by Maria Luis
Too drunk to remember . . . ?
That sentence right there tells me that she isn’t as wasted as she’d like me to believe. Which is fine. If she wants to do this right now, then we will. I twist the keys out of the ignition, then throw them up onto the dashboard. The interior of the car plunges into darkness. Her sharp intake of breath reaffirms what I already know: we need the shadows, the darkness.
In the sunlight, we risk too much of ourselves.
“I couldn’t stay, Zo.”
She doesn’t react to the shortened form of her name. “No,” she says stiffly, “you wouldn’t stay. We both know that you got exactly what you wanted from me. As soon as you got it, as soon as it blew up in your face, you dipped out.”
As much as it hurts to know she thinks that, I’m firmly aware of the fact that I never gave her a reason to believe otherwise. “It wasn’t just sex between us, Zoe. We were friends.”
“Friends don’t have sex, Andre, and they certainly don’t leave the moment things get rough.”
Rough didn’t even begin to explain it. My life had been torn at the seams. Zoe had been the balm I needed, the balm I craved. But sex had complicated that—and my life had already been too complicated.
“You’re right,” I tell her, because it’s true. “I’m not going to defend myself and tell you lies.” I lower my voice. “I shouldn’t have left you to deal with everything alone. You were my friend and I let you down.”
The passenger’s seat squeaks as though she’s dropped down. “Can you tell me why . . . ” She swallows, then clears her throat. “There was one day . . . you were home, your car was outside, after everything. I came by to see you, and you didn’t answer when I rang the doorbell. You just let me stand out there like an idiot. Why?”
Because I was too busy having my heart ripped out.
I must hesitate too long because she gives a deep sigh that speaks to her disappointment. “Never mind. Just . . . never mind.”
Her hand goes to the door to open it, and panic hits me like a freight train. The thought of her leaving steals my breath. “I can’t—” I shake my head, needing the words and yet finding none. “If I could tell you, I would, Zoe. I would. But it isn’t . . . Something happened and I can’t relive it. I don’t want to relive it.”
“Even if it meant we could get back to where we were? Even if it meant that I no longer looked at you like a coldhearted asshole?”
Knowing that she feels that way about me makes me feel lower than scum. I rub my chest, hoping to ease the growing ache. “I’m sorry, Zo,” I tell her softly, “I just . . . can’t.”
She doesn’t respond.
Instead she cranks open the door, and clambers out, her fingers going to her skirt to hold it in place.
She leaves me, alone.
I laugh, low and miserably.
Because the irony is a killer. The man who everyone thinks is a stone-faced emotional ice block . . . isn’t. I lower the window, seeking the cool air to hit my face. I’m holding onto a thread here, and I have the sickening feeling that I just cut loose my last hope for happiness.
Chapter Fourteen
ZOE
Sixteen Days Left . . .
You know what I think?
Fuck Andre Beaumont.
Yup, I said it. I’m living the no-regret lifestyle over here, and thus far, it’s utterly fantastic. In the three days since I’ve seen Mr. Sin Bin himself, I’ve taken out a new meaning on life.
No more living in the past.
No more waiting, hoping, that Andre will one day open his eyes and realize that he ruined a perfectly good friendship (or something more) with kissing me like he never wanted to stop.
No more hoping that we’ll ever get back to the place that we were.
Nope, I’m living life to the fullest for myself, and it feels great. Magnificent, actually.
I’ve had dinner with Charlie, helped my dad out at Vittoria (willingly), and taken Tia to the mall to stroll around and have some much-needed girl-time. Hell, I even dragged Shelby along to look at apartments in the area, and I think I may have found the perfect one.
Is it as large as my old condo in Detroit? No. Does it have nice features like marble kitchen tops or stainless-steel appliances? Negative.
Do I care?
Not one bit.
After work tonight, I’ll be putting in my “offer.” To get on Tia’s good side, since I had originally agreed to stay at the home-front with her, I promise sleepovers for her and her girlfriends every weekend for the next three months.
I don’t think I’ve been so happy in a long time.
And that in itself feels . . . amazing.
“Hey, Zoe?”
I glance up at Gwen, who is hovering in the doorway to my office. Since the game the other night, she’s taken to popping up here and there to chat. Never about work-related stuff, though. Instead, it seems she’s found a “friend” in me, which is both nice and also terrifying at the same time.
Gwen is, after all, a terrifying woman.
I hastily click out of the listing for the apartment on my desktop, thankful that she can’t see the computer screen from where she stands. “Hey, Gwen. Everything okay?”
Her usual confident composure slips as she sways side to side on her heels. “Mr. Collins would like to see you for a moment.”
My heart drops.
Oh, God, I’m about to be fired.
Does he know that I’ve been apartment hunting on Craigslist during my lunch breaks? Idiot.
With that thought in mind, I shut down the desktop completely. “Sure,” I squeak, “yeah, absolutely.” I throw a notebook and pen into my bag, hooking the strap over my shoulder. “Any idea what it’s about?”
Gwen averts her gaze, and then I know.
I’m doomed.
Done for.
Fired.
Good-bye not-so-beautiful apartment that isn’t even mine yet.
Good-bye excitement about life.
Am I being melodramatic? Yes, yes, I am.
With lead for feet, I follow Gwen down the bright hallway to Walter Collins’s office at the opposite end. She gives a quick one-two knock, and then slips the door open.
“You have her?” Mr. Collins calls out from the interior of his office.
I suck in a deep breath and pretend that I’m not about to pass out.
Gwen and I quietly enter the office, and it’s with a jolt of shock that I realize Andre is already seated across from my boss.
Déjà vu, but reversed.
His dark head twists as he turns to look at me, and his equally as dark eyes pin me in place. I wish I could read the emotion swirling there. Wish I could do more than just stand here, my feet cemented to the floor, my hands slick with sudden nerves.
“Come on in, come on in,” Mr. Collins says, waving Gwen and I in. “Pull up two chairs.”
Before I have the chance to do just that, Andre jumps up. “I’ve got it,” he says, voice low, “Zoe, take mine.”
My gaze cuts to Walter, who is watching me like a hawk. He thinks he knows what’s up, that Andre and I are knocking boots again. Ha! Little does he know that he couldn’t be further from the truth.
Andre’s biceps flex under his T-shirt as he deposits two chairs, one on either side of his original one. “Take whichever one you want.”
Why is he being so nice?
Maybe it’s wrong for that to be my first thought, but after our last confrontation, this . . . cordial version of Andre Beaumont has me raising my hackles and wondering what he has planned up his sleeve.
“Sit down everyone.”
At Mr. Collins’s no-nonsense tone, both Gwen and I drop into the nearest chairs, leaving the NHL’s sexiest bad boy to practically clamber over my left armrest to retake his seat.
Then, we’re all sitting, waiting, like naughty school children who have been caught in the wrong.
“All right.” Walter snaps his binder shut and touches his computer mouse to bring the d
esktop to life. “We need to have a discussion.”
God help us all.
My fingers twitch on the armrest, just as Andre shifts his weight, leaning close to me. His elbow brushes my hand, and I so wish that I didn’t feel that immediate connection throughout my body.
“What I think Mr. Collins is trying to say is . . . ” At Walter’s sharp glance, Gwen falls silent.
Then, he looks at me. Yeah, that warm tingly feeling from when Andre accidentally touched me? Gone. Nonexistent. If anything, I’m feeling a sudden chill.
“Miss Mackenzie,” Mr. Collins murmurs, “when you first began, you assured me that you had everything under control. That fixing up a celebrity’s failing image was something you’ve done on the regular.”
“Yes,” I answer slowly, “I did say that.”
As much as I want to defend myself, the situation calls for me to keep quiet and listen. Men like Walter Collins get off on their power trips—there’s no way that saying anything at this point will do me any favors.
“If that’s the case, then I would like for you to look at something and let me know why you thought this would be even reasonably acceptable for our client.” With a few clicks of the mouse, he pulls up a file. With stiff motions, he flicks the volume up on a miniature stereo, clicks on the mouse another time, and then angles the desktop so that we can very clearly see what’s going on.
Music blares from the speakers before the video starts to roll.
There’s no mistaking the upbeat voice of Justin Bieber. Andre’s knee lurches into mine, and at first, I think it might have been an accident, but . . . no. It’s not. I inch my leg away, and he spreads his right leg over, so his right thigh is pressed to my leg. The cat and mouse game ensues, but dies a quick death when the otherwise black screen cuts to its first shot.
Oh. My. God.
“Motherfu—”
With a kick of my foot against his, I quickly shut Andre up.
Gwen giggles hysterically on the opposite end of our lineup, and I don’t even know what to say aside from the fact that Andre seriously makes a speedo look good. Damn.
The B-roll of Andre standing about in practically his birthday suit pans to an image of him causing hell on the ice. His gloved fists clench the hockey stick, before he drops it to the ice. Then it’s him against his opponent as they grapple for a hold of each other’s jerseys. His helmet goes flying, and a trickle of blood starts at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes . . . his eyes are as black as the nighttime sky as he pummels the other player with his fists.
“I’ve been playing hockey since I was four,” Andre says in the clip’s voiceover. “My dad handed me a stick, told me to get into the net. Man, I sucked there. Never found my stride until I was allowed to fly down the rink.”
The camera cuts back to him wearing nothing but the speedo. This time, however, he’s holding a hockey stick behind his head, clamped against the back of his neck. The posture elongates his sturdy torso, ripples his abs, and clenches his thighs.
His thighs.
I gulp at the massive bulge at the apex of those thighs.
I need air. Maybe some water. Maybe a new set of panties.
Please don’t judge me.
The video goes on for at least another minute—more scenes from the ice, more close-ups of Andre wearing next to nothing as he swaggers around Fame’s studio. All the while, the magazine’s editor coaxes information out of him.
“First time I kissed a girl?” He chuckles low, and weird as it is that he’s sitting beside me, I’m rooted to my chair, watching him on the small screen as his lips quirk up into a devilish smile. “Kindergarten. I traded her a packet of Skittles for a kiss. Pretty sure I got the better end of the bargain, but she didn’t complain.”
“Crazy thing I wished I’d never done?” His gaze casts down, a big hand coming up to rub his bare chest. “Nipple rings. Had them done when I was reckless and nineteen. I thought they’d be a chick magnet. Unfortunately, I got a bad infection and had to take them out before anyone had the chance to appreciate them.”
“A time when a woman broke my heart? I . . . ” His Adam’s apple bobs down his thick neck. “That one is too personal. I hope you understand.”
The idea of a woman breaking Andre’s heart makes me feel a little sick. I swallow against the lump in my throat. I guess that I didn’t . . . Well, I guess I didn’t think he’d ever allow a woman close enough to break his heart.
The video—and Justin Bieber—ends in acute silence.
I wonder how obvious it would be if I launched myself out the window behind Mr. Collins.
“Did you approve of this video, Miss Mackenzie?” Mr. Collins asks, breaking the quiet.
The window is looking better with every second that passes. “To be fair,” I start awkwardly, “Fame’s editor was adamant that I remain in the waiting room.”
Which now makes sense.
At the time, I’d only been too happy to get away from Andre after our little elevator incident. Sitting in a separate room which overlooked Manhattan’s skyline with a cup of tea in hand had been just the slice of reprieve I’d needed.
“You’re his publicist,” Mr. Collins seethes. “Your entire job is to make sure he doesn’t come off in a bad light.”
I cringe. “I wouldn’t say that Mr. Beaumont looks bad in that video.” No, if anything, he looked way too good. Delicious, even. Trust me when I say that the entire female population would say he looks bad in the best way possible. Since I can’t say that, I settle for, “And I was under the impression that everything was well-received by Mr. Beaumont, otherwise he would have said something.”
Mr. Collins’s accusing gaze swings to Andre.
Andre, mind you, only shrugs his big shoulders. “The speedo was tighter than I liked, but other than that, it was fine.”
“See?” I murmur. “Everything was fine. Fame’s team did a fantastic—”
“Mr. Beaumont, I hope you won’t take offense to this, but you looked ridiculous.”
My mouth falls open. “Now, wait a second, Mr. Collins. Andre opened up in that interview. He—”
Andre’s hand lands on my own, and I’m so shocked by the sudden contact that I grow quiet. His dark eyes roam my face, searching, seeking something I don’t understand, before he glances away. His hand, however, remains on mine. Oh, boy.
“Mr. Collins,” he says stiffly, “I get what you’re trying to say. Honestly, I agree with you. I put up a hell of a fight because I didn’t want to do something with Fame. Stripping down to a speedo that can barely hold my junk isn’t my idea of a good time. With that said, I knew exactly what Miss Mackenzie aimed to do when that interview was scheduled.”
My boss’s eyes narrow. “And what, exactly, is that?”
“To strip down my walls and to make me look vulnerable to the public. Something that I don’t do.” He pauses, and his thumb traces the back of my hand. “That’s what Miss Mackenzie wanted with this interview. Is it fucking ridiculous? Absolutely. Do I want the world to see me in a bathing suit that barely fit? No. But this openness is what my career needs.”
I don’t know what to say.
I’ve never . . . I press my free hand to my lower belly. Right now, it feels like old times. All those times Andre had my back. All those times I had his. Desperately, I want to flip my palm over and squeeze his hand in return. To show him that I’m here. Hell, I’ve been here.
Maybe this is what we needed to come back together.
Mr. Walter-effing-Collins.
Who knew that he would be the tie to unite us?
Chapter Fifteen
ANDRE
Thirteen Days Left …
If there’s one thing that I hate in life, it’s lifting weights—even if I’m doing so in my personal gym in my own house.
Give me a running track any day of the week. Hell, drop me in the godforsaken Berkshires out in western Massachusetts, and I’ll be happier than I am while pumping iron.
It’s the
repetitive motion that kills me. The repetitive breathing techniques and the repetitive number of reps. It’s the fact that I’m stuck in one singular spot, driving myself up a wall since my thoughts can never be silenced.
And right now? Yeah, my thoughts aren’t so sweet.
They aren’t so holy.
Having Zoe Mackenzie back in my life is certifiably making me insane.
The heavy iron dips to the right as my thoughts simultaneously go off-kilter, and I’m forced to realign my balance or end up with another broken nose. Not that it would do all that much damage, since the damn thing has been pummeled by gloved fists and Plexiglas boards for the last nine years of my life.
Shoulder blades clenching against the cushioned bench, my muscles tighten into balled coils as I inhale and allow the bar to skim my chest.
Stop thinking about Zoe.
Exhale.
Stop thinking about her naked and riding you.
Inhale.
Stop thinking about her naked and not riding you.
Exhale.
My steadied breathing breaks its rhythm, and I shove the iron up and onto its slot. Sweat gathers on my skin, like droplets of verified success for a job well done. Ironic, because for the last year of my life, nothing has gone as planned.
And, from the looks of things, shit isn’t going to turn around anytime soon.
I ignore the familiar pain that settles in my chest with a brisk rub of my palm. Nothing I’m not used to, but since the pain is emotional and not physical, it’s not like a couple trips to physical therapy can axe the feeling and put my world back to rights.
Honestly, I don’t even think I know what “right” feels like any longer.
Then again, “right” was sticking up for Zoe the other day in front of Walter Collins. “Right” was touching her hand and hearing her sigh of relief. “Right” was having her back, and being the support she needs.
As a friend.
Whatever recent thoughts I’ve been having of us together—crazy, insane thoughts—need to be cut loose. I was right to call the “no sex” rule between us at the start of the month, but I should have added another—no wondering what it might be like to be with Zoe Mackenzie. Full-time. Unprofessionally.
