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  Natasha Stories

  Copyright 2014 by Natasha Stories

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  Warning: Sexual content. Intended for mature audiences over the age of 18.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Damn! That guy is hot! Your brother-in-law?"

  My new roommate was referring to Russ, my guardian. He and his wife Charity dropped me off at the dorm and then went shopping for stuff to fix up my side of the room. I was missing my baby daughter, Grace and was trying to be quiet to avoid the tears that threatened whenever I thought of her. I knew she was safe and happy with Charity and my sisters, but the thought of not seeing her for a month felt like a punch in the stomach.

  "What? Oh, no, Russ is my foster father. I know I look a little like Charity, but it's just a coincidence." I was afraid that would open up a bunch more questions, but maybe if I didn't volunteer to explain, she wouldn't pry.

  "My name's Rihanna, what's yours?" she asked. Good, a generic question, nothing about my family. My screwed-up, impossible family, whom I loved dearly and who weren't my family at all, really.

  "Um, Janey. Hi, Rihanna, nice to meet you," I said. My voice sounded stiff and cold, not good.

  "So, they're coming back, right?" she said.

  "Yes. Charity wants to get me something to make my side of the room look homey. I hope you don't mind," I said.

  "Shit, no! This room needs all the help it can get," she answered. I goggled at her a bit, unused to crass language at home, though I was aware the cowboys swore all the time outside our hearing.

  "Um, yes, I agree," I said, casting around for a topic of conversation that might sustain itself for more than a yes, no, yes, no exchange. "What's your major, Rihanna?"

  "Undeclared. I'm going to live a little and decide later. Highly recommended, according to my mom. Not that she's a great example. Her parents were hippies, you know, from the sixties? Mom never had any structure in her life at all. But, that's another story. What's yours?"

  I was still processing these interesting bits of information. Undeclared? I didn't know you could do that. My major was Education, with a concentration in English. Charity's influence, though it wasn’t hard to turn me into a reader. Russ's library was excellent, and I devoured everything Charity suggested. I wondered what a hippie was. Charity always told me that the only stupid question was the one you didn't ask, so I did.

  "What's a hippie?"

  Now it was Rihanna's turn to goggle at me. "Where the hell are you from? What's a hippie? That's…that's fucking stupid!"

  My mouth dropped open. She was calling me stupid? Not only that, but with that awful word to make it even worse? Tears gathered in my eyes, and I bit the inside of my mouth to keep them from falling. I was not stupid!

  Rihanna’s expression turned compassionate. "Oh, hey, I didn't mean you were stupid. I meant, well, I don't know what the hell I meant. I never heard of someone who didn't know what a hippie was. So, it was a kind of philosophy and way of living in my grandparents' day. I'll explain later, it's okay. But, why don't you know? Are you American? You sound American."

  I felt a little better, though still inadequate. "I was raised in Arizona," I said. "In a really little town, with no TV or books. Russ and Charity took me in, along with my sisters, and I've lived on a ranch in Wyoming for the last three years. No hippies there, at least as far as I know." I tried on a little laugh, then, wondering if I would ever fit in on a college campus that had more students than my hometown had residents. Or, in the bigger city, Salt Lake City, Utah, beyond the campus. I sighed. Probably not.

  "Oh, jeez," she said, "I had this wild thought you might be an alien or something." Laughing as if she had told a really good joke, she looked over at me to see my face once again blank.

  "Don't tell me…you don't know what an alien is, either, do you?" I shook my head, more confused than ever.

  "Well, don't you worry, hon. I'm gonna take care of you. Before you know it, you'll know everything. You'll be partying and having a good time like the rest of us. Do you like pizza?" Rihanna’s changes of subject were beginning to make me dizzy, but this question I could answer without hesitation.

  "Yes, when I've had it. Do you?"

  "Are you shittin' me? I live for it and on it. It's my favorite food. Come on, my treat." Rihanna hopped off her bed, skipped over to me and pulled me up from mine by the hand. "We'll be right back, there's a Pie real close."

  I went with her, mainly because there was no choice, but also because I was curious to see this pie she mentioned, and find out what it had to do with pizza. I left a note on the door for Russ and Charity first, though.

  Rihanna didn't let go of my hand all the way down the stairs and out the front door of the dorm, dragging me as fast as my sandals would take me to a nearby restaurant with a big sign that said The Pie Pizzeria. Oh. I began to realize that I just needed to learn the language she spoke, and Rihanna would indeed teach me everything I needed to know. My spirits rose as I understood that she automatically counted me a friend, just because we were roommates.

  ~~~

  Russ and Charity came back bearing shopping bags that dwarfed Russ as he struggled up the stairs with them. Charity had picked out two bed-in-a-bag sets, one to have on the bed and one as a spare when the first one needed laundering. Two big, fluffy towels and several throw pillows along with the bed pillow. All in pink tones.

  Rihanna’s eyes went wide when she saw it all, but thank goodness she kept her opinion to herself. I had learned in the last two hours that she spoke her mind without filters or regard for decent language. I thought Russ and Charity would be okay with it, but I didn't need to find out right now. I wanted to keep Rihanna as a roommate, because she was my total opposite. I could learn a lot from her.

  On our way to The Pie, she had learned far more about me than I had about her. She now knew I was an Education major, and that Russ and Charity would be back after fall break to help me shop for a car that they would pay for. That Russ was also putting me through school, and that I had no other family besides my guardians and my sisters. I managed to keep my early background private, as well as the fact that I had a daughter. Maybe we'd become good enough friends to share that, maybe not. I wanted to wait and see.

  "It's so awesome that your guardian is putting you through college! Most foster parents are just in it for the money," she opined.

  "He and Charity have been wonderful. We were very lucky," I said.

  We continued to share information about ourselves until Russ and Charity arrived with all the pink stuff, and then Rihanna fell silent while they were in the room with us. When they left, the breath whooshed out of her as if she'd been holding it. "Oh, my God, if I see one more square inch of pink, I'm going to be sick," she exclaimed.

  "I'm sorry," I said, helplessly. "Chari
ty's led kind of a sheltered life, too. She probably thought I would love all this girlie stuff. I'll put it away."

  "Oh, don't mind me, I'll get used to it. Hey, let's go hang out and watch boys," she crowed.

  We spent the next hour watching students come and go, sometimes with parents in tow, sometimes in groups. The boys weren't as well built as the cowboys at Russ's ranch, who got their muscles from hard work. I watched Rihanna for clues about how to act, giggling when she made a remark about someone's appearance. My new roommate kept me laughing until it was time to go in.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I had little time to adjust before classes started, just two days after the Saturday that Russ and Charity left me on my own in the dorm. Charity, already beginning to show with her second pregnancy, hugged me awkwardly and assured me for the millionth time that Grace would be just fine. She had her half-brother, Amber's little boy, to keep her company, and to tell the truth, none of the kids much cared who was Mommy and who was an aunt. Unfortunately, Charity made these revelations without thinking, with Rihanna all ears.

  Once all the hugs, tears and reassurances were done and my guardians gone for good this time, Rihanna coughed. I turned to look at her, finding her eyes big as saucers.

  "You have a baby? I thought Amber was your sister," she hissed. "You guys both have babies by the same father? Oh, shit! Oh, fuck!" she cried, becoming agitated. "Was it your father? Is that why they took you all away from him? Omigod!"

  I sighed. It was plain I'd have to tell her the whole story, before she spun a tale that was even worse than the reality, which was bad enough. "Sit down, Ri," I said. "I'll tell you everything."

  So I did, with Rihanna punctuating my tale every few seconds with a groan or little scream. No one I knew lived life as large as my new roommate. I actually liked her for it. I was rapidly becoming aware that I'd settled into motherhood far too early and needed to catch up on some fun. I made short work of the story, though, because I had no wish to relive it.

  "Have you ever heard of polygamists, Ri?" I started.

  "You mean those guys that marry umpteen young wives and make them wear old-fashioned dresses and funny hairstyles? Yeah, they're all over the place, why?"

  "I was raised in a polygamist community," I said, my hands beginning to shake. I sat on them to keep them still. I'd tried to put all of this out of my mind. Remembering was tough. "My husband, our husband, had seventeen wives, including five of us who were underage when Charity ran away from the compound. She found Russ and asked him to rescue us. Then he turned Jed in, and took us in because we all had children and we'd have been separated from them in the normal foster system. My sisters aren't blood sisters—we called ourselves sister-wives until we decided we'd just be sisters."

  "Omigod, like the TV show!" Rihanna squealed.

  "I don't know about any TV show. We didn't have it growing up, so we didn't really watch it on the ranch, just turned the educational shows on for the kids in the mornings," I explained. "That's why I don't know anything about the world."

  "That is so…craycray!"

  "Sorry?" I'd developed this shorthand for 'what the hell are you talking about'; it didn't take as long, or make me an object of curiosity while we were in public.

  "Crazy. Over the top, wild," she explained.

  "Oh, right. Listen, Ri, I don't want everyone to know about this, okay? I'm weird enough, not understanding slang or knowing how to dress and all. Can it be just between us?"

  "I'm down with that. I mean, sure, okay. Shit, this is seriously heavy stuff." She was beginning to get it. I had hopes that I could improve her vocabulary so she'd speak English, while learning a bit of my own. For example, 'shit' seemed to be a good, all-purpose tool. I was beginning to enjoy her liberal use of 'fuck', too. Maybe I'd add that to my vocabulary; it felt deliciously naughty.

  "So," Ri continued. "I'm guessing you've never partied or anything, am I right?"

  "You're right," I confirmed.

  "So let's find a party and get shitfaced tonight, then we'll have all day tomorrow to get it together for classes on Monday," she suggested. Shitfaced, I knew. The cowboys used that one. I'd never had a drink, was still underage for it and I suspected Rihanna was too.

  "How?" I started to ask.

  "We'll have to get you a fake ID. C'mon, I know someone." Once again, I found myself dragged by the hand out of the dorm and into the warm late-summer sunshine of Salt Lake City. Telling myself not to think, just go with Rihanna, I plastered a smile on my face and hurried to catch up to her so she wouldn't be dragging me. She was babbling about taking me to a consignment store and dressing me properly, and I began to catch her excitement.

  ~~~

  Our first stop was at a print shop, where Rihanna spoke quietly to a boy who had terrible skin and what I took for earrings, though they looked more like wheels for a tiny car, in both ears. I amused myself by looking through the enormous holes in the center to see what was behind him. After a moment, he nodded, and Ri gestured for me to follow them. The boy, whose name was apparently Scrud, took a picture of me and told us to come back in an hour.

  After that, we went to a consignment store, which turned out to be used clothing. When I told Rihanna I could afford new, she just shook her head and went into the store anyway. We came out with a bewildering array of leggings, short skirts, long tops, scarves and even a pair of knee-high boots. Rihanna promised she'd show me how to put them all together later, but said we weren't through.

  It was time to go back to the print shop and see what Scrud had done for an ID for me. Although I had a valid Wyoming driver's license, Rihanna explained that this one would get me into clubs and allow me to be served a drink. A little thrill of excitement went through me then. Alcohol was forbidden in my upbringing, not really available on the ranch except for wine, and in any case, I wasn't old enough. Rihanna swept all that away.

  "Oh, for godsakes, everyone I know has been drinking since they were fourteen. Live a little," she scoffed.

  "I'm down with that," I grinned. In response, she grinned back, then formed her right hand into a fist and held it out in front of her. I looked at it, puzzled, until it dawned on me that I was supposed to make a fist myself and touch hers with it. As soon as I did, she smiled even bigger and splayed her fingers out with an exaggerated gesture, which I copied. All I had to do was follow her lead and no one would know I didn't have a clue what I was doing. It was too bad we didn't have any classes in common.

  We picked up the false Utah driver's license from the print shop, and I turned over one hundred dollars in cash to the unattractive Scrud. Comparing mine to Ri's real one, I realized why it had been worth that kind of money. Scrud turned out to be an artist. I wondered when he'd begin to branch out into counterfeit currency. Then Ri pulled out her fake ID, which had a birthday three years earlier than the one on her real one, and other than that it was identical to the naked eye. These would pass muster, I suspected, and began to visualize what it would be like, walking into a club as if I owned the place, ordering a drink, flirting…

  "Hey, Ri?" I said.

  "Yeah?"

  "What should I order to drink?"

  "How should I know? What do you like? Oh, right, you don't know. Better start with something that isn't too hard. Maybe a rum and coke," she said.

  "What does it taste like?" I asked.

  "Like coke, with something sweet in it. It'll probably burn going down, and it'll warm you up," she explained, inadequately as I learned later.

  "Gotcha," I said.

  Nothing except the TV shows I'd missed, maybe, could have prepared me for the reality of a club. Rihanna explained that up until a few years ago, the darkness, confusing moving lights, and overwhelming noise would have been accompanied by heavy cigarette smoke, but now smoking indoors was banned, even in the bars and clubs. I was happy about that. After the first, too-large, swallow of rum and coke, I don't think my lungs could have taken smoke, too. I sputtered and tears came to my eyes as I c
oughed. Rihanna laughed and clapped me on the back until I got my breath.

  "Just sip it for a while," she said. This time, the alcohol didn't steal my breath, and it actually tasted good.

  A couple of young men noticed us, then came over to us and asked if we'd like to share their table. Since it was standing room only, we accepted, and, in the short intervals between songs, introduced ourselves. As soon as I said 'freshman', a long look passed between them, and Rihanna kicked me under the table. After the guys got up and left, abandoning their table, Ri said, "Remember, you're supposed to be twenty-one, even though you look about seventeen. Don't say freshman. If you have to admit you're a college student, make it a senior."

  "Sorry, Ri. Did you like either of them? I'm sorry I chased them away," I really did feel bad. It still hadn't registered just how many fish there were in this sea.

  "Nah, don't worry. There'll be others."

  We left that club, Rihanna worrying that the guys we were talking to might alert the club manager that we were underage. We soon found another, though, and I managed not to put my foot in my mouth. We stayed until closing, at one in the morning, and Rihanna called a taxi because she couldn't keep both of us from falling over. I hadn't paid much attention to how many drinks I'd had, but I really didn't feel odd while we were dancing. Only when I tried to walk straight did I realize that I was, as she said, shitfaced.

  ~~~

  On Sunday, I couldn't remember much of the night before and my mouth tasted dreadful. Rihanna said we had hangovers, and we should drink lots of water and stay quiet until it went away. I hoped I'd feel better by the next day, as I had my freshman English Lit survey class at eight a.m. At least I didn't have the headache Rihanna did. She said it was because I stuck to one kind of drink, while she'd been switching between kamikazes and Long Island Iced Tea. I'd had a taste of each, but I didn't like the kamikaze. I told her next time I was going to drink the iced tea, and she laughed, but only one short bark before she clutched her head and moaned.

  So far, this idea of living a little was a wash. I thought I'd had fun on Saturday night, but on Sunday, I couldn't remember what was fun about it, and I felt like I had the flu. It didn't stop me from wanting more, though. Surely, if all those other people at the club did this regularly, the fun eventually outweighed the hangovers.