by Lauren Rowe
I nod. “Yeah, he’s stunning.”
“Would you do him?”
I’m shocked. “What? No. Of course, not.”
Reed laughs. “No, no. Not literally. Not you, personally—I mean, as a figure of speech—as a measure of his commercial appeal.”
I flash Reed a snarky look. “I won’t say I’d ‘do’ Dax Morgan. I already feel like the guy’s my little brother. But I will say this: if you sign 22 Goats, I’d bet anything that armies of females, from tweeners to twenty-somethings, will be plastering Dax’s face on bedroom walls across the globe.”
“My thoughts exactly, T-Rod. That pretty little boy’s gonna make me a fucking mint.”
My heart rate spikes with excitement. “So you’re sure you’re gonna sign 22 Goats, then?”
“That’s not what I said.”
I look at Reed, confused. “What’s your trepidation, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, I suppose if you were doubt-free, you would have picked up the phone the minute you heard their demo, right?”
“You’re good, T. Hey, standing offer: if you ever get sick of working for Faraday, come work for me in L.A. I’m dead serious—no matter what, I’ll find a position for you.”
For a split second, I can’t decide if Reed is being sincere, or if he means the phrase “I’ll find a position for you” as some sort of sexual innuendo (because I’m pretty sure he was looking straight at my chest when he said those words).
“Why on earth would you say that?” I ask. “I know nothing about the music industry.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got great instincts.”
“Well, thanks, but you can’t steal me away from Josh. No one can.”
“Yeah, I figured. He’d kill me, anyway. And that’s not a figure of speech—he’d literally kill me.”
I laugh. “So what’s your trepidation about 22 Goats? You didn’t answer the question.”
“The other two guys. From what I can tell, Dax is the band. He writes the songs, sings ’em, and plays guitar front-and-center. He’s the one who makes all the girls wet their panties and the boys want to be just like him, not those other two. What value do the other two dudes bring? Honestly, anyone can play drums and bass on songs like these. The arrangements aren’t particularly complex.” He shrugs. “I’m just trying to decide if I should sign Dax as a solo artist and hire him a plug-and-play backing band.”
My stomach clenches. “But, Reed, those three guys have been playing together since high school. You should have heard the way they were talking last night about their shared love of the band and each other and their dreams for the future.” I suddenly feel breathless. “Reed, they’re The Three Musketeers.”
“That’s always the story with young bands,” Reed says calmly. “Doesn’t mean it makes business sense to keep the band together.” He leans back in his chair and his gorgeous eight-pack tightens and clenches with his movement.
“So that’s what you’re gonna do?” I ask, suddenly panicked. “Sign Dax and leave the other two guys out in the cold?”
Reed shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet. But, to answer your question, that’s why I didn’t pick up the phone to make an offer. If it turns out I wanna offer Dax a solo deal, that’s not the kind of conversation I should have with the kid on the phone.”
“Reed,” I say, my heart racing. “I know you know your business and I don’t know a damned thing, but, please, keep an open mind here. From the little I’ve seen of Dax, he seems exceptionally loyal to his friends. They’re like family to him. I’m positive asking him to choose between a record deal and his lifelong friends would be devastating to him, not to mention to the other two guys.”
“I’ll watch the show tonight and see what I think.”
“Please keep an open mind.”
“I will. But only because you’re so passionate about it.” He winks.
“Thank you.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
A cocktail waitress walks by and Reed flags her.
“You want another one, T?” He points to my empty cup.
“Fuck yes,” I say, my body wracked with stress from our conversation, and Reed laughs heartily at my unexpected reply.
Reed places our orders with the waitress and then leans back and smiles at me like a wolf. “I will say this about Dax Morgan: that kid could probably play with a couple monkeys backing him and still make it to the top of the charts.”
“Then what’s the harm in signing the whole band?” I ask. “Those other boys can’t be any worse than monkeys.”
“No harm, maybe, but felony-stupid for Dax. If he’s a solo artist, he won’t have to split the pot three ways.”
“Maybe for Dax the pot’s not worth having if he’s gonna be sitting all alone at the top of the charts, feeling like the biggest asshole who ever lived,” I say, my cheeks flashing with color. “Or, hey, maybe Dax only feels so comfortable onstage because he’s got the safety net of being up there with his two best friends in the world. Maybe in that important, subtle way Fish and Colin contribute more to 22 Goats than you realize. Maybe, if Dax said yes to you and turned his back on his friends, he’d forever feel like he fucked them over—and then he’d start resenting you and the devil’s bargain he made and he’d turn to booze and pills to numb the pain and, slowly but surely, or maybe quite quickly, the ‘rock star’ you signed would become a train wreck and a complete waste of your investment.”
Reed throws his head back and laughs heartily.
“What?” I say.
Reed flashes me a massive smile. “So much passion.”
“I poured it on too thick?” I ask sheepishly.
He nods. “Pretty damned thick. And yet it all rings true somehow.”
I sigh with relief.
“Thanks for giving me some food for thought, T-Rod. It’s nice to get bitch-slapped once in a while. It happens so rarely to me these days.”
“Oh. I had no intention of ‘bitch-slapping’ you.”
Reed waves dismissively. “I was being facetious. I just meant that nobody in my company ever pushes back with me anymore. Not like you just did, anyway.”
“No?”
“No,” he says. “If they push back at all it’s always about dollars and cents and second-guessing the market—never about not being a total dick. Never about passion.”
“Reed, I wasn’t calling you a dick. And I most certainly wasn’t trying to be naïve about business. I was just offering a different point of view.”
Reed flashes me a wicked smile. “No need to apologize, T-Rod. You’re misunderstanding me. I’m telling you I liked it when you pushed back.” His gaze turns decidedly sexual. “I liked it a lot.”
My crotch floods with blood all of a sudden. “Oh. Well... Okay.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s imagining having extremely enthusiastic sex with me right this very minute. And I’m not gonna lie: I’m having the same mental image.
“So, T-Rod,” Reed says, his voice low and intense. “What are you doing after—”
“Yo, Rivers,” Josh says, out of nowhere, and we both lean back abruptly.
“Yo, Faraday,” Reed answers smoothly.
“Jonas and Kat’s brother, Ryan, just challenged me and you to a game of two-man volleyball.” He looks at me. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything here, T?”
I shake my head like a little kid.
“Dude, gimme a minute. I just ordered a drink,” Reed says, his eyes flickering across my body again.
“I’ll bring your drink to you at the volleyball court when it arrives,” I offer, happy to use Reed’s drink as an excuse to watch Ryan playing volleyball in the sand.
“No, Miss Rodriguez,” Josh says. “Tell the waitress to bring it to Reed at the court when she comes, okay? You go ahead and hang out here and read your book and relax.” He looks at me pointedly. “Just stay here and relax.”
I nod. Damn. There was no mistaking the outright command of that last sta
tement.
“Come on, man,” Josh says, pulling Reed up off his chair. “Time to give my brother and soon-to-be brother a volleyball-beat-down as only the unstoppable duo of Faraday-Rivers can do.”
Reed relents and stands, not taking his eyes off me, his muscles flexing and tightening as he does. “I’ll catch ya later, T-Rod. It was nice chatting with you. Thanks for the advice.”
“Nice chatting with you, too, Reed. See you later tonight—at the concert.”
He winks at me. “Or maybe before then. You never know.”
“Come on, Rivers,” Josh says, physically pulling Reed away. “Goodbye, Miss Rodriguez. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Mr. Faraday,” I say. “You’re gonna need it to beat Jonas.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll be sure to tell him you said that, you traitor.”
I giggle.
I watch Josh and Reed stride away from me toward the beach. Josh puts his arm around his dear friend’s shoulders, leans into his ear, and says something to him—and not two seconds later, Reed turns completely around (’til he’s walking backward in order to face me), lays his hands on his heart, and flashes me a shit-eating grin that makes me laugh out loud.
Holy hell.
Note to self, Tessa: stay the fuck away from Reed Rivers.
Chapter 46
Ryan
“Kat!” I shout to my sister. She’s floating on an inner tube with Josh and his crowd down a circular lazy river, her adorable, bulging belly on glorious display in her white bikini. “Kat!” I call to her again.
Kat finally hears me and looks toward my voice.
I motion to her like, “Get the fuck over here!”
My sister says something to her group and paddles to the ledge and somehow manages to get her graceless body out of her inner tube and over to me.
“What’s up, Rum Cake?” she asks, waddling up to me.
“You still dying to play matchmaker, Kum Cake?”
She smiles. “I really don’t think that’s necessary anymore, do you?”
I stare at her, holding my breath.
“I know all about you and T-Rod,” Kat says, answering my unspoken question.
I exhale. “What do you know?”
“I know she’s Samantha. And I know you’ve already slept with her.” She snickers. “You devil, you.”
I grab Kat’s arm and drag her into a private corner by a fake waterfall. “How the hell do you know all that? Did Colby tell you?”
“Colby knows, too? Ha! Awesome. How’d he figure it out?”
“Because I told him.”
Kat scowls. “Bastard! You told Colby and not me? What the fuck?”
“Jizz, you’re a blabbermouth.”
“So.”
“So, Tessa’s afraid for anyone to know. She especially doesn’t want Josh to know.”
“Why? We’ve all been there. Or, at least, I have. Many times.”
“She’s not like you. She’s, you know, nice.”
Kat flips me the bird.
“How the hell did you figure it out?” I ask.
Kat tells me how she put two and two together last night when Henn mentioned “Charlotte McDougal,” and then how she got Tessa to unwittingly give up the ghost without even realizing it.
“And Tessa still has no clue she told you everything?” I ask.
“Of course, not.” Kat bats her eyelashes. “I’m a covert operative—you know that.”
I let out a long exhale. “Kat, promise me you won’t tell anyone, okay? Especially not Josh. He’s already warned me off her and I don’t want to piss him off.”
“Josh warned you off her? When?”
I quickly tell Kat the story. “It’s understandable,” I say, “given that he thinks I’ve still got a massive boner for some Argentinian flight attendant named Samantha.”
Kat bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. This entire situation is hilarious.”
“No, it’s not. It’s horrible. Josh thinks I’m a fickle fucker whose only goal in life is getting laid by random Argentinians and it couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Kat giggles. “He thinks you’re Keane with an Argentine fetish.”
“Fucking Peen.”
“Fucking Peen,” Kat agrees. “So why don’t you just tell Josh T-Rod is Samantha and he’s got it all wrong?” Kat says. “Problem solved.”
“I can’t. I promised Tessa I wouldn’t say a word to him or anyone. I mean, if I get my way, by the end of this week, everyone will know everything, but until then, it’s nobody’s business but hers.”
Kat makes a face I can’t decode.
“Please, Kat,” I say. “Help me keep things on the down-low with her for a few days. Tessa doesn’t make snap-decisions. She likes having plenty of time to process.”
“I know. She’s a Virgo.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry—I know that kind of girl well. I’m best friends with Sarah, remember?”
“Speaking of which, whatever happened to you not wanting me to date your friends? When I wanted to date Sarah, you shut me down, and now you’re gung ho to fix me up with Tessa?”
“That whole thing with Sarah was back when you were a little man-child, Rum Cake. You’re a grown man now—a really, really good man.”
“Thanks, Splooge. I always knew I loved you the most. Speaking of which, the reason I came over here is I need your brilliant, diabolical mind. Reed Rivers is sniffing around my girl right this very minute by the pool. I need you to go over there and get him the fuck away from her.”
“I can’t go over there. It’d be too obvious.”
“Not as obvious as me going over there. Come on, Kat. Help a brother out.”
“I think you’re being paranoid, Ry. Reed might be hitting on Tessa, but he’s not gonna make any headway. She’s not the kind of girl who does two different guys in two days.”
“Yeah, normally, but I’m worried as hell Tessa thinks she’s on some sort of sexual-liberation bender.” I explain how Tessa refused to commit to exclusivity with me last night. “If ever there was a moment in time when that girl would go completely off the rails, I think it’s right fucking now.” I run my hand through my hair. “Kat, please. I didn’t come over here to debate this with you. I need you to get your preggers ass over there and get Mr. Music-Mogul-Fuckface away from my girl.”
“Okay, take a chill-pill, darling brother—I’ve got this. One whisper to Josh that Reed’s making the moves on his sweet and naïve personal assistant and he’ll sprint over there and yank Reed back by the scruff of his neck. Josh loves Reed like a brother, but he’s said more than once he doesn’t want that guy within twenty yards of T-Rod.”
“Well, good, because neither do I.”
“You really like her, huh?”
“Kat, ‘like’ doesn’t come close to encapsulating what I’m feeling. But we don’t have time to talk about this. You need to go.”
Kat looks smug. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to your little sister when she says she’s got the perfect girl for you, huh?”
“Sweetheart, if things keep progressing the way I’m hoping they will, there won’t be a next time.”
Kat squeals and grabs my hand. “Okay, Rum Cake, let’s go put a bug in my soon-to-be-husband’s ear and get Mr. Music-Mogul-Fuckface away from my future sister-in-law.”
Chapter 47
Tessa
“See how elastic our prejudices grow when once love comes to bend them.”
All two hundred of us sitting in the audience at this private luau, including me, are cheering and laughing and basically experiencing death-by-adorableness right now. At the invitation of the professional dancers onstage, the few kids in our group have come onstage to try their hand at hula dancing, which means Coco and a few other cutie-pies are up there now, swiveling their little hips and making semi-hula-esque movements with their arms. Adorable.
When the kiddos clear the stage to furious applause, the emcee calls for ten to fifteen “lo
vely ladies” from the audience to come up and give the men a show. Well, of course, Kat pops up and drags Sarah and Hannah and several of her friends from college up there with her, and Keane stands and physically carries his mother up to the stage as she giggles and squeals her head off (which then prompts Ryan and Dax to grab Louise’s two sisters and bring them up to the stage, too), and, ultimately, we’re treated to a performance by the women that makes everyone cheer and applaud and laugh uproariously. Kat, especially, steals the show—man, does that woman know how to work that baby bump in a grass skirt!
Finally, the ladies leave the stage and the main event arrives—the moment we ladies have been waiting for since this little exercise in audience participation began: the emcee calls for a dozen or so gentlemen to come up and shake what the good lord gave them in a grass skirt (a suggestion that prompts every woman in the room to shriek and cat-call with a ferociousness that would put an audience at a Magic Mike show to shame).
It’s interesting and funny to see which guys in our group leap up and which ones couldn’t be dragged onstage by wild horses. Jonas, for instance, clearly won’t be dancing for our enjoyment tonight, and neither will Dax or Colby. Nope. They’ve all crossed their arms over their chests and they’re plastering their asses onto their chairs like they’re Superglued onto them.
But, glory be, there’s no such resistance from the more extroverted hotties in the audience, a group that includes Josh, Reed, Henn, Zander, Keane (of course), a few of Josh’s fraternity brothers, and, thankfully, the one and only Ryan Ulysses Morgan.
The minute our gregarious men get onstage, an army of bare-chested male Hawaiian dancers descend upon them and, in no time flat, strip them of their shirts, and wrap them in grass skirts and other adornments.
As the audience looks on, hooting and hollering enthusiastically, loud drums begin thumping frenetically, cuing the professional dancers to break into a frantic and jaw-dropping display. After a few minutes of the dancers showing our men exactly what’s expected of them, the professionals move aside and cue the drums again.
And that’s when sheer pandemonium breaks loose.
Oh my God, our men aren’t holding back up there. They’re shaking and flexing and hopping around in their bare chests and grass skirts, each of them displaying their unique (and full-throttled) interpretations of the professional dancers’ earlier moves. Okay, first off, this is just freaking hilarious. I’m pretty sure I just now peed a little from laughing. But, second off, oh my God, this is hot as hell. I mean, holy macaroni, that’s a hot group of men up there! Especially Ryan. I mean, yes Keane and Josh have an obvious leg up on their competition from a “dance moves” standpoint—but, in my opinion, Ryan’s got them all beat when it comes to sheer magnetism.
