The Chase

by Elle Kennedy

  I find myself asking, “What perfume is that?”

  “Chanel No. 5.” Her lips curve in a smile. “The only scent a lady should ever own.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  My body weeps from the loss of contact when she withdraws her hand. “Enough chit-chatting, Fitzy. Put this on.”

  The next thing I know, she’s shoving the sweater over my head. I feel like a child as I slide my arms into the sleeves and poke my head through the neck hole. I swear Summer’s fingernails scrape my abdomen as she drags the shirt down.

  A shiver races up my spine. I’m turned on.

  Like, really turned on.

  Shit, and now I have to take my pants off, and I’m wearing boxer-briefs that perfectly outline my cock. She’s totally going to notice.

  Ding.

  Summer’s phone chimes with an incoming text. Oh, thank you, Jesus. As she turns to check the message, I hastily kick my sweatpants off and slide into the crisp black trousers. Making sure her gaze is occupied, I do a quick rearrange of the dick region so it’s not as pokey. When Summer turns back to me, I hope I resemble a man who isn’t harder than granite.

  She whistles softly. “Oh, I like this, Fitz. It’s super sharp. Here, look.” She angles the closet door so I’m able to see my reflection in the full-length mirror.

  I’m pleasantly surprised. I clean up nice. “Sweet,” I say. “Let’s go with this.”

  I register her disbelieving expression in the mirror. Then she barks out a laugh. “Colin,” she says between giggles. “Are you always this naïve?”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “It means this is the first outfit you’ve tried on.” She pats my arm as she brushes past me, chuckling under her breath. “We’re just getting started.”

  “Started with what?” comes a suspicious voice.

  We turn to find Hunter in the doorway.

  A thread of discomfort wraps around my insides. Hunter’s been keeping his distance from me since Sunday night. He hasn’t stated outright that the Spin the Bottle thing pissed him off, but I get the distinct feeling it did.

  In my defense, I wasn’t even playing the damn game, and I wouldn’t have kissed Summer at all if Jesse’s bossy girlfriend hadn’t insisted. I know better than to argue with Katie.

  Besides, if Hunter’s upset that Summer and I kissed, he can man up and talk to me about it.

  “Listen to this,” Summer tells him in an amused voice. “I brought six garment bags of clothes for Fitz to try on. You know, for his interview tomorrow. He’s only tried one outfit.” She points at the Ford and Saint Laurent combo. “And he thinks…” She looks like she’s going to explode with laughter. “He thinks we’re done now.”

  I expect Hunter to give her a blank look. But my teammate snickers at me, obviously in on the joke. “Naïve bastard.” He strides into my room and sprawls on the bed. “This is gonna be fun.” He winks at Summer. “Go get Hollis. Tell him to make some popcorn.”

  “On it.” She’s already hurrying out the door, yelling, “Mike!”

  “Traitor,” I grumble at Hunter.

  He merely grins. “You gave an heiress from Connecticut permission to dress you for an interview. You really think I’m going to miss this show?”

  I sigh. I guess I could put my foot down and declare this travesty over, but clearly Summer is having fun, and this is the first time in days that Hunter’s actually seemed at ease with me. Maybe I was imagining his aloofness, and he doesn’t care about the kiss at all.

  “Listen, about you and Summer,” he hedges.

  I spoke too soon.

  “She said you’re helping her with her midterm.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. I am.” I pretend to be preoccupied with the left sleeve of my sweater, examining it as if it holds all the secrets to the universe.

  “And then there was the whole, ah, kiss thing on Sunday.” From the corner of my eye, I see him run his fingers through his dark hair. “So I’m just gonna come out and ask. Is there something between you guys? You hooking up?”

  “Naah, we’re not.” Man, this sleeve is damn fascinating. “We’re just friends.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I force myself to look him in the eye like a mature adult. “In case you forgot, I was walking by minding my own business when that bottle landed on me. Neither of us wanted to follow through, remember?”

  “True.” He’s nodding slowly. “You guys did look really uncomfortable.”

  Did we?

  I try not to frown. Because what I remember is how her lips set my entire body on fire. I remember her tongue rubbing against mine and sending an electric shock straight to my balls. I remember breathing in her addictive scent and almost passing out with need.

  But Hunter saw discomfort. Interesting.

  Maybe that’s why Summer hasn’t raised the subject of the kiss even once since it happened. Fuck. Am I actually in the friend zone?

  “I think she’s awesome, Fitz.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t joking about the whole dibs thing when we got back from Vermont. I’m into her.”

  He shoots a glance toward the doorway, as if he’s worried Summer might be standing there. But he relaxes when her and Mike’s laughter echoes from downstairs.

  “And I think she’s into me,” he continues. Another shrug. “I mean, we made out on New Year’s. We’ve cuddled.”

  They’ve cuddled? The stab of jealousy I feel hurts more than I expect.

  “I’m planning on asking her out.” He tips his head, watching me carefully. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Yes, it’s gonna be a problem? What if I did say that? What then? Would we have to duel for Summer’s honor?

  “Like I said when we discussed her moving in, as long as it doesn’t affect our lease, I don’t care what you do.” It’s very, very difficult to utter these words, but the alternative would only create problems I’d rather not deal with at the moment.

  If Summer was ripping her clothes off and begging me to screw her, maybe my answer would be different.

  But she’s not.

  17

  Fitz

  I grew up in the suburbs outside of Boston, so the odds of me ever seeing a tornado were about as good as the chances of my parents getting back together.

  This morning, I finally get to witness one.

  The tornado’s name is Kamal Jain. He bursts into the hotel bar in a blur of gray and black, offering fleeting glimpses of white teeth and brown skin and stubby fingers that he waves at the server as he flies past her.

  The vortex grinds to a halt to reveal the short, stocky figure of Kamal Jain, and it takes serious effort to keep my jaw hinged because it turns out he’s not wearing gray and black.

  It’s slate and charcoal, as Summer would say.

  And it’s the same fucking outfit I tried on last night. The first one, which Summer advised me to forsake in favor of what I’m wearing now: dark-blue Ralph Lauren jeans, a Marc Jacobs dress shirt with no tie, and brown Gucci loafers. Summer would be proud that I remembered each designer’s name and can link it to his corresponding clothing item.

  Thank God I didn’t go with the first outfit, or this interview would’ve started off a touch awkward.

  “Colin!” Kamal greets me with enthusiasm, pumping my hand in a shake that lasts the entire time he speaks. “So good to meet you! Look at you—you’re huge! You look way smaller in the picture I have of you. In person you’re a giant!”

  “Picture?” I say blankly.

  “My assistant grabbed your hockey mug shot off the net. Is it called a mug shot? I don’t know. How tall are you? Six-one? Six-two?”

  “Six-two—”

  “Six-two, I bet. I’m five-eight, just a little fella with a big bank account, right?” He guffaws at his own joke. “Let’s grab a seat?”

  “Sure,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. It seems like Kamal Jain mostly talks to himself, and you�
��re just along for the ride.

  The Ritz bar resembles one of those gentlemen’s cigar clubs you see in the movies. A few round booths span one wall, but for the most part it’s padded leather armchairs tucked throughout the room to provide the illusion of privacy for patrons. There’s even a roaring fire in the fireplace, a real one, which crackles as the server leads us past it.

  We settle in a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. Kamal orders a vodka tonic. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but I don’t comment on it. No way am I criticizing my potential employer’s morning beverage selection. Also, I’m a bit starstruck, so speaking might be a challenge in general. I’ve seen this man’s face on the cover of magazines. I’ve followed his career for years. It’s surreal to be sitting across from someone I’ve admired from afar for so long.

  “Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Mr. Jain,” I start.

  “Mr. Jain! We already discussed this, man—call me Kamal or KJ. ‘Mister’ gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too authoritarian for my liking.”

  “Sorry. Kamal.” I decide to be upfront with the guy. I suspect he might appreciate it. “I’m sorry. I’m almost embarrassed by how hard I’m fan-boying right now.”

  He gives a loud laugh. “Oh, trust me, I can relate. One time I met Stan Lee at a comic book convention, and I almost came in my pants. Swear to God, I felt a tingle in the dingle.”

  I stifle a snicker. “Well, luckily you were able to control yourself,” I say helpfully.

  “Barely! That man’s a legend. I’m divorcing my parents and hoping he’ll adopt me.”

  The snicker slips out. I already knew from the interviews I’ve seen with him that Kamal has no brain-to-mouth filter. But experiencing it in person is a whole other spectacle.

  “Is that a Marc Jacobs?” He gestures to my shirt. “Great fit, bomb cuffs—pricey. Hope you didn’t clean out your savings account for li’l ol’ me. You’re in college, you can’t afford frivolous purchases yet, Colin. I’ll get my assistant to send you a check of reimbursement.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary—”

  “All right,” he interrupts, “I’ve got four more minutes. Let’s do this fast.”

  Four minutes? He literally just sat down.

  I wonder what it’s like to be SO IMPORTANT that you fly to Boston for a five-minute meeting before having to board the old company jet again.

  For the next three minutes, Kamal launches questions at me as if he’s firing an interview rifle. They seem to have no rhyme or reason. Jumping from one topic to another before I can blink and only allowing me about ten seconds to answer before firing again.

  Who are your artistic influences?

  What’s your favorite movie?

  Do you eat meat?

  Would you be willing to work weekends if needed?

  What do you think of No Man’s Sky?

  Would you consider yourself a jock?

  In fact, the jock issue comes up in at least three questions. I get the distinct sense that Kamal is anti-athlete. Bullied by a jock or two in high school, I suspect.

  I can’t tell if I answered a single question correctly, or to his liking. Whereas Kamal moves and talks like a tornado, the interview itself is a tsunami, slamming into me without warning and retreating just as fast.

  Before I can blink, he’s shooting to his feet and pumping my hand again. “Can you be in Manhattan in a few weeks?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. It depends on my game schedule—”

  “It’s a Thursday night—you play on Thursdays?” He frowns. It’s evident that the biggest strike against me right now is hockey.

  “No, but…” I wrinkle my forehead. “What’s in Manhattan?” Have I gotten the job? Am I supposed to start working that day? My cover letter clearly stated I couldn’t start until after graduation.

  “I’m hosting a fundraiser at the Heyward Plaza Hotel. It’s to raise awareness for autism. No, it’s a kids-with-leukemia event. Autism is in April,” he babbles. “April Autism Awareness—my fucking team loves their alliteration. I’ve invited the other candidates I’m considering. Only three others now. Two didn’t impress me in the face-to-face.”

  And I did? I’m legit baffled. I can’t fathom how he was able to judge me one way or the other, given the length of the interview and the absurdity of his questions.

  “It’s between the four of you now. The leukemia event will let me gauge how you network.”

  Aw crap. I’m not good at networking. At all.

  “Plus, it’ll be fun as fuck. Open bar, lots of ladies. You have a plus one if you’ve got a girl at home, but I recommend leaving her at said home…” He winks, and I hide my distaste.

  It’s no secret that Kamal is a womanizer. According to an article I read, he almost married his college sweetheart about ten years ago but didn’t go through with it because she refused to sign a prenup. Since then, he’s been photographed “canoodling” with a Leonardo DiCaprio-amount of supermodels, along with several actresses and heiresses.

  “My assistant will email you the invitation. If you don’t RSVP, I’ll assume you’re removing yourself from the running.” He slaps my shoulder. “But nobody is that stupid, so…” He grins widely. “I’ll see you next month.”

  He tornadoes out of the bar in another blur of motion, leaving me standing there alone. Two seconds later, the server returns with a tray holding Kamal’s vodka and my coffee.

  She stares at me in confusion. “Oh. Your party had to leave? Do you still…?” She lifts the tray slightly. “The tab’s already been paid.”

  I look at the coffee cup, then at the glass tumbler. Screw it. Who cares if it’s early.

  I reach for the vodka tonic and down it in one long swig.

  “Five minutes,” I tell my friends later that night. We’re all jammed in a booth at Malone’s. Directly under a speaker too, which means I have to raise my voice to be heard over the Drake track blasting in the bar. “It lasted five minutes. I checked my watch.”

  “Time is money,” says Hollis.

  “I don’t even know how the interview went,” I say with a loud groan. “Seriously. I got no indication one way or the other if he even liked me.”

  “Of course he did,” Summer says firmly. She’s on the other side of the booth, sandwiched between Hunter and Matt Anderson. “He wouldn’t have invited you to the fundraiser if the interview had gone poorly.”

  “Time is money,” Hollis says again.

  Nate knocks him on the back of the head. “Cut it out with that nonsense. Just ’cause Fitzy met a billionaire today doesn’t make you a billionaire by association.”

  “If he wasn’t serious about hiring you, he wouldn’t have flown all that way to meet you in person,” Matt points out. “He woulda sent an underling.”

  “Not necessarily,” I counter. “He was a poor kid from Detroit when he designed his first game—he actually stole a lot of the parts he needed to build his own computer. The company is his baby. I think he takes a hands-on role as often as he can.”

  “Either way, we’re here tonight to celebrate that you caught the eye of a major game designer and that’s amazing,” Summer declares. “Even if you don’t get the job, it’s an honor that you were even considered.”

  “Let’s toast!” Hollis pipes up, raising his pint glass. “Time is money!”

  Nobody participates in his toast, but I take pity on the guy and tap my Sam Adams bottle against his glass. It was Hollis’ idea to go out and celebrate, and as much as I don’t like being the center of attention, I’m touched that he’s so supportive of me. I think he’s more thrilled than I am at the possibility that I might snag a position at Orcus Games.

  Luckily, the bar isn’t too crowded tonight, probably because we didn’t have a game. Malone’s tends to be a Briar hockey bar, though we do get the occasional football player in here. Typically, though, the football guys prefer their off-campus houses to the very pathetic Hastings nightlife. They’re notorious for their house parties. M
e, I prefer the bar. Means I don’t have to clean up after anyone. Plus, the beer is cheap and Friday nights they have half-price wings.

  “Oh, fine,” Summer relents, raising her glass to Mike’s. “Time is money!”

  She flashes me a wink and a smile, and my insides promptly melt like butter on a hot pan. She has the kind of smile that makes a man want to start writing very bad poetry. Dazzling and genuine and as beautiful as the rest of her.

  I’ve been in a permanent state of semi-hardness since we got here. When we left the house, Summer looked like a snowman, bundled up in parka with a fur hood, gloves, scarf, the whole winter shebang. Then we got to Malone’s, where she unzipped the coat and removed the rest of the gear to reveal skinny jeans that cling to her impossibly long legs and a boner-inducing crop top. The top is a halter-style one that leaves both her back and midriff completely bare. It’s amazing.

  “Brenna texted she’s here,” Summer says, checking her phone. “Do you guys see her?

  “My Juliet has arrived!” Hollis says happily.

  Hunter snickers. “Dude. She’s not interested.”

  “Really? Because I seem to remember her looking very interested when she walked into my bedroom last week…and looking very satisfied when she walked out of it…” He waggles his eyebrows.

  Summer flicks one of Matt’s French fries at Hollis. “One—no locker room talk, please. Two—Hunter’s right.”

  “I’m always right,” Hunter says.

  “Where is she…” Summer twists around, flashing the bare expanse of her back.

  Jesus. It’s as pretty as the rest of her. Delicate shoulder blades. Smooth, tanned skin.

  My semi turns into a fully as I envision kissing my way down the bumps of her spine until my lips reach the top of her perfect ass. I’d use my hands to squeeze it. Hmmm, and what would I do with my mouth…maybe I’d nibble on one of her firm, round ass cheeks.

  Motherfucker. Thank God the booth’s table covers my lower body, because I’m hard as a rock now.

  “Why are you guys hidden in the corner?” Brenna demands when she finally appears. “How am I supposed to ogle all the hot men if I can’t see them?”