by KC Enders
“He splits his time—here, upstate, and out in LA. If you’re wondering, he’s still the same. Hasn’t changed a bit.” Nate reaches into his glass and snags a cherry stem, plucking it from his whiskey. He offers it to me and fishes out another for himself.
For as few words as he shared, I feel like there’s a lot he has to say. I glance over my shoulder for Ian, but there’s still no sign of him, and the comfortable silence between Nate and me is currently … not.
“You’ve changed.”
Nate lifts his gaze to meet mine, his eyes clear and yet kind of far away.
“You retreated. It’s like you’ve shut down on me.”
He does this thing—a shrug, a head tilt, and a lift of an eyebrow, all at the same time. It’s adorable and frustrating, and it takes me back to when we were nothing but a couple of kids, thinking we knew what love was.
“Just a lot spinning around in my head. Sorry,” he says so softly that I barely hear him above the restaurant noise.
I lean against the back of my barstool and settle in. “How did you get here? How did you go from dreams of being the next Rossini or Geier, playing Dragonetti, to selling out arenas in the hottest alternative rock band since …” I can’t think of any band that rose to stardom as fast as The UnBroken.
As Nate ponders my question or maybe just the best way to answer it, he purses his lips.
“It was first semester, freshman year of college, and I was pissed,” he says simply.
My heart squeezes, stuttering for a moment before tripping back to a scared staccato. What was meant as a lighthearted question has me shifting uncomfortably in my guilt.
Nate and I were supposed to come to New York City together, find our dreams together, but opportunity was a temptress that I wasn’t strong enough to resist.
“I’m sorry.” Two words that are as useless as they are true. I am sorry that I left the way I did. But I will never apologize for accomplishing all that I have in dance.
Nate waves me off. “I was pissed at a lot of things. My mom for calling at the wrong time. Kane for hitting on me again and Ian for helping himself to my laptop like it was nothing. I had a final English comp paper that I had just finished writing open on the thing, and I hadn’t even saved it yet.”
“You should always save your work,” I say out of experience. The number of times I lost work, thinking I had saved it but hadn’t, is disturbing.
“Rookie mistake. Anyway, Gavin had just laid out this plan for getting gigs and touring over spring semester. He was all about trying it, seeing where it would go if it even went.
“And then my dad said some shit—the same shit he always did about all the ways I’d failed. What a disappointment I was … I don’t know. Maybe it was all of those factors piled on top of each other that made me flip. But ultimately, I said yes, and somehow, we got lucky and ended up here. Tours, the label—all of it.” His palm lifts from its resting spot on his thigh. He’s almost indifferent to their risk and rise to success. Like it was nothing.
“I feel like that’s the easy version, a lot like the one you give in interviews.”
He does the dismissive-shrug thing again, and it takes every ounce of my control to not reach out and smooth away the creases in his brow. I want to touch him, shove my fingers through his hair until my palms cradle his face. I want to pull him toward me and kiss away the sting of what he didn’t say. That he was pissed at me.
“There’s not a whole lot to say about it.” He stretches his hand, flexing his fingers and rubbing at the back of his hand with the opposite thumb.
I know how that feels—the stiff muscles, the ache. No longer able to rein myself in, I reach out and grasp his hand, pulling it close to me. I hold it, warming it between my palms before I start a gentle massage.
Everything falls away—the bar, the people, everything—leaving only Nate and me and nothing else. I can feel his eyes heating the crown of my head as he stares. My focus stays on his hand, his long fingers. The veins crossing the back of his hand, running up his forearms. I work my thumbs from his fingers, across his hand, and halfway up his arm.
And somehow, above the din in the bar, I hear his groan. I don’t just hear it; I feel the vibration of it racing through my body, skittering along my skin like an electric current. I feel it settle low in my belly, where every muscle tightens with desire.
13
A DAY TO REMEMBER
NATE
Her touch.
The way her fingers slide over mine, thumbs digging in and working the tension from my hand. It’s distracting and delicious, enticing. It makes my dick hard as stone.
In public. And because of who I am, some Instagram junkie might recognize me and post a picture of me sporting some serious VPL. Because how can I not be with a rock-hard dick fighting for space in the confines of my pants?—that shit is uncomfortable.
And it’s been happening way too much. Most definitely without my permission.
I think I have a pretty good lock on my control. Face relaxed. Shoulders down. Fists loose.
Chest expanding and contracting as needed.
It’s all good until her long, graceful fingers slip to the sensitive skin on the underside of my forearm, her thumbs sliding through the muscle, along the tendon, toward my wrist.
There’s no stopping the groan that rumbles at the back of my throat. My lids fall, heavy with lust and want. Need. I fucking need to wrap my free hand around the nape of her neck and drag her closer. Kiss her breathless and make her beg for my cock. Because that’s all she’d be getting. That’s all I can give.
I will fuck this girl, get my dick wet, dirty her up, but I will not give her my heart. Not again.
“Hey. Hey, Nathaniel,” Ian slurs and stumbles as he magically reappears from wherever he went. “I’mma go home, ’kay? Don’t wanna think ’bout this shit anymore. ’M go home.”
He bounces against the barstools and pauses, turning slowly and deliberately so that he’s lined up for a straight shot out the door. He doesn’t make it through the gauntlet, and when the third drink is spilled from him bumping chairs, I jump from my seat and go after him.
Outside on the sidewalk, I lean Ian against the brick front of the restaurant and pull my phone from my pocket.
“Jus’ wanna go home. ’S bullshit. ’S all bullshit.”
“Hang on, man. Let me …” I tap out a text to Alex, but as I hit Send, she walks through the door and joins us out on the sidewalk. “Stay with Ian a minute? I’ll run in and take care of our bill.”
Curls bounce as she shakes her head. “I got it,” she says quietly as she stiffly shoves a credit card slip into her bag.
There’s no way that didn’t cost her a small fortune. Honestly, I have no clue what she pulls as a dancer, but I know we were drinking and eating our fill well above normal people’s pay grade. Ian’s bar bill alone was probably disastrous.
“I’ll just go have them reverse it and put it on mine.” I take a step toward the door, but Alex blushes, shifting awkwardly, and waves me off.
“It’s fine.”
By the time we turn our attention back to Ian, he’s slid down the face of the building. Ass on the grimy city sidewalk, t-shirt rucked up in the back, hung up on the brick facade.
We are obviously well beyond the stage where I can just dump his ass in a cab and know he’ll make it up to his apartment. It’s been a hella long time since he’s pulled something like this. Normally, Kane is the drunken mess who needs to be taken care of.
“Are we walking him home, or should I grab a taxi?” Alex pulls a bottle of water from her bag. Crouching down to Ian’s level, she gently lifts it to his lips, encouraging him to drink. Miles of toned creamy thigh are exposed as the short skirt she seems to favor shifts with the movement.
I shove my fists deep in my pockets and bend forward. My scuffed Chucks have never been as interesting as they are in this goddamn moment.
“Yeah, so we’re going to need a cab.”
She rises to standing and strides to the edge of the sidewalk, lifting her hand. As each yellow taxi passes the gorgeous woman beckoning just one of them to stop for her, I’m slightly dazed at their audacity. And though I seem to think she is absolutely undeniable, they seem to have no problem with moving on past her. I’m the one who’s been burned. I’m the one whose heart is up for a repeat performance.
After securing a cab, we pile in—Ian next to a window, just in case. And all six feet four inches of me crammed into the hump in the middle. If Ian blows chunks, I’m there to shield Alex from him. And hopefully make sure to get the window down and his head shoved out in time. But mostly, I’m here as her shield. Because no matter the risk, I’ll still protect Alex from anything and everything I can.
Traffic is blissfully light, getting us down to Ian’s loft in Tribeca in record time. On the other hand, the elevator ride up is slow and torturous. I wedge Ian into the corner with a hand shoved square on his chest as he mumbles shit. Something about fucking and some chick’s name.
“Is he dating someone?” Alex asks, glancing from Ian’s lax features to the climbing numbers above the steel doors.
“Not that I know of,” I answer automatically. Though with the number of times he’s mumbled the name River, who knows?
The doors part before the elevator is fully stopped at his floor, and I have to reach out, stopping Alex from moving forward and tripping over the four-inch difference between the floor of the elevator car and the actual tenth floor of the building.
“That’s special,” she comments as the car slowly levels out with the floor.
Ian blinks like an owl, maybe not quite sure how he got here, but at least recognizing where he is. He misses the first couple of times he goes for his front pocket, tilting precariously off-balance, but finally, after a concerted effort, he shoves his hand in and comes out with his keys.
“Whoa.” Alex says taking in Ian’s space. It’s edgy and completely him.
“Yeah,” I huff, guiding Ian through his apartment to his bedroom.
He falls onto his bed, face smashed into his pillow, and passes the fuck out.
Alex sets a glass of water on the table next to him, and after rummaging around in her bag, she puts a small bottle of ibuprofen with it.
“Is he going to be okay? Should we stay a minute and make sure he doesn’t—I don’t know—fall, puke? Something.”
I glance up to see her silhouetted in the door to his room. The city lights filtering through the apartment ignite her hair in a fiery glow, highlighting the riotous curls spilling over her shoulders, the curves that are in direct contrast to her athleticism. I need to go. Need to get out of here and suck some fresh air into my lungs, clear the lascivious haze from my brain.
“Nah, he’ll be fine. He’s had tons of practice.” I push past her and dig in my pocket for my phone, ordering an Uber to take us back to Brooklyn. “Our car’ll be here in seven minutes. With that elevator, it might take us ten to make it out front. We should …” I nod my head toward the door.
And even though I was kidding—mostly—it takes a fucking lifetime and a day to get the elevator to us and then return to street level. Long enough in fact that the silver Nissan is at the curb with our driver, Karl, dancing and bouncing in the driver’s seat, putting on the performance of his life.
I open the door for Alex, and we’re blasted with not only the distinctive bass line of The UnBroken, but also a cloud of cinnamon and vanilla air freshener.
“You Alex Calloway?” the driver asks, shouting over his insanely over-the-top sound system.
Alex pauses halfway across the bench seat, eyes wide, mouth open but stunned silent.
I fold myself into the tight space and pull the door shut. “Yep. Karl?”
“You know it, man. Welcome to my Uber. Normally, I’d ask what you want to listen to, but, dude, who can say no to this band, amiright? Sit tight and hang on. I’mma getchu to Brooklyn in record time. I got a little honey out there I sometimes meet up wit’ for a little ride o’ my own, knowwhat’msayin’?”
His dark, overly groomed eyebrows dance in the rearview mirror as he shifts in his seat and reaches down. I assume he’s rearranging his shit, but I look away and catch Alex’s shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
Or maybe it’s not so silent, but I can’t hear anything over the volume of the music.
Alex leans over, and her fingertips brush my thigh as she braces herself on the seat between us. I dip my head down to hear what she has to say since I obviously won’t be hearing her any other way.
“Alex Calloway?” she asks, but her question is the least of my issues.
Because Karl is literally on a fucking mission, driving like a bat out of hell and taking turns on two wheels. Not great for driving in the city, and it sure as fuck is not great for my resolve. With every turn, every change of lanes, Alex’s body is right there. Grazing against mine, pressing into me.
There was a time I would have killed to hear those names together. I don’t know why I still use it.
“It’s just a fake name. Easy to remember.” I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her in place by my side.
“Thanks. I wonder if we get a belt buckle if we make it to Brooklyn.”
For fuck’s sake, we deserve something for hanging on through this hellish drive.
“Anyway, Ian.”
“I told you, he’ll be fine.”
The car lurches again, and Alex jolts, grabbing the first thing she can to brace herself. It just so happens to be my thigh—practically my dick, and that fucking traitor jumps in interest. I can’t give up my heart to Alex again, and it needs to stop dumping blood south every time I’m around her.
“I’m sure, but you said he’s been weird, right? All kinds of tense and stressed out? And he left us at the bar and came back shit-faced. How does that happen? Don’t you have to be at the bar to get shitty?”
She’s not wrong, but her hand hasn’t moved from my thigh, and thinking—responding—is becoming an issue for me.
“Maybe he just needs to get laid. Blow off some steam,” she adds.
Her tiny excuse of a skirt is riding high on her thigh, exposing miles of skin. Creamy, toned thighs dusted with pale freckles. I know those freckles. Back in the day, I had a handful of favorites—the one on her collarbone, the one just under her right breast, the one by her belly button, and the one shaped like a broken heart on the back of her neck.
I’m so lost in memories of Alex—of the feel of her body, her curves, and the way they fit so perfectly against my own—that it takes me a hot minute for her words to filter through my foggy brain.
“Huh?”
“I said, it might help you, too.” She trails her fingers down the inside of my leg, and even though her hand is moving in the wrong direction, it feels so fucking right.
My brow pops high in question, and I turn my head merely a fraction of an inch in her direction. “Alex …”
“You seem kind of stressed, Nate. All the time. That can’t be good. It can’t feel good.”
The offer is all but laid out on a silver fucking platter.
Karl nods, flying past Alex’s building, drifting through the turn onto my street, and then guns it the handful of blocks until he just about misses my door.
“A’ight. We good with just the one stop, right?” he says, twisting and throwing his arm over the passenger seat in front of me, a smirk plastered across his face.
“Absolutely,” I tell him, already opening my door and pulling Alex from the car. “Thanks, man. You, uh … you have a good night.”
He sticks his tongue between his teeth and slides his hand from the seat back to his crotch, rubbing vigorously. “You know it, brotha. Getchu some.” His eyes land on Alex’s chest and linger there. He revs the engine and takes off in a blur.
“I have never been so thankful to see taillights driving away,” Alex says on a laugh. “He was something.”
“Hope he doesn’t fuck t
he way he drives. I’m kind of worried about his booty call.”
I climb the stairs to my door and shove the key in the lock. Alex slides her hand up my back, tracing the deep ridge of my spine until she winds her fingers into my hair.
“You coming in?”
“Yes, please,” she says, sliding between me and my front door, that fucking freckle on her collarbone taunting me.
There’s no way in but through her.
I just have to keep my heart out of this.
14
JOJO
ALEXIS
I hold my breath. Counting the beats of my heart. Counting his.
Waiting.
Nate’s gaze bounces back and forth between my eyes. He’s thinking hard about what to do next, and all I want is for this to be easy. Easy like it was back in high school.
The tension is killing me—and not the coiled tension that’s been simmering under his skin since we started this working-together thing. This is the tension of options being weighed. Of decisions being made.
In the blink of an eye, in that tiny space between consideration and actualization, Nate reaches behind me and twists the lock, pushing the door open. Pushing me through it and slamming it behind us, the lock clicking into place.
Solidly.
Ominously.
Sensuously.
Like he’s leading, Nate pulls me close until we’re touching everywhere—from our chests down to our hips and beyond. Hand firm on my ass, his erection pushing into my hip, he walks me to the kitchen, his thigh pressing against my pussy with each of his long strides.
Chilled granite kisses the bare strip of exposed skin between my shirt and the waistband of my skirt. I gasp at the shock of cold, arching my back away, and Nate bypasses the sweet and tender kiss, plundering my mouth instead. Sucking the rest of the air from my lungs, leaving me dizzy, off-balance.
Keys clatter against stone, skittering across the counter and tumbling to the floor with a crash.
Nate’s palms slide down my sides, skimming my boobs. Lower, his thumbs trace along my hip bones. Heat flames through me, radiating from each and every point of contact.
