by Meghan March
I never want to feel helpless like that again.
Interrupting Ryan and Christine’s bickering, I blurt out, “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Whatever you signed me up for, I’ll do it.”
They both go quiet on the line for a few beats before Ryan’s voice gentles.
“Did something happen, Scar? Because these guys have never fazed you before, and now . . . Well, now you sound—”
“Scared?” I ask. “Yeah, when I think about what the hell could happen if these people are actually dangerous and not just asshole keyboard warriors, it makes me not want to leave this building ever again. But I’m not going to let them take my city or my life from me. I’ll learn whatever I need to learn to make sure that doesn’t happen. When do I start?”
Chris doesn’t sound triumphant like I expected. More relieved. “I had Amy clear your calendar from four to six Friday. I’ll text you the address. Your instructor has a bit of an . . . unorthodox reputation, but I didn’t want to send you to a celebrity trainer. You need someone who knows how to maim, and he’s the best I could find. If you like him and the lessons, he’s agreed to see you up to twice per week for the foreseeable future. None of the other appointments will be on Friday, but that’s the only time he had this week, because he doesn’t normally train people who aren’t fighters.”
Oh Lord. My heart rate picks up at the word fighters. I think of the videos I’ve been watching of Gabriel Legend in a ring or a cage and the symphony of violence he unleashes. Too bad he can’t train me.
Wait. What?
I push the thought from my head immediately, as if I’m afraid Christine and Ryan can read my mind. What were we talking about again? Oh, right. The training.
“I’ll let you know if it’s a good fit. If it is, I’ll keep going. If not, I’ll find someone else. Either way, I’m doing this.” I pick up the conversation, and thankfully, neither of them notices my delayed reply.
Both the siblings cheer on the phone before we move on, but my mind is only half on the call for the remaining ninety minutes it takes.
By the time we hang up, I need at least two more cups of coffee to keep me moving. Thankfully, I have just enough time to do that and wash my hair before Kelsey knocks.
Twelve
Scarlett
“Did you sleep at all last night? Because you look tired.”
“Thanks, Kels. I appreciate that,” I tell her as I squeeze the water out of my hair.
“You know what I mean. You look like something’s on your mind.” She pauses in the middle of unloading her kit on my bathroom counter. “Or someone.”
Rosy heat blooms on my chest and streaks up my neck as the someone she’s referring to comes to mind again.
How could I possibly think it was lucky to be kidnapped by him? Is my life really that crazy that there’s a hierarchy of people I’d prefer to be kidnapped by?
The answer to that question is obvious. Yes. Yes, it is.
Kelsey’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God. You’re blushing. Like, red.”
I don’t even bother to deny it. “Did you find out anything helpful? Because I could really use anything you’ve got to pull off this miracle.” She shakes her head, and for a moment, disappointment creeps in. “Nothing at all?”
“I didn’t say that,” she says, unwinding the cord to the blow-dryer. “But I haven’t decided if I want to tell you yet. Let me get you dry and then we’ll talk. Because this isn’t the type of stuff I want to be yelling over the dryer, if you know what I mean.”
Disappointment is edged aside by apprehension, and it feels like it takes forever for my hair to dry. As soon as she turns off the dryer, I’m on her.
“You’ve got to give me something. I’m going crazy here.”
“Legend, the club, is definitely sinking faster than a boat with a lead bottom. I asked a friend who’s a promoter for all the hottest places in the city, and he said that he won’t even take their money to promote it because it’s a lost cause. The only people who are there lately are lurkers or women trying to get a look at Legend himself, because he almost never makes an appearance.”
My mirrored reflection frowns. “Then who runs the club if he’s never there?”
“Oh, he’s there, all right, at least from what I’m told. But he watches from some two-way-mirrored office and doesn’t come out to mix and mingle with the crowd. My promoter buddy even said he’s never met him. His contacts were Marcus Quinterro and his sister Zoe.”
“What do we know about them?” I ask, making a mental note of their names.
“Not much. They’re Puerto Rican. Marcus Quinterro is supposed to be hot as hell, though. I wouldn’t mind finding out more about him,” she says, grabbing the flat iron.
“I didn’t meet him, so you’re on your own there,” I tell her and immediately freeze. But Kelsey already caught my slip and waves the flat iron in the air.
“Hold up. Were you at Legend? Because by saying you didn’t meet Marcus Quinterro, it sounds like you’re saying you met someone else there.” Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. “Holy fuck. You met Gabriel Legend. Didn’t you?”
I press my lips together, not sure how to play this, especially when I’ve already said too much as it is. As much as I hate lying to her, I don’t have a choice. Even if I’m not in fear for my life right now over this whole thing, I gave my word, and that matters to me.
So instead, I hedge. “Someone pointed him out to me. He was . . . impressive.”
With her curiosity expanding every minute, Kelsey’s shocked face morphs into an excited smile. “Oh my God. Do you have a crush on a very off-limits man? Is that why you want to try to save his club?”
“Kelsey . . .” I say her name, hoping she’ll stop digging. It only half works.
“Look, I know what you think I’m going to say, because it’s what I should say . . . but even though all of this is a terrible idea, I ain’t mad at it. Especially if that means you’re going to finally kick Chadwick-the-dick to the curb.”
I meet Kelsey’s dark gaze in the mirror. “Can we not dig too deeply into why I want to save his club yet? Because I’m not sure if I can even do what I said I could do.”
Her face splits with a wide grin, and I’m expecting her to break into her old cheerleader moves at any moment. “Girl, we are going to make this shit happen, if for no other reason than I feel something coming from you that I can’t describe, but I like it. When are we going to the club for our first appearance?”
I stare at my friend in the mirror and reach out a hand to squeeze her arm. “God, I love you, Kels.”
“I know you do, and not just because I can do that thing you like with the flick on your eyeliner.”
I let out a giggle of excitement, which is a hell of an improvement from the dread I was feeling earlier. “We’re going Saturday night, and we’re going to slay.”
Thirteen
Legend
I shouldn’t be here. There’s no fucking earthly reason why I’m here. I already know from the guy Q has watching the place that Scarlett hasn’t left, and the cops haven’t been here either to raise any alarm after Bump’s stunt.
And yet I’m walking down the street across from Curated with Roux beside me.
I drop my head, making my hood of my sweatshirt fall forward to obscure my face. Although in this neighborhood, I’d have been better off putting on a suit if I didn’t want to be noticed. Either way, I’m assuming anyone who sees me will think I’m walking some rich person’s dog. I hear they have nannies for them now, like they’re kids or something. Not that I’ve got a problem with anyone spoiling their dogs. Bump is pretty much with Roux whenever I’m not, and it works for all of us.
With my dog blocking me, I stare at the four-story brownstone across the street with a small white sign with black typewriter-like letters reading curated. That’s it. No description of what that means or hours or anything.
A couple of kids stand in front of it, taking pictures of the building like it’s a historic l
andmark or something. I glance up and see house of scarlett engraved into the stone above the doorway. Okay, so it is a pretty fucking historic landmark.
I googled Scarlett Priest this morning because I couldn’t help it. Article after article talked about her inspired business that’s helping to level the playing field on social media.
My phone hangs heavy in the pocket of my sweatshirt. I could send her a direct message on social media. Right here. Right now. Tell her I need to see her to discuss Saturday night. Or . . . I could walk right up to the fucking door and tell them I have an appointment.
Only if I’m fucking crazy.
Crouching like I’m tying my shoe, I grip the leash tighter.
I told Q I’d try to snag her phone to put an app on it to monitor all her calls, messages, and texts, just to be sure she hasn’t ratted us out to the cops, but if she doesn’t leave the fucking building, that’s a little more of a challenge. Especially because I’ve learned the place isn’t even open to the public until Friday. I want to trust my gut, which says if she was going to tell, she would have done it immediately.
I could let it slide. Tell Q not to worry about it. That I think we’re covered.
And then he’d ask me if I’m fucking crazy enough to bet mine and Bump’s freedom on the whims of a high-society snob?
My answer to that would have to be no.
Fuck.
But I do need to get in touch with her, if for no other reason than to make sure she’s going to hold up her end of the bargain. That’s a stretch. I don’t need to, but I fucking want to, which is even more dangerous.
It’s not like she’d see my message, though, considering her millions of followers. Fuck it. I’ll courier over a goddamned message that she’ll actually read.
Which would be evidence if she went to the cops.
Fuck me, but I still want to do it, even though I know I shouldn’t. Because if she isn’t thinking about me like I am about her, I want her to be.
As I rise, I give Roux some scratches on her chest, which is her favorite spot, although it’s closely tied with butt pats and ear rubs.
There’s no other reason for me to be standing here, staring at the building like a dumbass without a hundred better things to do. And still, it takes a hell of a lot more effort than it should to walk away.
Why the fuck am I so drawn to her?
I have no answer to that question, but I’d better figure it out quick, because there’s no room in my life for this complication.
But as I walk away, leading Roux down the cracked sidewalk, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder for one last look.
Fourteen
Scarlett
Together, Harlow Jones and Monroe Grafton are one of my private appointments today.
It works out perfectly for me, because they’re easily two of the most well-connected party girls in the city—as well as my friends, despite how different we are. Harlow is married to New York’s top sports agent, Jimmy Jones. Monroe’s third husband, Nate, is a starting pitcher. She’s hoping he doesn’t get traded, which would end up in divorce number three, because Monroe will never leave Manhattan.
“I mean, can you imagine if Nate got transferred to LA or something? I don’t want to live in LA. And don’t even get me started on the rest of the country.” Monroe re-rolls the cuffs on her white blazer, which sets off her mane of dark brown hair perfectly. And since Kelsey styles her, that mane is sleek and shiny and the envy of basically every woman who knows she exists. She’s exotically beautiful, with her perfectly sculpted features and golden-brown eyes.
“Nate’s not getting traded anytime soon,” Harlow says as she inspects one of the cutest tea services I’ve ever had in the store. “Jimmy won’t let it happen. He knows it would piss me off and then he wouldn’t get sex for a month, and no man is about to take that risk.” Leave it to Harlow to keep things in perspective as she flips her blond hair over her shoulder and holds a teacup up to the light.
Monroe studies a granite skull painted with flowers in the curio cabinet against the wall. “I know. I just . . . I really love being married to Nate. He’s sweet and cute and nice, and goddammit, it would break my heart to see it end.”
“Then don’t let it end,” I tell her, and like the true debutante she was raised to be, I only see a glimpse of emotion before she hides it away under a pearlescent smile. “You can stay married, even if he gets traded. It’s not like he’s home that much as it is during the season or spring training. You could treat his new city like it’s a weekend adventure.”
“You know I don’t do well alone. My jealousy gets a little out of control when I see those cleat chasers on TV.”
I know she sounds shallow, but I’ve never heard Monroe so worried about this kind of thing before. I won’t blow her too-cool-for-school cover, but I know she really loves Nate, and she’d have to break her NYC-only rule if he got traded.
Harlow snorts from the other side of the room, where she’s adding the tea set to her purchases. “You mean like that time you almost got into a legitimate fistfight with that chick outside the locker room? Yes, please. Let’s not have another one of those.”
“Speaking of not getting into any fistfights,” I say, “what do you say about hitting up a club this weekend and seeing how much influence you have to bring more people through the doors?”
My transition may not be ideal, but neither of them will comment on it because they’ll be too shocked that I’m going out and trying to get them to come with me.
“You want to go out this weekend?” Monroe asks, her eyes wide as she looks from me to Harlow.
“Fuck yes!” Harlow throws her arm in the air and shakes her ass with a silver teaspoon waving from her hand. “I don’t know where or what or why, but I’m totally in. It’s been too damn long since we’ve had a girls’ night! We’re going to dance our asses off and get wasted.”
I don’t know about wasted, but I’m not about to burst the party-planning bubble yet. Not when it’s the only plan I have. “I knew I could count on you to be my wing-women.”
“Wait. Wing-women?” Harlow asks, coming a step closer in this season’s YSL silver-studded nude pumps. I need a pair of those and another in black. “Are you after a man who’s not LaBoring? Because you know we are both so down for that.”
Everyone in my life has a name for Chadwick, but LaBoring—a play on LaSalle—is one of my favorites, and I snicker inside.
Suddenly, it seems like everyone is telling me how they feel about Chadwick, and it’s more surprising than I’d like to admit. Have I been ignoring their comments all along, or is this honesty a new development in my life?
“You don’t like Chadwick?” I ask, looking from Harlow’s voluminous blond waves to Monroe’s sleek brown layers. “Neither of you?”
Their faces both morph into expressions of sympathy.
“You could totally do better,” Monroe says. “Why do you think I’m always trying to get you to come with me to Nate’s team events? I know so many players who’d love to take you out. Really hot, rich men, Scar.”
“Jimmy has a lot of other clients too. You’d be a great player’s wife. Can you imagine what you’d do for each other’s social media?” Harlow waves a manicured hand through the air like she’s reading something off a giant marquee. “Like JLo and ARod. You could be ScarPri and some other catchy nickname. And Lord, think of the wedding. It’d be like the event of the century.”
Whoa. What am I missing here? “How long have you both felt like this?”
“We didn’t like him from the very first night you introduced him to us. Jimmy hates him too,” Harlow says with a perfect pink pout on her face. “We don’t like the way he talks to you.”
“Yeah,” Monroe says. “It’s like he thinks he’s the only one who matters and that you’re lucky to be with him. Um, hello? We all know it’s the other way around. No one cares about Chadwick LaSalle Junior. Everyone cares about you, Scar. And if you want to know the truth, I t
hink that drives Chad-dick crazy. It’s like he’s jealous of his own girlfriend, and that’s pretty fucked up.”
The pair of women may not win any Nobel Peace Prizes, but they have good hearts.
I lower myself onto an antique settee of my mother’s and drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know what to do. He’s basically the only person who makes connecting with my father possible. I don’t want to lose that. I only have one parent left.”
Their heels click across the wooden floor as they come closer, and then Monroe sits beside me, sliding an arm around my shoulders for support.
“I know, honey. But that’s not a reason to be with someone. I mean, you should want to climb him, at least on occasion. When’s the last time you had really awesome, and I mean killer sex with old Chaddy boy?”
I think of the last few months. The booty calls that left me feeling less than stellar about myself. The times when he’d push me for more because it had been so long, and he was a man with needs. I can’t even give them an answer out loud because of how stupid it makes me feel.
I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed sex. Or even really wanted it. I only do it because I feel obligated.
My silence is answer enough.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” Monroe squeezes me tighter.
Harlow crouches between me and the coffee table, which is impressive, given her tight knee-length suede skirt. “Listen to me, Scarlett Priest. You deserve better. We’re going out to have some fun and get ready for Scarlett 2.0, because next time around, you’re getting what you deserve.”
“Okay,” I whisper, and both girls cheer. I’m excited for an update in my life, but I’ll never be someone who is good at good-byes. That’s probably why I’ve clung to Chadwick for so long.
“So, where and when are we going, anyway?” Monroe asks, and I’m grateful for the change in subject because I don’t want to think about my pathetic relationship anymore.
