The Score

by Elle Kennedy

  “Okay then. Well, since I probably won’t get the chance to wear a Valentino dress ever again—at least not until he custom designs my dress for the Oscars—” That gets another laugh from me “—I pick this one.” She holds up a black lace minidress with a gaping neckline, then glances at the shoe wall. “And I’ll pair it with…oooh, are those Jimmy Choos?”

  “And that’s my cue to leave,” I announce. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

  I leave Allie to fawn over Summer’s closet, and go to my own room to get dressed. Which takes all of five minutes. I throw on a gray sweater and the same trousers I wore last night, then lie on my bed watching YouTube videos on my phone while I wait for Allie. Somewhere at the twenty-minute mark, she pops into the room in a blur of designer black, grabs a small makeup kit from her purse, and disappears into my bathroom.

  “Oh hey!” she calls a few minutes later. Her head pokes out from behind the doorway. “My friend Dillon just texted. She got in last night and she wants to meet up. Her boyfriend’s here too. Can I invite them to the club?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  My phone buzzes, and I shut off YouTube so I can access my messages.

  Logan: Just found the perfect xmas present for you in Boston.

  A photo promptly appears, summoning a loud groan from my throat. The asshole sent me a pic of a novelty My Little Pony dildo. Damn thing is bright pink, with rainbow sparkles on the handle.

  Logan: And it’s rechargeable! U don’t have to buy batteries. THAT’S handy!

  Me: Hardy-har-har. You = comedian.

  Then I message Grace: Tell your BF to stop being mean to me.

  She texts back a smiley face. Traitor.

  “I’m ready.”

  My head snaps up, and holy hell, I forget how to breathe for a moment. Man, she should consider ditching acting and becoming a makeup artist, because this girl has the ability to completely transform depending on what she does to her face. Just when I got used to thinking of her as the girl-next-door type, with her subtle makeup and shiny lip glosses, she suddenly showed up at Malone’s looking like a wet dream come to life, with big smoky eyes and pouty crimson lips.

  Tonight it’s a combination of the two—natural with a splash of glamour. Nude lips, shimmery gold eye shadow, and mascara that makes her lashes appear impossibly long.

  “How do I look?” She plants a hand on her hip and does a sexy pose.

  “Ridiculously fuckable.” I hop off the bed and zero in on her, drawing her body toward mine as I bend down to give her a quick kiss. Her scent fills my nostrils. I breathe deeply, trying to identify it. Strawberries? Mangos? Roses? I can’t figure it out, but it’s goddamn addictive.

  “What is it?”

  I’m startled to find her frowning at me. “What do you mean?”

  Her frown deepens. “You were staring at me.”

  I was? Shit, I hadn’t even realized it. “Sorry, I must have spaced out.” I paste on a careless smile, doing my best to ignore the weird flutter in my stomach.

  And the funny little shiver racing up my spine.

  And the way my chest somehow feels both tight and light at the same time, which is as perplexing as Allie’s unnamable scent.

  Swallowing, I force myself to ignore the paradox in my chest, and follow Allie’s sexy ass out the door.

  23

  Allie

  I’m nervous about Beau Maxwell’s reaction to me and Dean showing up together, but it turns out to be unnecessary. Beau doesn’t even blink when Dean introduces me as “G’s GF’s BFF”. Maybe all the letters Dean threw out confused him? Either way, he just seems thrilled that we came out to the club at all.

  Beau’s sister Joanna is equally overjoyed, throwing her arms around Dean. “Di Laurentis! Oh thank God you’re here. You don’t understand how close I’ve come to killing my idiot brother these past couple days.”

  “Naah, you don’t want to kill me,” Beau says with a broad grin. “You love your little brother and you know it.”

  Joanna gives him the finger, but she’s grinning too. She’s as attractive as Beau, tall and statuesque with sparkling blue eyes and dark hair cut in a short bob. Dean told me she currently has a small role in a Broadway show, which is the first thing I ask her about as we head inside after going through the line. By which I mean skipping it altogether, because one word in the bouncer’s ear from Dean and the velvet rope magically lifts for us.

  Inside, the strobe lights are going strong and the music is deafening. Joanna and I need to scream our lungs out in order to continue our conversation. Dean and Beau, who were walking ahead of us, are immediately swallowed up by the frenzied mob.

  “We lost the boys,” I shout in Joanna’s ear.

  She shakes her head and points at the spiral staircase to our left. Sure enough, the guys are ascending the metal steps. Dean glances over his shoulder, finds us in the crowd, and gestures for us to follow them.

  I discover that the staircase leads to the VIP area. We reach the top in time to hear Dean address the beefy bouncer manning the rope. “Dean Heyward,” he shouts. “Tony knows me.”

  The bouncer touches the tiny Bluetooth tucked in his ear. His lips move, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. A second later, our little group saunters past yet another velvet rope.

  Fortunately, the music isn’t as loud up here, so I don’t need to shriek like a banshee anymore. “Dean Heyward?” I tease. “Are we not using Di Laurentis anymore?”

  He slings his arm around me, and the spicy scent of his aftershave infuses my senses, making me shiver. “Di Laurentis works better at country clubs or charity benefits. The Heyward name opens more doors in Manhattan.”

  It sure does. Not only do we have access to the VIP lounge, but we’re given a spacious table by the wrought-iron railing that overlooks the dance floor. I take out my phone to check if Dillon texted—yep. She and her boyfriend will be here soon. I tell her to come upstairs when they arrive, then refocus on the conversation around me.

  Joanna is teasing her brother about someone named Sabrina, but he’s insisting the relationship is over, which seems to upset his sister.

  “You’re such an idiot. Seriously, Beau-Beau, you needed someone like her to keep you in line.”

  Since Dean still has his arm around me, it’s impossible not to feel it when he stiffens. I study the hard set of his profile, and lightly squeeze his thigh. “You okay?”

  “Ah, don’t mind him, sweetheart,” Beau says with a chuckle. “He always gets like this when the subject of Sabrina comes up. I think he’s still sulking that she snubbed him after they boned down.”

  I’m not surprised to hear that Dean slept with this girl, whoever she is. What I am surprised about is my complete lack of jealousy.

  The same thing happened during our drive to the city. Listening to Dean talk about “silent comers” and past hook-ups hadn’t upset me, not the way it had the night I saw Penelope pawing him at Malone’s. But I hadn’t felt threatened this time around. Maybe because they were clearly memories for him and not present day specters that could interfere with whatever we have going on? I’m not entirely sure what the reason is, but I like this odd, unexpected trust I have in him.

  In the seat beside me, Dean is rolling his eyes in response to Beau’s taunt. “Trust me, I’m happy to be snubbed.”

  I wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, it heightens my curiosity, so I poke him in the side and say, “Spill, sweetie. I want to hear about this blood feud you’ve got going on.” As Hannah can attest, I’m too nosy for my own good.

  “So do I,” Beau says honestly.

  Dean waves it off. “It was just some stupid bullshit in sophomore year. No big deal.”

  “Obviously it is if it still bothers you two years later,” I point out.

  Reluctance creases his forehead. “Long story short? I was struggling in a course, but every time I thought I failed a test or wrote a shitty paper, I’d get an A on it. Me being a total moron, I didn’
t connect it to the fact that I was banging my TA.”

  Beau snickers. “Love it.”

  I sigh. “Oh boy.”

  “I know, it was a stupid move,” Dean says penitently. “Anyway, Sabrina and I were paired up on the final project. We each did half the work and it was graded separately. My half was C-material at best and we both knew it, except then our grades came back and I got an A. Sabrina got a B-minus.” His jaw tightens. “She was pissed. She went to the professor to bitch about it, and he ended up rereading every paper I turned in and every test I took—all graded by the TA I was screwing. Turned out I should have been failing the class. But I was acing it.”

  Dean sounds so disgusted it startles me. Before we hooked up, I assumed he was the kind of guy who breezed through life on a free pass because of his looks and money. This story corroborates that. But the anger in his voice reveals something else—he doesn’t want the free pass.

  “I couldn’t stomach it,” he admits, confirming my suspicions. “I told the prof to give me the F. I was perfectly willing to retake the course over the summer. But the bastard wouldn’t fail me.”

  “Why not?” Joanna speaks up, both indignant and bewildered.

  “He knew my father,” Dean mutters. “They went to law school together, and he told me he’d look the other way as a favor to my dad. I said no way. We argued for a while, until he finally agreed to lower the grade to a B-plus. It was the ‘best he could do’.”

  Dean’s expression is darker than a storm cloud. “I should’ve failed that fucking course, but the Di Laurentis name bought me a pass, and Sabrina never lets me forget it. She thinks I’m a rich asshole who gets whatever he wants.” His tone grows dismissive again. “Whatever. She can think what she wants. Only matters what I think, right?”

  I see right through the careless smile he flashes. It bothers him that people think he’s a wealthy playboy who has everything handed to him on a silver platter. And yes, I do recognize that side of him—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet—but I’ve also seen other facets of his personality this past month.

  He’s tenacious. Seriously, this guy never, ever gives up when he wants something.

  He cares about his friends and teammates. Hell, I didn’t see him on Monday and Tuesday this week because he’d requested extra ice time so he could help some guy named Hunter hone his skills.

  He owns more books than the public library in Brooklyn, and I can tell from their wear and tear that he’s actually read all of them.

  He—

  “Your purse.”

  My head lifts up. “What about it?”

  Dean gestures to the black clutch on the bench seat between us. “It’s vibrating.”

  I shake myself out of the bizarre Why Dean Is So Great list I was composing, and snap open the clutch to find my phone buzzing.

  I set down my rum and coke. “My friends are here. Will you come get them with me? I might need you to talk to the bouncer again.”

  He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I knew it. You’re just using me for my connections.”

  “Yep,” I answer cheerfully.

  We head back to the staircase, and I squeal when I spot a familiar face behind the rope.

  “They’re with us,” Dean tells the bouncer.

  A moment later, there’s a teeny, equally excited brunette hurling herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s so good to see you!” shrieks my best friend from high school. “You don’t fucking call me enough!”

  I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.

  Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”

  Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—

  “Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

  Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”

  My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.

  “What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”

  I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.

  “I’m just playing with you, bro. I get it all the time.” Roy breaks out in a huge grin. “I won ten grand last summer at a celebrity impersonation contest—first place for my Sam Jackson. I did the speech from Deep Blue Sea, right before the shark gets ’im.”

  “Nice.” Dean flashes a mischievous smile. “PS, some more racism coming your way—you sound like James Earl Jones.”

  Roy throws his head back and releases a big, booming laugh. Then he slaps Dean on the arm and says, “You’re all right, white boy.”

  Just like that, they’re best friends, talking animatedly as they charge ahead.

  Dillon sighs and links her arm through mine. “Roy likes to scare people,” she apologizes.

  I snicker. “Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t scare easily.”

  “Dean, huh?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new boyfriend?”

  “Because I don’t. We’re just having some fun. Nothing serious.”

  “Ha! Yeah right, AJ. With you, it’s always serious.”

  Not this time, I want to say, but we’ve reached the table and the guys’ voices drown out our conversation. Beau and Roy are already talking football, and because the latter is so damn enormous, he takes up at least three people’s worth of space on the bench-style seat. Dillon slides in beside him, which leaves zero room for me.

  Grinning, Dean tugs me into his lap and winds one strong arm around my waist. “You can sit right here, baby doll.”

  “Aw, thanks, honey-pie.”

  The six of us make such an unlikely group that I suddenly have scenes from The Breakfast Club flashing in my mind. Beau the East Coast quarterback. Dean the hockey player. Roy the linebacker from Louisiana. Joanna the Broadway actress. Dillon the finance major. And me, the future star of rom coms.

  Despite that, there’s no shortage of conversation. Dillon and I fill each other in on what we’ve been up to the past few months. Since I started college, I’ve lost touch with most of my high school friends, but Dillon’s friendship is one I was determined to preserve.

  As I chat with her, I’m very aware of the fact that Dean is touching me. Constantly. Stroking my shoulder. Grazing my thigh. Nuzzling my neck. At one point he even brushes his lips over my cheek, which summons a loud hoot from Beau.

  “Jesus, Bella,” he marvels. He’s highly amused as he meets my eyes. “What kind of spell did you cast on my man Dean? I’ve never seen him like this with a chick before.”

  “My name’s Allie,” I correct.

  That makes him laugh harder.

  Dean sighs, then leans in close and murmurs, “Wanna dance?”

  “Depends… Are you a good dancer?”

  “Every man is a good dancer.”

  I snort. “The broken toe I got in high school begs to differ.”

  “Sorry, what I should’ve said is—every man is capable of being a good dancer.” His hands lock around my waist as he lifts me to my feet. “There’s just one move a man needs to know in order to rock it on the dance floor.”

>   “Yeah? What’s the move?” I ask curiously.

  Dean twines his fingers through mine as we descend the staircase. “STAG.” He has to shout his answer, because the music is louder down here.

  I stand on my tiptoes so my mouth is close to his ear. “What’s stag?”

  “The only one of Logan’s crazy acronyms I live my life by—STAG.” His mouth stretches in a broad smile. “Stand there and grind.”

  Laughter bubbles out of my throat, turning into a shriek of delight when Dean hauls me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me to the dance floor. Then he sets me on my feet, presses his delectable body against mine, and proves that STAG really is the only move that matters.

  As the sultry, pulse-pounding beat snakes its way into my blood, I toss my hair and shake my hips and run my hands up and down Dean’s rippled chest. The strobe light flashes through the dark club, offering tantalizing glimpses of Dean’s chiseled features, his hypnotic green eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth.

  We dance for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. The others join us on the dance floor, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. I dance with Beau, who grabs my ass every chance he gets. I dance with Roy, who has some sick moves for a man mountain. I dance sandwiched between Dillon and Joanna. I dance with Dean, and the erotic grinding of his hips makes me hot and achy and utterly blissful.

  Dillon and I sling back two shots at the bar, but I’m not drunk, just deliciously buzzed. Dean seems to be taking it easy too, but the others are definitely on their way to getting plastered. Especially Beau, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright as he vertical-sexes a gorgeous redhead on the dance floor.

  Joanna begs off around eleven-thirty, saying she has an early rehearsal in the morning. Dillon and Roy follow suit soon after; the moment Dillon starts slurring her speech, Roy proves to be not only a responsible adult, but a conscientious boyfriend, and promptly whisks her away. Around midnight, after Beau staggers up looking more wasted than ever, Dean decides it’s time for us to go, too.