Living With The Player

DYLAN EMERTON

“It’s late and it must waste us all from the trip. Why don’t we have a good night’s recess, then prepare for the wedding tomorrow?”

Mrs Renée proposed. Her husband didn’t take an appreciation to it, giving a shrewd look at his daughter and Boy. Friend. Oh, the weekend drama.

“Yes, I think that’s a decent idea”

My mother agreed, elbowing dad to join her in-which he did.

“Camilla, I got you a dress for the wedding since I wasn’t sure if you packed any. It’s on your bed. As for your boyfriend…”

Her distortion at the very mention is enough to put comedians out of their business. I could double over in laughter, but I have a suspicion there’s more to come.NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

“That’s fine. He can book his room.”

Camilla tries to keep a straight face, but with her dad’s grunt and mombling words along the line of “damn straight, he can” I have to bite my lip not to cackle.

“Or they could stay together? Save the cost”

The humour in this entire thing is drained. What the fuck is her mother thinking? Ain’t no way in hell pretty boy is sleeping next to Camilla.

I flip half my body to her mother, glower at her, and so does her husband.

“It’s fine ma’am. I’m sure they’ll have a room. I don’t want to encroach.”

I can’t figure out who grunts louder. Me or Mr Renée. I do, however, know who Camilla scowls at-me. And hell if her annoyance doesn’t turn me on more than it should. I hold back on paddling my bottom lip.

“Alright then. It’s good to see you, Camilla. We should all turn in for the night. We’ll meet at the reception and then have breakfast before driving to the church. Goodnight everyone.”

Nothing beats a closing remark from my dad, yet no one attempts to move.

Dad finally pokes at mom then they spin around and jaunt in the direction they came in. It’s just me. The Renee’s and pretty boy.

“I’ll show you to your room, Camilla.”

Her mother offers. She’s hesitant to move. For good reasons. Papa, Renée can’t keep his eyes off Jimmy. Trust me, the feeling is mutual, Mr.

“Umm maybe I should show Jimmy the booking area or?”

“I’m sure he’s competent enough to find his own way. Right?”

Her dad interrupts, cocking an eyebrow, groaning halfway through and at the end. Oh my God. This keeps getting better. Shade him to hell and back Papa Renée.

You didn’t think this one through, Camila. And how did Jimmy end up here without her parents’ knowledge?

We were told on Tuesday. She informed me on Thursday, which means she asked him in between. That should’ve been time to let them know. Something’s not adding up.

“A-Alright.”

Camilla stutters, flipping her hair forward to conceal half of her emotions.

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jimmy greets, about to lean forward to peck her cheeks. Again, her father grunts and he’s quick to recoil.

Good choice Jimmy, excellent choice. Keep your grubby hands to yourself. I’m having too much fun with this.

Camilla and her mother saunter off. And then there were three.

I take a few bold steps and stand behind her father. His shoulders are stiff, set out to intimidate while his eyes do the glaring.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“I’m Jimmy.”

The fucker begins. I bite my bottom lip so hard I’m terrified they’ll bleed out.

“I know.”

Camilla’s father answers. No filter on the sarcasm or how annoyed he is-at Jimmy.

This is so much fun.

“Right. I just think you deserve another introduction.”

“Uh-huh? How’d you figure?”

He scoffs harder than I would’ve.

This is even better than an orgasm. I’m all here for the Jimmy slander. Drag him across the damn floor.

Jimmy’s gaze turns to mine, and he stares furiously. I don’t flinch the slightest because we both know he’s trying to put out an impression.

“Make that booking else… I doubt you’d have a place to sleep tonight.”

That would be so nice. I stiffen the nth chuckle, crossing my hands across my chest.

“Yeah, you do that Jimmy.”

I chirp.

Mr Renée scrolls his eyes over Jimmy, rolling them as they pass his features.

“Goodnight.”

His sharp tone provokes Jimmy to jump, but I’ve heard it so many times that my pulse merely revs.

“Goodnight.”

I repeat in a sing-song voice, then walk away from both of them. I fall asleep with the widest grin on my face. And something tells me tomorrow will be even better.

****

SATURDAY.

CAMILLA RENÉE

I roll out of bed with a splitting headache. It’s half because I barely slept three hours and half based on the events that drained the sleep out of me.

I make a note to request Advil and yank the dress out of the clothing bag to decide if I’ll skip this entire weddings shit.

This is stunning. It’s a knee-length yellow gown, a dangerously placed V Neck slit which will keep anyone’s eyes on it with the jewellery mother placed beside it last night.

Sigh. I guess I’m going after all.

****

Brushing my teeth takes up less than five minutes. I shower for half an hour, then change into something casual before heading down to the reception, which already reeks of bad luck following last night’s ordeal.

Note to self; next time when you invite your boyfriend to a wedding to meet your parents in between, tell your parents in between. Also, tell said boyfriend that your not ex-boyfriend will be there.

Jimmy texted his room number, and that was it. My parents – no, my father refuses to converse with me, but my mother is giggly about the entire thing.

How do I tell her I brought him so I couldn’t be in Dylan’s face? How do I tell her Dylan has been in my face?

How am I barely nineteen a half and having this many life problems?

I don’t get an answer to that since Dylan is back in my fucking face.

I want to smack that grin off his stupid face. What’s so funny? I have a banging headache and he’s joyous?

Oh, right, he looked like fucking mother nature just standing there watching everyone plummet Jimmy to the ground.

“Good morning Camilla.”

He rasps, a little too close for my thighs since they ache in response. Curse his morning voice for sounding so good.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby.”

I retort coldly, strutting away to avoid him.

“Quite the coincidence. I slept the same.”

I roll my eyes even though my back faces him.

I hear incoming footsteps. “Good morning Mr Renée”

Then I freeze. Fuck. I’ll just go back to my room and crawl under the bed.

“Morning.”

Seems my father still hates Dylan. That makes two of us. He slides in front of me and takes a seat.

There’s a table for three. How convenient.

Dylan doesn’t mind my dad’s unwelcoming demeanour and takes a seat right next to him.

Now there’s just one. Dad’s eyes me daring me to move again-I don’t.

I slid down and mutter all the curse words I know to Dylan Emerton, then I pray for forgiveness for any God up there since I might murder him before I’m back in Cal-U.

“So Camilla, how is your boyfriend?”

Dad begins, folding both hands and then pressing them over the table. Can we not do this? Specifically, in front of Dylan? Again, my father taunts me not to respond.

“He’s fine. I’m sure he’s still sleeping. Should be down soon.”

“Good. Good. You could’ve told us he was coming?”

Dylan’s gaze burns into mine.

Shit. Fuck. Dad no. Please fucking no.

“Uh, I texted mom. I’m sure she just forgets to let you know.”

The lie keeps adding up. Now I’m bringing my mother into this? Who will most definitely cover up for me, but from the look on the faces of both men, they don’t for a minute buy the lie.

“I see.”

Both of them murmur in unison.

“I don’t like him.”

Dad states bluntly. Dylan’s grin explodes. I can’t help but kick his knee under the table. He bites the wince down and smirks instead.

“You don’t know him, dad. You’ve barely spoken ten words to him?”

“There’s a thing called intuition. Mine tells me Jimmy isn’t good news.”

I roll my eyes. Convenient.

“Jimmy is a good guy.”

“Mmmm.”

“Besides, you don’t like any guy I’m with.”

“True. I didn’t like Dylan either.”

I choke on a gasp. Oh no.

“Ouch. I’m very likeable.”

Dylan declares beside him.

“I don’t like Jimmy either.”

My father adds, ignoring Dylan’s side remark.

“Out of curiosity, who do you like less?”

“How does that help in any way?”

I grit my teeth, bawling each of my hands.

“Okay, you don’t like both of us. We’ve established that, but if you were to pick who you liked less sort of elimination by less likeability, who would it be?”

“Don’t answer that Dad.”

“Why? Scared you’d have the same answer if the question contained the opposite of that adverb?”

My entire body immobilises, and it’s just us two.

Until Jimmy takes that chance and strides out of the Hallway. In just fricking boxer briefs. That will not help the impression on my father.

“Jimmy.”

Dad states, then gets up from his seat. Was that an acknowledgement or an answer to Dylan’s question?

“Figured.”

The asshole quips and I bet he’s still gleaming.

“You’re right, my answer remains the same and the adverb in question is like.”

I mutter as a comeback. My tone is firmer than I thought.

“Oh darling, that would imply you hate both of us, which is inaccurate and, by definition of my question, the adverb can’t be like. There’s only one adverb left. Go figure.”

He got up as well, bobbing his head at Jimmy, which passes off as a silent greeting, or a mark of territory because Jimmy nods back.

****

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