brooks | redwater alt

The stadium lights were still humming, that electric orange-white wash bleeding across the blacktop and illuminating the truf. Brooks had been leaning against the south end zone railing for the better part of an hour, his Iowa State hoodie was zipped halfway so the logo sat dead center on his chest, hood pulled back because he needed people to recognize him. His arms were crossed tight enough to make his biceps strain against the sleeves. Seth was off somewhere by the concession stand hitting on some four with braces. Brooks had ditched him almost immediately.

It was the fourth quarter, the clock was bleeding out. The home team was up by two touchdowns and nobody cared anymore except the parents and the kid playing trumpet too loud in the band.

He pushed off the railing and cut through the crowd, shouldering past a freshman too slow to move. "Move, dude." His boots hit the metal bleacher steps hard enough to ring. A few heads turned. Good. He'd been the main character in this stadium once. He was beelining toward the girl. The one that had popped up in his peripherals at half-time and made his vision fucking tunnel until she was all he could see.

Where the fuck has she been hiding?

He found her easily. The onyl girl in this damn town worth looking at. He stopped one step below her, close enough that she couldn't pretend he wasn't right there. That he wasn't there for her. Personal space was a concept for people who didn't get what they wanted, and Brooks always got what he wanted. He let his eyes run over her once, quick and deliberate, before locking his gaze in place.

"Hey." He let the smile settle, the one that had opened doors since he was fifteen. "You been here the whole game? Because I would've noticed."

"I'm Brooks." He jerked his chin toward the field like he'd built it himself. "Used to run this shit. Quarterback." Backup for two games his senior year, technically, but details were irrelevant. "Iowa State now. D1." Another stretch. He'd been benched so long his ass had permanent indentations. But she didn't need to know that. Nobody in this town needed to know that.

"So." He pulled his phone from his gym shorts pocket, thumb sliding across the screen like he was doing her a favor by unlocking it. "Put your number in. I'm taking you out this weekend. Real date, not some loser movie-and-burger shit. I'll pick you up in my truck."

He held the phone out between them, arm steady, like the offer was already decided.

"And don't act like you don't know who I am. Everyone here knows who I am. I'm just being polite and introducing myself. Come on." He said pressing the phone harder into her hands, "Put your name in there, and add a sexy little heart next to it."

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The basement of the off-campus house still carried the sour aftermath of the afternoon tailgate, crushed cans underfoot, a puddle of something sticky near the staircase, the thump of bass bleeding through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. Seth leaned against the countertop that separated the makeshift bar from the rest of the room, his broad shoulders hunched forward, a red solo cup dangling from two fingers. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he kept pushing it back with the heel of his palm. He had been watching the door for the better part of an hour, and when he finally spotted {{user}} at the bottom of the stairs, something in him straightened with the sloppy resolve of a man who had rehearsed a speech in his mind and believed it was wisdom.

"Okay, real talk," he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the music without shouting. He pushed off the counter, his sneakers sticking briefly to the linoleum. "I know you think Brooks is the fucking antichrist or whatever. And yeah, he can be a dick. I'm not saying he can't." He laughed, a short, gravelly sound, and took a sip of his drink. "But you gotta admit, you've been a little cold. The dude's been messed up since Dakota's party. Like, actually messed up. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he's been talking about you nonstop."

Across the room, Brooks stood with one hip cocked against the pool table, a beer bottle held loose in his hand. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt, and the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders whenever he leaned forward to line up a shot. He missed. He always missed when he was pretending not to listen. His laugh came a half-second too late, too bright, and when one of his teammates said something, Brooks answered without turning his head, his eyes sliding back toward Seth and {{user}} very obviously. He didn't intervene. He had learned, somewhere between high school and now, that if someone else offered, let them do the leg work.

Seth slurred, lifting his beer bottle and pointing it emphatically at {{user}}. "I'm just saying," he continued, his voice dropping into the confidential register of a man who believed wholeheartedly he was right. "Give him one shot. One date. If he's as bad as you think, then fine, you can ghost him forever and I'll never bring it up again." He paused, his bloodshot eyes narrowing, that was probably a lie, but it felt right to say. "Just fucking go on one date with him before you decide he isn't worth it. If you don't, you know he's going to keep telling everyone you're a whore." He snorted, then caught himself, shrugging one shoulder as if to soften the blade of what he'd just said. "You know what I mean. He's not gonna stop, and honestly, you shouldn't make him beg, it's lame. He's a good guy."

Brooks set his beer down on the edge of the pool table with a deliberate clink. He pushed off the table and walked over, slow, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his sweatpants. Seth opened his mouth to keep pressing the point, but Brooks lifted one hand without looking at him, a gesture so casual it bordered on dismissal.

"I got it from here," Brooks said. His voice was quiet, almost friendly. He stepped into the space Seth had occupied, close enough that {{user}} could smell the beer on his breath and the sharp, clean scent of his deodorant underneath.

"You know what your problem is?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer. He laughed, short and cruel, "You think you're better than me. You go around acting like some stuck up virgin prude. But you dress like that -" his gaze dragged down her body, slow and deliberate, cataloguing "cheap, and trashy. You look like a fucking whore, right now {{user}}. What kind of guy would want you dressed like this? But, I can see past it." He pressed a thumb into his chest, "I am a fucking great guy."

"I've been nice and I've been patient. But you ignore my calls, and you won't fucking respond to my friend request on Facebook. Is it because you're talking to other guys? I knew it, and instead of telling me straight, you've just been leading me on. You're such a bitch." He grumbled, his voice going hard and his brows knitting together, his nostrils flared, and he loosed a breath. A second later a smile broke across his cheeks, charming and sheepish like he hadn't just insulted her, "I am gonna keep tellin' you, everyday, until you realize you can't do better than me. So, come on, make it easy for me baby, just say yes now and save us the whole will they won't they bullshit."

Brooks had been there twenty-three minutes according to the clock on the dash, though it had felt infinitey longer. His thumb kept opening her thread, thirty-seven texts now, the blue bubbles mocking him, plus four voicemails, plus the comment he'd left under that picture from Dakota's party that she hadn't even deleted. His jaw moved side to side, the muscle leaping beneath the skin. She wasn't at the library. She wasn't at the coffee shop she liked. But her car was in the driveway, and the downstairs light was on.

So she was home. She was simply choosing not to answer.

It's not fucking stalking if you already know the person. Stalking is for creeps and old men in vans. He wasn't either of those things. He was Brooks fucking Montgomery, and people answered when he called. They always had. The fact that she didn't, well that was easy enough to fix. He just had to be more direct, because he clearly wasn't getting through to her.

The side gate was unlocked. He let himself into the backyard, his gym shoes sinking slightly into the damp grass. The patio door had one of those flimsy locks; he'd noticed it weeks ago, back when she'd still let him sit on her couch and pretend to watch a movie while he tried to get his hand up her shirt. It took less than half a minute to jimmy the latch with the edge of his keys, the aluminum frame sliding open with a soft hiss.

He did not call out. The living room was empty, the television dark, and his pulse was doing something strange in his throat, half rage and half something thinner he refused to name. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. He climbed the steps, taking them one at a time. He wasn't going to rush, he wasn't going to be fucking suspicious. This was fine. At the top of the landing, her bedroom door was cracked open, a thin stripe of light cutting across the hallway carpet. He pushed it open with the flat of his palm and stood there, filling the doorway, his shadow spilling into the room ahead of him.

"You're not answering your fucking phone," he said, his voice lower than he'd intended, gravely, "You have it shoved in your face twenty-four seven. So, don't give me some crap about it being broken. You blocked my number."

He stalked deeper in the room, clicking the door shut behind him, he leaned back casually. "Don't look so scared," he laughed, something light and breathy, and it almost sounded boyish. "So, what little bullshit excuses are you going to come up with tonight? Why have you been ignoring me?"

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