Chapter Six

Remy slipped out of the shower and snagged one of the linen robes off the back of the door. Purposely knocking the spare one onto the tiles, she stepped on it. No matter how hard he banged on the door, she had no intention of letting Knox into the room.

Tropical heat from the balcony blew into the suite. Semi-comfortable with the temperature, Remy didn’t mind the humidity. Knox, on the other hand, would hate it. Turning on the air conditioner to cool down their suite was an option, but at the moment, she simply didn’t care. Maybe he was right about her passive-aggressive tendencies. They were something she promised to explore in depth about herself one day, but not today—and probably no time soon.

“Come on, girl. Open up! We look like hookers out here.”

After pulling the belt tight on the robe, she opened the door to a crowded hallway of football wives. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Remy smirked at the half-dressed squad of women. While three of them had on cute matching pajamas, the rest sported the same complimentary hotel robe that she wore.

“We want somewhere to gossip, and you have a suite.”

“Uh, I thought Knox got suites for everyone who flew with us on the plane?” She leaned against the door frame, already amused by their unexpected appearance. On one hand, she could sit and be pissed at Knox all night or she could be entertained with nonsense. A no brainer, Remy figured.

“Yeah, we want to do it without Allison, and since she clearly despises you, we figured your room was safe.” Lashonda barged her way in. “And Knox is playing poker with the guys, so-o-o-o…”

“We brought wine,” a guard’s wife called from the back of the crowded hallway. For such a tiny thing, Remy wondered how she made the height difference work with her husband.

“Why not?” She let the rest of them pile into the room. “I can use a drink.”

 

* * * *

 

Although Remy was slightly tipsy but totally amused after her second glass of merlot, the football wives showed her no signs that they were slowing down. Since she often traveled alone, she rarely indulged. She had become a pro at nursing the same drink for hours.

Between the wine and the vodka, Lashonda had braided Remy’s hair. Sensing that she was already half in the bag, Remy reconsidered the woman’s overly generous offer. “Ladies,” she began, “I don’t know what the itinerary is for this weekend, but—”

“That’s easy. Allison is going to hold us hostage until we all agree to do this reality show she’s pushing,” the one who had ‘hot librarian’ written all over her replied.

“None of our husbands are on board, and now that you’ve showed up—” Lashonda finished.

“Wait a minute! What do I have to do with this?”

“Knox is the quarterback,” her honorary hair stylist explained.

“Ow!” Remy flinched at the sudden pain.

“Sorry, girl. How the hell are you tender-headed with all of this hair?”

“Because I don’t yank it out by the root,” she muttered.

“My touch is very tender, I’ll have you know.”

Remy glared over her shoulder and wondered once again if she’d underestimated Lashonda’s level of drunkenness.

“Stop fidgeting and listen up,” the football wife demanded. “Player stats and popularity are directly correlated with the hierarchy of the wives.”

“How long you’ve been married means basically nothing if your husband’s stats suck.” The sexy librarian held her glass out for another drink before she shrugged and grabbed the whole bottle of tequila. “Which means that you’re the number one wife… Even if he is cheating on you.”

“Lacy!” the tiny one hissed.

“Not that I think he is! I mean, pictures don’t mean anything. Also, if I were to judge by the way he eye-banged you across the table at dinner—”

“And probably really banged you in the rainforest,” Lashonda added. Remy held her hand up for a high-five. The football wife landed the affirmative loud smack to the middle of her palm.

“Public sex,” Remy gasped in mock horror. “And here I thought we were being discreet.”

The women joined Remy in a laugh, until a big, ugly sob from the librarian silenced the group.

“We used to be like that, me and Roy,” she cried, while sipping from the bottle of tequila. “But that bitch!”

“Oh hell,” Lashonda muttered. “Not that Remy doesn’t want to be filled in on The Carl’s Junior girl, but we’re trying to keep it light. Right, Lace?”

“Yeah,” she sniffled. “Light and tight.”

“Here’s the dirty… Alli is going to either ice you out or cozy up to you, and considering how Knox hates the press more than anyone…”

“Iced,” the wives screamed in unison. The little one even dragged her finger across her throat and made the death sign, with the lolling tongue.

“All done.” Lashonda nudged her shoulder. Remy got up from the chair and went to the mirror above the couch. Fully prepared to lie, Remy smiled at her reflection. She absolutely loved the long twists.

“Good, huh? I do my best work drunk.” The wife beamed.

“Ah-h-h,” she murmured, speechless and amazed at how pretty the braids had turned out.

“Right? I was a hair stylist before I became a fashion stylist and got knocked up a whole bunch of times by a sex addict, so-o-o-o…” Lashonda leaned sidewise on the arm of the couch. “Sometimes I miss it.” She sighed before she fell onto the cushions.

Still admiring her hair, Remy did a little dance. “This is perfect for the Wave Festival.”

“You’ve got tickets?” the tiny one whined. “Great! You have all of the fun while we’re here with our fingers up our butts listening to Alli pitch that stupid show.”

“Actually, I have to work, but I scored extra tickets if you guys want to come.”

“Yes, a thousand times yes,” Lashonda said in a sing-songy tone. “Is it cool if we bring Lisa? She would be here, but—”

“Doug rarely lets her out of his sight.” Librarian dabbed at her eyes.

“Why not?” Happy that the conversation had naturally turned toward the girl, she completely ignored Knox’s advice to stay out of it. “I mean, what’s the story with those two, anyway?”