Putting my seatbelt on, I shake my head. “Why's that? Old age getting to you?”
Looking over at me in the darkness of his car, he reaches for my hand and caresses my thumb in his big, warm grip. “You kidding me? I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get carted away for indecent exposure.”
Chapter 8
Becca and I sit at a downtown bar at four on a Friday afternoon. The hum of busy patrons after a long workweek cradles us into a lullaby of quiet. I sip an Old Fashioned as she waits for her drink. The bartender slides a cheese board we’ve ordered at us over the wooden bartop. Grabbing a cracker, I aimlessly nibble and tap my cherry-painted fingernails as we study the bartender who’s finishing Becca's electric blue margarita in a cocktail shaker.
“It'll be fine. We’ll find something,” Becca says, reading my mind. She can tell I'm still stressed thinking about what the focal point will be in our new client’s space. We’d been all over Savannah today looking for the right painting, the perfect wall-hanging, or that obvious piece of must-have art. But nothing spoke to either one of us. When the bulky man sets her cocktail in front of her with a grin, she smiles coyly and tucks her dark-as-sin hair back behind her ear.
“He's cute,” I tell her, nudging her with my shoulder once he's turned the other way.
“He is. And well, let’s be honest. Not all of us can date a billionaire.”
“Not fair,” I say, playing with the curl of orange peel in my drink. “Totally unfair. We’re not even dating.”
“And that's your problem. Not mine,” she lilts, her eyes going wide.
“Actually,” I say, the lightness in my voice surprising me. “I don't think it's much of a problem at all. I kind of like the casual thing. It helps me feel better about the fact that he’s such a... player,” I say, the word sounding foreign rolling off my tongue. “That way, I won't feel so bad when he does move on to someone else.”
Becca rolls her eyes at me and pops a cube of Manchego cheese in her mouth. “You're full of it.”
I shrug and sip from my glass. “It's the truth. Better to be the offender than the offended,” I sigh, tracing the water ring on my napkin.
“Oh Lord, Riley. Who hurt you so bad?” She licks salt off the rim of her glass and squares herself to me. “Seriously. Who damaged you so fully that you can’t accept someone may have feelings for you?”
“No one.” I shake my head. “Honestly, there are no feelings. It's just easier this way. We both get what we want without getting hurt.”
Becca scoffs and reaches for an olive. “So what is it that you both want?”
I consider the question for a minute. “I'm not sure what he wants. But I know what I want— or,” I cock my head to the side, turning to her. “What I need, actually, is someone who doesn’t get in the way of my career. Someone I don’t have to commit to. Someone who is okay with casual sex every once in a while.”
“So you’re friends. With benefits.”
I grab another cracker and count the holes in it, studying the shape of it like my night depends on it. “Something like that.” When I say it out loud, I start to feel a hint of melancholy leak from the bottom of my heart. Like a loose thread of sadness making its way into my bloodstream, flooding me with a strange sort of wistfulness. “He’s my best guy friend.”
“Oh, please,” Becca scoffs. “That is such a middle school term. I can’t even stand it. And while you’re at it, go ahead and admit that he’s your only guy friend as of late.”
From her tone, I can tell she’s starting to get annoyed at my insistence, so I shrug and eat a grape tomato to keep my mouth quiet.
She frowns. “I have no idea how you look a man as hot as Cameron in the face and tell him, ‘Sorry, I'm not willing to be your girlfriend because of— work.”
Wow. Stepping back from myself for a second, Becca is right. Pressing the back of my hand to my cheek, I shake my head. “Gross. You make me sound like a bitch,” I whisper, the word sounding as cold as the weather.
“Like we say around here,” she sings, her voice dipping into a guilty amusement. “If the stiletto fits—”
“Fine. Well, so be it.”
The bartender sidles up in front of me but can’t help glancing at Becca. “Another Old Fashioned, ma’am?”
Shaking my head politely, I motion that I’m good as another chick a few barstools to the right of us waves him down. “But honestly,” I say, leaning closer. My balance isn’t off after only one drink. I’m totally fine. I just want to make sure she hears me. “Am I to suppose he's not playing around with other women? Like our sex is somehow different for him?” My words sound a little unsteady, but not because of the whiskey. “It's easier to not care. That way, when he does eventually move on— because, mark my words, Becca, he will come to his senses— and I'll be tossed to the curb just like every other girl he wines and dines.”
Becca shakes her head. “Whatever you say, chica.”
She doesn’t understand. Naturally, as I have everything between Cameron and I figured out, I feel obligated to lay it all out for her one last time like it matters. “Look, there's obviously something to it. Playing it casual, I mean. So many people, especially men, do this very thing.” I inhale to catch my excited breath. “People thrive off of this. And I can see why. Now that I've experienced it myself.” I point a tipsy finger at her. “A taste of freedom. It started with that techie startup guy, and now,” I shrug, “it just so happens to be my brother’s best friend. He walked into my life at an opportune time. And we are both benefiting greatly.”
Becca looks over at me, studying my face for something, some kind of emotion to crack me open or give away my truth. Like she almost doesn't believe me when I promise how freeing it feels. Like all of my scientific claims on casual sex are false. And for a small second, I wish she could experience it herself. And while yes, Cameron is a very important person in my life and we jive on so many different levels, in the end, Cameron is the guy who sleeps with someone until he doesn't want to anymore. Until he grows bored. Then it’s on to the next. Cameron doesn't deal with feelings. He doesn't deal with emotion. For all I know, he’s not capable of it. So for me to act like our casual sex is anything but that, is really me just lying to myself.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes, vibrating against the bar top.
“Are you kidding me?” Becca coos. “Is that him?”
“Speak of the devil,” I say, catching a glimpse of the text. “It's way too early for a booty call,” I groan under my breath before I realize what I’m even saying.
Cameron: What's your ETA?
“Whoa,” she grins, having read the text over my shoulder. “Wait. Do you two have plans?”
“No. I have a busy day tomorrow. See? This is why casual is good. I can say no and still sleep well at night.”
“You sound cold for someone who’s supposed to be his friend with benefits. Where’s the benefit in that?” Becca asks raising an eyebrow, judging me pretty hard.
“One day,” I tell her, “you'll enjoy the fruits of casual sex yourself. And you'll know I was right.”
“So, what what are you gonna say to him?”
I shrug and take another sip from the melted ice of my Old Fashioned. “He never asked me to come over. He's just assuming. Being his cocky, arrogant self.”
“That's kind of hot, actually,” Becca says, spreading a dollop of brie on a cracker.
Unlocking my phone, I text him back.
Riley: Sorry can't tonight.
“Oh, Lord. You're such a bummer, Riley. If you're playing it casual, you should at least be having fun with that.”
Scoffing, I pull my jacket tighter around me. “I have fun with it sometimes. When I want,” I lie.
With a laugh, Becca gulps from her margarita. But looking down at her watch, her eyes suddenly grow big. “Crap,” she says, grabbing her phone from her purse. “My brother just texted me. He's outside waiting. I'm supposed to be at my parents for dinner in a few. Sorry f
or bolting, but I'll see you Monday?”
With a nod, I wave her off. “Have fun tonight,” I tell her as she downs the last mouthful of her cocktail.
“Thank you, though that’s ironic coming from you,” she grins, leaving me alone at the bar.
Chapter 9
There's nothing that makes you evaluate your life choices more than sitting alone at a bar on a Friday evening, so I call for a car soon after Becca leaves. Shoving a ten dollar bill under my drained glass, I slink out of the bar and into the dim of the evening. The clouds are low in the sky, hanging like tufts of billowed cotton against the coral setting sun. When my phone dings, I expect it to be my ride arriving. But it's another text.
Cameron: Working tomorrow? Bummer. I needed help choosing an outfit for a meeting next week.
Riley: I can help. Send me pics.
Cameron: Hmm, odd request. Of the dick variety?
I scoff at his humor before deciding whether I actually want to respond. Does he say this stuff for shock value?
Riley: Of course not. Of your outfits.
Cameron: Right. Okay.
As my ride pulls up to the curb, I hop in the car, the warmth of the blasting heater immediately growing me sleepy in the back seat. As my driver winds through rush-hour traffic on a Friday evening, Becca’s words get to me. I let myself wonder, only for a second, what it would feel like to be Cameron's girlfriend. What it would feel like to be there with him so I could help him choose outfits for his meetings and events. So I could know him in all the important ways.
My phone vibrates in my hand. When I open the text, it's two pictures from Cameron. In the first, he's taking a picture of himself in a full-length mirror wearing nothing but a pair of khakis. Shirtless, his rock-hard abs staring right at me. That sensual grin like he knows exactly what I’m thinking as I stare at his body. The next photo arrives right after the first. Cameron wearing a pair of black trousers. Shirtless, his abs practically begging me to run my fingers over them. Still with his shit-eating grin.
Cameron: Which pants?
My cheeks grow hot as sin. He knows exactly what he's doing, trying to entice me into coming to see him. Not tonight Satan. I type my sarcastic response in my phone.
Riley: The khakis show off your junk better.
Cameron: Glad you noticed.
I smirk at his response and stare out the window at the passing shops downtown. While crowds of people are milling about on the sidewalks, some window shopping, others socializing in and out of bars. I almost start to feel a sense of dread and loneliness returning home. Something inside me tells me maybe I shouldn’t have turned Cameron down earlier. His confident sexiness has me wishing I could go see him. But wishing that, doesn’t that make me the weak one? The one who wants more from our in our very non-relationship friends with benefits?
My phone vibrates again with two more pictures from Cameron.
Cameron: Which shirt? White or blue?
When the photos finally download, I can't believe my eyes. Each one is him again, standing in front of his full-length mirror with a different colored button-down on and nothing else. No pants, no briefs. Just pure, unadulterated package of the Cameron variety. My jaw drops so hard, it hurts. Growing warm for him, I feel like the dirtiest, most prized woman in Savannah right now. Holding the phone to my chest like I'm afraid of someone else seeing him in the back of this car, I work my brain for a response. Something sexy. Something that Becca would approve of. Something that will send Cameron into overdrive.
Keeping an eye on the driver so as to not give her a show, I open my jacket and reach into my bra to perk up my breasts. Unbuttoning the top four buttons of my olive green blouse, I splay it open to show off my black lacy bra. Making sure my girls are attentive and desirable, I snap a quick photo of myself as discreetly as possible. Am I seriously trying to sext in the back of a cab? Where the hell did I leave my Southern manners? At the bar?
Zooming in the photo, I do a double take as I catch a quick glance of my own nipple making an appearance in the photo. Pulling the phone to my chest again, I glance around making sure nobody on the sidewalk happened to be glancing in on me. With a piece of dread but an even great piece of thrill inciting me, I close my eyes and quickly hit send. Just the right amount of boob lift with a nice caption. A nip slip, sure. But a classy as hell one, too. For all he knows, I meant to take it like that. Because after all, I’m a Savannah lady.
Riley: The girls approve of the blue.
And it's not two minutes before I receive one last text message. A ping to Cameron’s address accompanied with the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all evening.
Cameron: Holy shit. I need to see you immediately.
Chapter 10
“Excuse me,” I call out to the driver over the quiet indie music she’s playing from her hooked up iPhone.
Pushing her glasses further up her nose, she glances at me in the rearview mirror as if I’ve just caught her off-guard. “Yes?”
“I'm sorry to do this, but is there any way you could take me to Whitaker Street? I can pay the difference. I just forgot I need to—”
“That's no problem,” she smiles. At the next stoplight, she types in the new address in her phone as it reroutes us before the light turns green.
When I follow Cameron's directions to the swanky apartment building and up to his fifth floor apartment, I knock on the door. It doesn't take long for him to answer, and when he does, he takes my bag from me and sets it on the pristine granite countertop in his seemingly unused kitchen. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
Taking my jacket off, I shake my head. Reruns of How I Met Your Mother play on his humongous, sixty-inch LED television.
“Water? Soda? Wine?”
I lay my jacket on the arm of his couch as if I can’t get rid of it quick enough and shake my head again, glancing around at our surroundings. His apartment looks surprisingly nice for a bachelor pad, and for a split-second, I catch myself wondering who decorated for him.
“Good,” he sighs, no taking my purse and dropping it on the couch. “Because there's 150,000 people in this city, and you're the only one I wanted to see tonight,” he growls, swooping me up and off my feet with a grunt.
In complete shock of suddenly being airborne, I kick my legs and squeal out into the apartment, my voice cutting into the sound of the TV that now serves as our background noise. “I already came close to going home,” I shout, my vision now thrown at the floor as he totes me away to what I’m guessing might be his bedroom. I can’t control my laughter as he turns down a dark hallway.
“Oh, I hope you didn't come yet, sweetheart. I've almost had you on your couch. And I've definitely had you in my SUV. And now,” he sings, spanking my bottom playfully. “Now, I want you in my bedroom,” he purrs in delight. “How does that sound?” He plops me down into the middle of his king size bed, a sea of gray comforter surrounding me.
“Perfect,” I say my voice sounding small and insignificant in the oversized bedroom. Looking around his space, I search for hints of his personality. Anything I can use as a clue to crack his code, but I find almost nothing. The walls are white and empty, and there’s a dark oak dresser next to the walk-in closet.
And then I notice, on the edge of his bed behind me, are his pants and shirts that he’d worn in his earlier photos.
“You better hang those up,” I say, trying to right myself from the drop. I kick my shoes off the edge of his bed and lay back like a starfish, arms and legs wide, taking in the peaceful ambiance of his room.
“Not important.”
“Or how about curtains,” I say, looking over at the set of windows that overlooks the city. The light is disappeared from the sky, but a golden hue from the collective city below us bathes his room in richness. “You could use some privacy.”
“Don't care about that right now, either,” he grunts, dipping down on top of me.
And for the first time tonight, his dark amber cologne floods me in all the right ways. �
�You should care. You have to keep up appearances. Whiskey calls,” I whisper inches from his lips, feeling the lightness of my earlier Old Fashioned at the bar. I feel malleable right now underneath him. Like he could easily shape me into whatever woman he wants me as tonight.
“Whiskey can wait. I have you.”
Under the lift of my lashes, I stare at him as he hovers over me, wondering what exactly he means by that. I feel it— whatever the feeling is. But I can't trust the meaning behind it. Like if I do, if I let myself go into the thought of what he means, it'll vanish like fog rolling over the Ogeechee. Because love or adoration or light or whatever emotion he’s harboring tonight ain’t got nothin’ on that blackwater river when it comes down to it.
With a twitch of my mouth, I smile, and he presses his lips to mine, sweet at first. But then he kisses me deep and tender with tongue, like a dance, a waltz of dangerous whiskey mouths in the dark of his bedroom. Fully, and with just enough force for me to want him like mad. This penetrating kiss is an introduction to who he is. It’s as if I'm learning him all over again. Is it possible that I never truly knew him to begin with? Cameron Alden— brilliant lover, kind friend, funny as hell, man of whiskey.
As he continues to kiss me in desperation, I feel like fire. Straight flames fanned by his wooded scent that smothers me in a fueled sort of freedom.
“Take me,” I whisper, breaking our kiss.
He moves his mouth over my skin and down the ticklish part of my neck as I pluck buttons to free myself of my blouse. Pushing my hair back with wide hands, he helps me. Then, sliding his hands into my shirt, he releases me from the fabric, pulling it off as quick as he can. As he studies my bare breasts, I can't help but wonder how many other women he's had in this bed. But once he brings his mouth to my breast and my nipples go taut, the thought is lost in a tailspin of emotion, my mind leaping toward satiety.
Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance Page 8
