by Tara Wyatt
Marlowe slowly shut the laptop. Was she stunted? Had she done such a good job of protecting herself that she’d stopped herself from maturing? She didn’t know, and worse, she felt like maybe she didn’t know herself anymore.
And God, that was a lonely feeling.
Before she even registered what she was doing, she reached for her phone on the nightstand and scrolled through her text messages, navigating to her last convo with Hunter. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she hesitated. If she felt all jumbled up now, reaching out to Hunter probably wouldn’t fix that given her confusing mix of feelings for him. Not to mention her lingering guilt over the whole pot thing. That baggie of weed had belonged to her, but he’d taken the fall for her, protecting her and her reputation. She hadn’t wanted him to do that, and yet she was immensely grateful he had. But it had made her feel things for him, about him, that she didn’t know what to do with.
On the other hand, she was in a funk, and if anyone could lift her out of a funk, it was Hunter. Not only was he fun, but he understood her better than just about anyone in her life. Even still, a tiny voice somewhere deep down admonished her to leave him alone. She shook her head, trying to silence it. He was a grown man, and the rules of their arrangement were clear. He could tell her no anytime he wanted. She wasn’t a bad person for wanting a little fun and some company.
And some orgasms. Hunter was really, really good in the orgasm department.
Marlowe: Vegas???
Hunter: When?
Marlowe: I’m here now.
Hunter: On my way.
Marlowe smiled, already feeling her spirits lifting. She sprang out of bed and headed for the shower. She had a couple days of fun to look forward to. Future Marlowe could worry about everything else.
Two
Hunter had managed to hop on a direct flight out of Dallas that had him landing at McCarran International Airport at 2:30 pm local time and striding into one of the main bars of the Cosmopolitan just before 4 pm. He hadn’t bothered to book himself into a room, foolishly hoping he’d be crashing with Marlowe.
Foolish hope seemed like the perfect way to sum up his relationship—if you could even call it that—with Marlowe.
His eyes scanned the opulent space, taking in the plush purple carpeting, the shimmering pillars reaching up to the soaring ceiling, and the intricate chandelier hanging over the brightly illuminated bar. Everything was white and gleaming, all sparkle and shine. It was kinda like a unicorn had thrown up everywhere, honestly. This type of place wasn’t normally his scene, but when it came to Marlowe, he didn’t seem to have the word “no” in his vocabulary, and this was where she’d texted him to meet her.
He spotted her in a corner booth, a grin spreading across his face as his pulse picked up speed. Her rich brown hair fell over one shoulder in a shiny cascade of waves as she toyed with the cocktail in front of her, her long, graceful fingers tracing up and down the stem of the glass. Everything inside him tightened, his body snapping to life as he remembered the feel of all that hair wrapped around his fist, of those graceful fingers exploring his body. She wore a simple blue sun dress with thin straps covered in tiny white flowers, the delicate fabric hugging her slender frame. She sat alone, the few others in the bar seemingly oblivious to the presence of a huge celebrity.
As if she could feel his eyes on her, her head snapped up, her gaze locking with his from across the bar. Hunter’s heart banged away in his chest, leaving him feeling a little too warm. Christ, where was all the air in here? Didn’t they pipe oxygen into these places? Swallowing, he glanced away from her, needing to break the contact.
He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t be here—with Marlowe, or in Vegas in general. For a brief moment, he let himself pretend that he was going to turn around and walk out the door. Turn his back on her, on whatever the hell it was they were doing, and not look back.
But he couldn’t do it. Even imagining leaving felt wrong. Because the thing was, he’d fallen hard and fast for Marlowe Story over a year ago. Without even trying, she’d coaxed his heart out of his chest and into her hands, where she tossed it around carelessly. Totally oblivious to what she had and what might happen if she dropped it. When she dropped it. But he couldn’t take it back as much as he might want to. It was hers.
His mind jumped back to the night they’d met. He’d gone to some swanky country music industry party in Nashville during the off season because it was a party and he’d been invited. What the hell else was he supposed to do in the off season? He’d seen her at the bar—alone, just like she was now—and they’d started talking. He’d approached her because she was fucking gorgeous, but he’d stayed because she was so easy to talk to. For the first time in, well, ever, he’d felt his walls coming down around a woman, and he’d let her see the real him, warts and all because he knew she’d understand. She knew the pressures of the spotlight, the highs and lows of fame, the stress that came with being a public figure. He didn’t have to pretend around her, and it had felt so damn good to just be himself and to still have her respond to him the way women did. It was easy to talk with her, to laugh with her, to just be with her. He’d never put much stock in the expression “kindred spirits” before meeting her, but that had changed. They were different and yet everything just clicked between them, effortlessly.
They’d wound up in bed that night and had stayed there all weekend, lost in each other. He thought he’d found something, but then she’d pulled the rug out from under him, telling him that she didn’t date or do relationships, and that being seen with him, given his bad boy rep and her good girl image, wouldn’t be a smart career move.
He should’ve walked away then, but when she’d told him she was up for something casual—very, very casual—he’d said yes, like a dog begging for scraps at the dinner table. He’d hoped—foolishly, again—that with time, she’d see what they could have. How great they were together, both in bed and out of it.
But in nearly a year and a half, nothing had changed. And yet she still had him wrapped around her finger. It was pathetic.
He slowly crossed the bar toward her booth, noticing the way her shoulders were hunched forward, the restless movement of her hands. The overwhelming need to gather her up into his arms barreled into him, squeezing the air out of his lungs.
Fuck. He loved her. For a year now, he’d been in love with a woman who was both the cause of and cure for everything wrong in his life. It was fucked up, and he knew he’d be better off taking the hit and walking away, but he couldn’t. Not from Marlowe. Like it or not, he belonged to her.
Might as well get “sucker” tattooed across his forehead.
He slid into the booth across from her and she immediately reached for his hand, twining her slender fingers with his. The turmoil roiling inside him seemed to quiet at her touch, and he let out a long, slow breath.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, her voice higher and tighter than usual.
“I’m surprised you wanted to meet here,” he said cautiously. Normally, she was so careful about the two of them not being spotted together.
She shrugged, the slow up and down movement of one slender shoulder. “No one’s paying attention to me right now, and besides, we’re just two friends having a meal. No biggie.”
He frowned, tracing his thumb over the backs of her knuckles, savoring the softness of her skin under the rough pad of his thumb. “What’s wrong?”
Her huge brown eyes met his, bright with emotion. “Everything’s going to shit and I don’t know what to do.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and signaled to the bartender for another. Christ, he’d never seen her like this. So vulnerable. It made him want to take on the world for her. Shelter her. Make her laugh. Whatever she needed.
A tiny seed of hope unfurled deep in his chest that she’d called him when she needed something more than a fuck buddy. Maybe it meant that things were finally shifting between them.
“Tell me everything,” he said, not ta
king his eyes off of her. She looked tired. There were lines around her eyes and mouth he hadn’t noticed before. She looked like she’d been through hell. Every protective instinct he had roared to life and he squeezed her hand tighter.
She licked her lips and blinked a few times, as though gathering her thoughts. “My album is a total flop. It’s the last one on my contract with the label, so who knows what the future holds. Ticket sales for the tour are sluggish, and that’s putting it kindly. No one from the label is doing anything to help me, and the media’s raking my image over the coals, saying I’ve overplayed my ‘good girl’ hand and that fans are tired of it. So you know, just basically everything I’ve spent the past ten years working for slipping through my grasp.”
The waitress set down a fresh drink in front of her and Hunter ordered a beer.
“What do you need from me?” he asked, leaning forward. He’d give her just about anything she named.
She chewed on her bottom lip and shrugged. “A friend, I guess. I was lonely and it felt like you were the only person I could ask to come.”
He just nodded, not sure how he felt about that. He prided himself on his loyalty, but he didn’t want to be seen as anyone’s puppy dog, not even Marlowe’s. He chose his next words carefully. “Well, you’re lucky it’s the All Star break and I happen to be suspended right now.” Apparently he hadn’t been able to keep the bitterness out of his tone because her eyes went wide and her other hand covered his.
“No, that’s not what I…” She paused and shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here. Not only do I need a friend, but I could use a distraction and preferably some fun. I know you’re capable of both those things.”
“I’m supposed to be staying out of trouble,” he said, half-teasing.
“And I’m supposed to be hidden away trying to think of ways to engage fans and salvage this album.” She took a delicate sip of her drink. “Oops.” She took another sip and then leveled her gaze at him. “Why are you supposed to be staying out of trouble? I thought trouble was your middle name.”
“Not if I want that Evolve endorsement deal. I gotta behave.”
She took her hand away and laid it over her heart. “Well, I swear I won’t let you do anything crazy, okay? I don’t want trouble, I just want to feel something other than shitty.”
“Fair enough. What did you have in mind?”
Her eyes roved over his face, lingering on his mouth. Hunter’s blood hummed happily through his veins at all the promise in that gaze. “Let’s finish our drinks and then go for a walk.”
He frowned. “A walk? You made me fly out to Vegas for a walk?”
But she knew he was teasing and she laughed, a little color rising on her cheeks. Something expanded in his chest at the knowledge that he’d done that. “For starters. I’ve been hiding out in my hotel room and I want to stretch my legs.”
He nodded and picked up his beer. “Okay, then.” After all, it wasn’t like he could say no to her.
The sun was glorious on her skin, the warm air dry and fresh, and people moved all around them as she and Hunter started making their way down the famous Strip. Feeling loose and impulsive after the two cocktails she’d just downed—she normally wasn’t much of a drinker, but this pity party needed an alcoholic boost—she reached out and slipped her fingers through Hunter’s. She felt him startle slightly but then relax into it, and she was grateful. She felt so much more…anchored with his big hand around hers.
She was so relieved that he’d been able to come and keep her company. She’d hidden herself away without thinking about how lonely it might be, and she was glad he was here with her. Suddenly, she realized that she hadn’t even thanked him for hopping on a plane at the drop of a hat. Guilt ate at her; she didn’t want him to think she took him for granted. Because she didn’t. She’d never told him, but Hunter was one of her closest friends. Not in the amount of time spent together, but in how much of herself she let him see. She’d even written a song on her new album about him called “It’s Complicated.” The chorus flitted through her mind as they strolled, and she wondered if it was maybe the most honest song she’d ever written.
We’re so complicated
But so captivated
I want you in my arms
Can’t fall for your charms
Because when you leave
It’ll be me who grieves
Wanna tell you how I feel
Wanna know if this could be real
I know you’re so frustrated
Relationship status is it’s complicated
Not that she’d told him she’d written a song about him because that would be…well, it would be weird.
“Thank you,” she said, giving their joined arms a little swing as they walked. “For coming to be with me.”
He grinned and ran a hand through his thick bronze-colored hair. It was long enough to tuck behind his ears without veering into man-bun territory. Her fingers tingled as she thought about the feel of that hair between her fingers as Hunter made her come again and again with his ridiculously talented mouth. “Not like I ever say no to you,” he said quietly, and wham, there was more of that guilt slamming into her and taking her breath away. She knew he had feelings for her—she wasn’t an idiot. But she’d also been upfront and honest with him from the very beginning about what she could give him. It wasn’t like she was jerking him around or leading him on.
And it wasn’t like she didn’t share some of those feelings, but she was smart enough to keep them locked away some place dark and private where they couldn’t do any damage. Which meant she probably shouldn’t be holding his hand, but it felt too good, too warm and comforting, to let go.
Maybe that was her and Hunter in a nutshell: she knew she should let him go, but he felt too good. Which probably made her a horribly selfish person. Maybe after this little Vegas interlude, she should officially put an end—as gently as possible, of course—to her and Hunter, whatever they were. Let him live his life and find someone who could give him what he wanted. Who could be what he needed. Because she wasn’t that woman, and never would be. That was just a fact, plain and simple.
It wasn’t because of a single, massive, traumatic event. She couldn’t blame her messed up heart on one person, or one day, or one thing. The scars she carried weren’t from one catastrophic wound, but from an accumulation of tiny cuts, one after the other. Her father had left when she was still in diapers, walking out and never looking back. After that, her mother had tied herself to man after man, chasing after them because of her fear of being alone. Marlowe had watched the way her mom would wrap her life around theirs, letting them imprint themselves on her—and Marlowe’s—life. New hobbies, new jobs, new apartments, new cities, even, as though the previous version of their lives had never existed. As though without a man, nothing was worth anything. But inevitably, the relationship would implode, and her mother would drink or take pills or both and leave Marlowe to fend for herself. By eight, Marlowe was the one cleaning the house, making basic meals, and getting herself to school. By thirteen, she’d sworn off boys completely, refusing to risk the possibility of ending up like her mom. She didn’t want to be this hollowed out shell of a person who only came alive when a man was taking care of her. She didn’t want to need anyone. Ever.
She’d tried to shake the notion that love and sex led to this, and right around the time she was starting to move away from her mother’s toxic ideas, she’d met Dirk.
She still had nightmares about Dirk, and had refused to date ever since.
She’d grown up knowing that people lie. People leave. People hurt you. People can’t be depended on. She’d grown up knowing it, and then she’d experienced it firsthand, and now she clung to those hard-won lessons like a life raft in the middle of the ocean.
They walked past the breathtaking Bellagio fountains, their steps slowing as they observed the intricately choreographed spurts of water shooting up into the air. They stopped and watched in comfortable si
lence, the sounds of the water soothing and hypnotic. She glanced over at Hunter, taking him in, doing her best to ignore the way her heart kinda sorta flopped over on itself. He was six-foot-two of chiseled muscle, his arms corded and roped with a hard-won, athletic strength. His thick hair was gorgeous, shiny and with a color most women would’ve traded their stylist for. He had a closely-cropped beard clinging to his square jaw, and the pads of her fingers tingled as she remembered the scrape of it on her skin. And underneath his clothes? Not only did he have several tattoos—a thorny rose bush climbing up his right ribs, beautifully drawn waves cresting up his left forearm, and the words “it ain’t over till it’s over” scrolling down the inside of his right arm—but he had the kind of body that made smart girls stupid.
He was masculine perfection, hands down.
Not to mention that he was funny, and sweet, and treated her like a freaking princess.
Nope. No, Marlowe. Not going down that road. She nudged him and pointed at the taxi line. “Let’s go find someplace to have a drink,” she said, bringing herself back to the present.
He arched an eyebrow at her over the top of his sunglasses. “I thought you wanted to walk.”
She adjusted her Dallas Longhorns cap and sunglasses, her attempt—so far, successful—to go incognito. “I thought of something I’d rather do more. You up for an adventure?”
“I’ll probably regret this, but sure. After all,” he said, dropping her hand and turning to face her. “You said you needed a distraction and some fun, so I’m up for anything you are.” He leaned in closer and brushed a tiny kiss over her lips. “You know I’m always up for anything you want.”
