "small." S for "sad." S for "so, is it in yet?"
He then rubbed what he assumed is my clit for about two and a half seconds before lining himself up like a plane on a runway. It was drier than the motherfucking Sahara Desert down there, and when I flinched from the pain of him pushing in, he mistook it for me being super into it.
All I can say is that at least he didn't last long.
A few weak pumps he's finished, breathlessly whispering in my ear, 'Did you cum too, baby?'
I couldn't open my mouth without laughing or crying, so I just nodded with a high-pitched hum as he rolled off me.
He kissed my forehead and invited me to have a shower with him. I told him I'd meet him in there, and the second I heard the water start, I'm dressed and out the door with an Uber on its way.
But, hey, it's not like I ran out on him completely. I did text him from the backseat of the Prius.
I know—I'm an awful human being.
"Oh, poor baby..." Jude smooths a hand over my hair while sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to stop his flat ass from laughing. He notices my angry pout and reaches out, grabbing my chin to turn it to him. "Cam, honey, Cam, look at me."
I tear my gaze away from where I'm still glaring at my friends.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're hot. You're smart. You have thighs that could crush a man's head like a watermelon. If you're dying alone, the rest of us are doomed."
"Preach," Yasmine says, raising her drink in a toast. "Play some Tinashe, and you're basically a walking thirst edit, babe. It's just that your taste in men is... questionable at best."
Everyone lifts their drinks and hums.
"Here, here." Tasha winks at me atop her cup when I slice her a dark glance.
"I'm aware," I mutter as Jude drops his hold on my chin, and I play with the hem of my black mini skirt. "But it's supposed to be different this time, you know? I thought Connor was different. Why am I cursed with the tiny penis!?"
Again, those around us all turn to glance at me.
I throw their frowns right back at them.
"I mean, James in freshman year, Scott last summer, and now Connor! I just—Is there something in the water that's making them all small, or do they just not exist?" I ask as I run a spare hand down my face and let out a little sob. "God—I need another drink."
"I think you need some air."
When I slide my hand off my face, I blink up at the most gorgeous blonde woman I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on. She's staring back at me with an unimpressed yet caring expression—oh yeah, she is so bored of my shit.
I brighten instantly. "Mommy!"
"Oh my God—you're gone, aren't you?" Scarlett chuckles as she steps closer to the arm of the sofa I'm pressed against and smooths a hand back over the top of my head. She's staring at Jude as she says, "Thought you were going to watch her?"
"I did watch her." Jude tucks his feet up on the sofa and grins. "I watched her drink all ten cans. Each and every one. I'm very impressed."
My speech is starting to slur a little as I pass him a big, cheesy grin. "Thank you, Jude."
"My pleasure, baby."
"Hey, Scar, guess what?" I whisper as I turn back to the blonde goddess looming above me.
She smiles softly. "What, honey?"
"I'm never having sex again!"
Her smile tenses a little, and she looks at Jude for a little help.
He flicks a hand. "It's a whole thing. There's a thumb. Cats involved."
Scarlett's gaze flicks to him before she crouches down in front of me.
She's in a loose black halter neck with a very low drooping neckline, and up this close, her tits look amazing.
But Scar always looks amazing in general. Her honey-brown eyes sparkle in the dim colorful lighting strung up around the living room, and she smells of dark roses and something smoky.
"How about we get some fresh air? Does that sound nice?" She tilts her head while observing me.
I stretch out my legs in front of me and nod. "That sounds wonderful."
"Okay." She chuckles while standing and extending a hand to me. I grab onto it, and she helps me to my feet while glancing at Jude. "You need some air too?"
"Baby no, the life of the party cannot leave the party." Jude cackles at the proposition, and it makes Scarlett roll her eyes in annoyance, but I catch the tiny grin on her face. Even though Jude is too crazy and chaotic for her type-A brain, Scar still loves him.
Scarlett pulls me away from the sofa, and I stumble over my black leather boots and the tapestry-type rug on the floor. It makes Scarlett hold onto me a little longer as she steers me through the living room.
"You good?"
"Of course." I straighten my shoulders. "I'm thriving. This is what thriving looks like."
"Sure it is," Scarlett says dryly, her hand firm on my arm.
There are fewer people in the living room than there were when I first arrived, and I start wondering what time it is. My phone is in my little leather bag strapped to my shoulder, but I turned it off after I texted Connor—I'm so not here for dealing with all that shit.
Physically, mentally, spiritually, soberly, geographically.
"It is!" I protest as we step out onto the porch, and the muggy air hits my already warm skin. My frown turns sour as I begin mumbling, "Stupid fucking Connor and his stupid fucking small dick..."
I stumble toward the railing, gripping it like it might float away, and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Scarlett leans against the porch post, arms crossed, watching me with her usual mix of patience and vague amusement.
"I'm more of a man than he is," I let Scarlett and the whole street know as I puff out my chest and lift my arms to shoulder height to flex my barely-there biceps. I then drop my arms with a huff, "What guy has a rose-scented Yankee Candle? He's just so... so..."
Scarlett blinks. "Small?"
"Yes!" I point at her, amazed that she thinks of such a perfect word. "And you know what I want? I want a big dick. Like, a big one. A life-altering dick. A dick that makes me consider quitting school to follow it across the country."
She tucks her lips into her mouth to stop her grin from growing.
It's appreciated, but I still catch it.
I already know—my life is one big hilarious shitstorm.
"I—I—I want the kind of dick that ruins my hip alignment." I ramble on, gripping the railing for support. "The kind that makes me text my ex at three in the morning just to rub it in. Connor could never. He's—he's not even in the same league. He's not even in the same universe."
Scarlett exhales sharply, and for a second, I think she might actually be laughing. "Okay, honey, I think we're done here," she says, stepping forward to steady me when I nearly trip over my own feet.
"I'm not done!" I protest, pointing a finger at her like she's the one who wronged me. "I'm gonna find it, Scarlett. I'm gonna find the biggest, best dick, and when I do, I'm gonna—oh the things I'm gonna do—I'm gonna—"
"Okay," she interrupts, her voice calm but firm. "Time out. You're officially cut off from whatever bullshit you've been drinking."
I pout, leaning heavily against the railing. "You don't believe in me."
"I believe in you staying upright," she says, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me back toward the porch post. "Stay here. I'm getting you some water before you trip and break your neck."
She heads back inside, leaving me leaning against the railing and muttering to myself. "Stupid Connor. Stupid small penis Connor. Maybe they just don't exist," I say, watching my breath fog in the cool night air. "That would explain it—big dicks just don't exist. A myth made up to gaslight women into sleeping with them—that's it... yes..."
Above me, a couple on the balcony erupts into laughter, and I realize too late that I'm basically yelling my drunken manifesto into the night.
"Whatever," I mutter, letting my forehead drop onto my folded arms. "Fuck Connor. Fuck men. And fuck Yankee Candles t—"
"Big dicks exist."
I jolt so hard I nearly fall over the railing. Whipping around, I spot him—sitting in a chair tucked into the shadowy corner of the porch, phone in hand, like he's been there the whole time.
Whipping around, I spot him—sitting in a chair tucked into the shadowy corner of the porch, phone in hand, like he's been there the whole time.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" I yell, clutching the railing. "Were you just lurking there like a fucking creep this whole time?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he locks his phone, tucks it into his pocket, and leans forward onto his knees with an ease that feels practiced. There's a small, amused smile on his face, one that sends a little flicker of annoyance through me.
"You were loud enough to wake the dead. Hard not to overhear."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to focus. "Well, you can't just—that's not—what the fuck did you say?"
"I said big dicks exist," he repeats, like he's talking about the weather. "And I know because I have one."
I blink at him, my brain short-circuiting for a solid three seconds.
Then, as the words register, a laugh bursts out of me—loud and unfiltered. "Oh my God, what the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Well, now, we can't have you going around spreadin' false rumors. We're not a big population, but we do exist." He grins, standing up with a fluid ease that makes my mouth go a little dry.
And then I see him properly.
Shit.
He's huge.
Not just tall—though he's definitely well over six feet—but broad, too.
His black top clings to shoulders and arms so sinfully solid they look carved, and his loose denim jeans hang low on tapered hips. Golden-tanned skin, sharp jaw, blonde hair sticking out under a backward cap, and piercing blue eyes that seem to glint even in the low light.
He's so incredibly, motherfucking, goddamn hot.
So hot, indeed, that it kind of pisses me off because this literally cannot be fair.
He comes to a stop in front of me, only a step away, and I wouldn't need to reach out far to touch him.
There's just... there's something about his face: sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, a mouth currently curled into the most insufferably smug smirk I've ever seen.
Something about him feels weirdly familiar, but my buzzed brain can't quite connect the dots.
"Wait a second," I say, narrowing my eyes at him. "I know you."
His smirk falters for a split second before snapping back into place. "Do you?"
"Yeah..." I say slowly, pointing at him. "You look like that quarterback guy... but a little uglier."
Of course, he isn't ugly.
He looks like he's freshly fallen from heaven. Or crawled from the depths of hell just to punish me.
He tilts his head back, and the laugh he lets out hits me right in the pussy. It's deep and warm and genuine, and it makes me tingle in all the right places.
My eyes narrow on him. "And I'm sure he'd have more gentlemanly tact than letting the world know he's packing a weapon in his pants."
He's still grinning when he gazes back at me. "That what we callin' me correctin' you?"
"Well, fuck—what do you want me to say? Congrats? Do you want a medal? A cookie? A round of applause for your imaginary massive dick?" I gesture wildly toward his crotch before I can even stop myself.
Well done, Cam.
"I'd settle for you comin' home with me," he says easily.
I'm taken aback for a second, stunned silent by the sheer audacity and the fact that despite my verbal vomit of drunken bullshit, this blonde god is actually hitting on me.
But then I let out a sharp, sudden laugh and grip tighter onto the peeling porch railing. "Oh my lord—you cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Okay, then..." I say finally with a small giggle. "Prove it."
His brows lift slightly. "Prove it?"
"Yeah, I'm not going anywhere with you until I see some proof sir," I say, turning to face him fully and folding my arms across my chest. "If you're so sure you've got the goods, drop your pants. Let's see it."
For a second, he looks genuinely surprised. Then he recovers, his grin turning downright predatory.
"You're bold," he says, his voice low.
"And you're dodging," I reply instantly.
He laughs, slow and warm, and the sound slides under my skin in a way I really don't appreciate. "I ain't dodgin'. I just ain't about to get arrested for public indecency because some drunk girl dared me to whip it out."
"Coward," I accuse.
"Smart," he counters.
I narrow my eyes, refusing to back down. "So, what, you're expecting me to just take your word for it?"
"I'm expectin' you to let me prove it somewhere more... private. From the sounds of it, you've had a real shitty night. Let me make it better," he says smoothly, taking a step closer.
Fuck me—the way he towers over me has butterflies taking flight between my legs. He's so tall I have to look up at him through my eyelashes.
"Nice try," I say, even as I feel my pulse skip.
His grin doesn't falter. If anything, it grows sharper. "What's the matter? Afraid I might actually live up to the hype?"
I snort, though the sound comes out more nervous than I'd like. "You're an idiot."
"And you're curious," he counters.
"I am not curious," I lie.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
He leans down toward me, and I inhale sharply. For a second, I think—no, I hope—he's going to kiss me. But his lips keep moving past and hover just an inch from my earlobe.
His whisper raises the hairs on my neck. "Then why are you still standin' here?"
He pulls back, his blue eyes flickering to mine and holding my gaze steady. His words annoy me just as much as his face.
Not because he's hot—okay, partially because he's hot—but because deep down, I know him from somewhere.
But where the fuck from...
"Fine!" I sigh out dramatically, throwing my hands up. "Let's say I am curious. So what? You're not exactly giving me much to work with."
"I told you," he says, holding my gaze steady. "Come home with me, and I'll prove it."
I laugh sharply, shaking my head. "You really think that's going to work?"
"Seems like it already is."
I narrow my eyes at him, studying his god-gifted face again. I chew on my bottom lip, the action snagging his attention as his expression all but screams the dirty things he's thinking about right now.
Okay, wait a damn second, Cam.
Let's just address the facts:
One: I'm horny.
Two: I'm drunk.
Three: I'm horny.
That's it.
Fuck it.
I release my bottom lip. "Lead the way."