Betting On It

by Violet Blake

  So maybe it was. Bright pink with black scrollwork over the remote made it girly and decorative.

  Emily bounced in her seat. “There’s more.”

  “Yay,” I fake-cheered, and reached inside. I found a DVD, and when I read the title I choked. The Big Bang Philosophy. “How, um, titillating.”

  I was no prude. Trust me. I had a few of my own that’d gotten me through several dry patches with Ethan. They might as well have been the third in a polyamorous relationship. After my parents had warned my siblings and I to be careful of our online activities, I’d snuck into the adult video store for a few goodies. Nothing wrong with any of it.

  So there. I had nothing against sex toys and porn. I really didn’t. It’s just that when your friends give them to you because your love life sucks, well, that stings.

  “It won best screenplay at the AVN Awards,” Emily said, nodding.

  Like I knew what that was. I dug into the third bag. Inside were a few books. One was the obligatory Kama Sutra—something I’d been curious about for a long time—an Erotic Fantasies compendium, and a smaller booklet called 101 Things to do with Your Lover Before You Die. Charming.

  “Awesome,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Emily cast a worried glimpse at Jessica, whose face had done a quick about-face from an excited rosiness to a vomitus pea green. Jessica pushed a crimson box across the table with a cream-colored bow tied around it. Without a word I opened it, letting the bow fall to my feet. Instead of jewelry, a card lay inside. I unfolded it and began to read.

  You could’ve sucked the air out of the room it was so quiet.

  What the…

  “A sex bucket list?” I squealed. I turned to Jess, my lungs unable to draw breath on their own.

  She grabbed the card and fanned my face with it. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but it’s for your own good.”

  I stared at the paper, which included instructions.

  Happy un-wedding, Blair!

  Don’t be mad. But in the next thirty days, your life is going to change. We’ve picked 10 things from 101 Things to do With Your Lover Before You Die, and you get to do all of them in the next 30 days. Oh, and no cheating. You’re on your honor.

  Happy fucking!

  Love,

  Jessica and Emily

  I couldn’t possibly describe exactly how that made me feel. On one hand I wanted to laugh because the whole thing was so preposterous. But on the other, I was mortified that somebody had had to go out and do something like this for me. That I hadn’t experienced any of these things yet.

  Ethan had been my first real boyfriend. I’d had sex before him with a guy who worked at the coffee shop I used to study at in high school. Believe me, I’d wanted to date and have a normal teenage experience. But my parents were ultra conservative public figures who went out of their way to make sure the Bartlett family name went untarnished. They trusted nothing I did, wouldn’t even let me have a cell phone until I graduated high school because they were certain I’d film a porno and put it on Twitter. Even after I’d explained that you can’t even put pornos on Twitter. I’d been told what to wear, what to say, how to act my entire life, until I went to college.

  Even then, they’d gone out of their way to find “the right partner” for me to marry. Not that they’d been so obvious about it. But after a few years, and after college—and especially my near-death experience—things became very clear in retrospect. And it’s not like they arranged the marriage or sold me or anything like that. More like they made sure Ethan was at every family function when I came home from school. For a shy, nerdy girl like I’d been in high school, it was like Christmas every day. He asked all the right questions, flirted, made me feel like the awesomest girl in the world.

  Ethan was heir to a billionaire, and his family were huge supporters of my mom’s political campaign. He was perfect on paper. Gorgeous, impeccable manners. But soon he’d begun his own PR campaign on me. He’d bought me clothes, replacing my favorite blacks, reds, and purples with pastels and ladylike lace. My artsy handmade jewelry was set aside for diamonds and platinum. My favorite sci-fi and fantasy books and movies were relegated to the basement in favor of foreign films that made me think.

  And the sex? That’s where things were especially un-awesome. For him, it was a race to the finish, and the loser didn’t get a happy ending. I’ll leave it at that.

  I flipped over the card, engraved in crimson script that read: Blair’s Sex Bucket List. “What is this?”

  Jessica cleared her throat. “Here’s our challenge to you. In the next thirty days you go out and have the time of your life. You’re going to open your eyes to everything you’ve been missing. Never again will you feel like you have to settle, because from this point forward, you’re in charge.”

  “Have fun. Live,” Emily said.

  Which was the crux of the problem. My whole life I’d lived for making everybody happy, especially my parents. And who shouldn’t make their parents happy? But it wasn’t a healthy relationship. After they’d torn my heart to shreds I left. It was the first decision I’d ever made that went against their wishes.

  And now I had a wish—ten of them, actually—for myself. “Why thirty days?”

  Jessica stood and walked over to stand on the other side of me. “Because in thirty-five days the Callahan Foundation is doing an auction.” She motioned to the painting. “This would be the perfect contribution, don’t you think?”

  Oh, hell no. I almost threw my cake at her.

  Emily topped off my glass and handed it to me. “If you do all ten in less than thirty days, you keep the painting and we buy your drinks for a year.”

  I had to admit it was a pretty sweet deal. “And if I lose, my nekkid painted boudoir painting goes up on the auction block.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Jessica clarified. “No harm in doing something for yourself every once in a while.”

  “We’re betting you can do it,” Emily said, refilling her martini glass.

  I didn’t know what to say—aside from running away screaming, that is. Let’s be completely honest here. Without some sort of push, I’d probably be content to sit in my apartment working from home until I was ninety. I’d left behind my old life so I could have a life, and what I’d been doing the last few months wasn’t working.

  Everything about my life right now was safe. Safe was what got me to where I was now, so logically, wouldn’t it make sense to go with the not-so-safe option?

  My head hurt.

  So—grudgingly—I accepted their gift with grace. I had no doubt this bet would be lost before it began, and I just wanted to get on with the party.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday morning started off great. And by great, I mean on my couch, the world spinning, and me too afraid to jump off. A persistent pounding sounded somewhere in my audial periphery, and made me clench my eyes tighter.

  But then a masculine voice cut into the chaos, calling my name. Oh, this only got better.

  Let me start by saying something about Sawyer. Hearing his voice was tantamount to being lost in the mountainous wilderness, starving, only to stumble into a clearing where you see a mountain of chocolate, complete with Nutella waterfalls, and a lake full of your favorite beer. The deep resonance, the easy way he spoke, the sincerity behind it…it was something I’d begun to crave. I won’t even go into the way his laugh made my lady bits feel.

  I sat up, pinched my nose at the increased spinning and pounding, and waited for my insides to adjust.

  “Coming,” I grumbled, the word slicing through my brain like a pack of pirates with machetes.

  The pounding stopped. “Are you all right in there? I waited by the fountain for half an hour.”

  Crap.

  We were supposed to meet for a run this morning. I groaned and did my best not to crawl to my door. It opened and he stood on the other side, in all his sextastic glory. Wearing a T-shirt from his brewery, black running shorts, and a pair of
Ray-Bans, he was nothing short of perfectly fuckable. I wondered for a moment if this was a dream—it was the perfect porno setup. All we were missing was some bow-chika-wow-wow guitar music.

  He pushed his sunglasses up on his head. He tilted his head, and somewhere behind that cheeky glint in his eye lurked male admiration. Amusement practically dripped from the small smile he cracked. “Nice running clothes.”

  I looked down and realized I still wore my dress. And heels. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s, um, apocalypse training. You never know when those suckers will happen. You could be at home, at work, or at a party after having somewhere between three and seven martinis.”

  He chuckled and shoved his sun-streaked, golden-brown hair out of his forehead. “I take it you’re hungover?”

  The punishing vise crushing my temples intensified. “Hungover is such an understatement.”

  He raised his hand to my face, and pried a green gummy bear from my cheek. “You know what you need?”

  Kill me now. I plucked the candy from his fingers and hid it behind my back. “As long as it doesn’t involve the Kama Sutra, I think we’re good.”

  He coughed to cover a laugh—so obvious—and shook his head. “You’re still drunk.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You need greasy hangover nachos. Let’s get you to Anita’s.” That was everybody’s go-to hangover hangout throughout college. He was five years older than Jessica and I, but he’d been going through grad school when we were undergrads. We’d been on more than a few hangover runs together.

  After all the talk last night about how much I had it for him I felt like I was playing whack-a-mole with my feelings, knocking them out one at a time. Which was a thousand times harder in my state.

  “Okay,” I said, playing it cool the best I could manage. I turned and made for my room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I about upchucked from the vision of myself in the mirror. The thing staring back at me was ripped straight from a Dateline NBC segment—definitely the murdered prom date found dead in a ditch highlight reel. Wrinkled party dress, heels, mascara caked under my eyes, and champion bedhead. And to think I had a gummy bear on my face minutes ago. Sawyer should’ve run while he had the chance.

  I took some Advil, combed my hair and wound it into a bun, washed my face, and put on a green sundress with a pair of black Converse sneakers. No illuminator in the world would make me look perky this morning, but I gave it my best shot, finishing my ensemble with some mascara and shimmery blush. At least I wouldn’t get the cops called on me if I went in public like this.

  When I entered my living room the whole prom date in a ditch thing sounded like an okay alternative.

  Sawyer had been left alone. With the painting. And now he’d seen me naked.

  Fuck.

  Stunned as I was, I didn’t miss the way he stared at it. Somewhere between “mountain lion eyeing the Easter Bunny” and “playboy scoping out his next bed buddy.” My libido gave my mortification the five-finger death punch. If he kept looking at my painting that way, I’d have to hand him my list, maybe ask him for help.

  I shook my head. What the hell?

  I couldn’t do anything with Sawyer. For one, he was my best friend’s cousin—practically her brother. That was one way for friendships to go sour, fast. I don’t care what the girls said last night. Two, he was way out of my league. And by way out, I mean I lived in Colorado and he lived on Jupiter.

  I raised my arm and leaned against the doorframe—because who could stand upright without support when he looked like that?—and summoned droll amusement into my voice. “Should I leave you two alone together? I can bring you back some nachos.”

  He blinked and shook his head, then turned his attention toward me while he stuffed a paper into his pocket. His eyes were glazed, narrowed, intense. Moisture glistened on his lips where he’d just licked them. “Is that…is that you?”

  “Why does everybody have to act so surprised?” I took my purse from the coffee table and put the strap over my shoulder.

  “Holy shit, Blair. You are—just—wow.” He swallowed hard and adjusted his shorts. “Who painted it?”

  Surely that wasn’t jealousy turning his skin green. Surely not.

  I bit the inside my cheek to stop myself from doing a split jump or something equally victorious. I’d always had a crush on Sawyer—who wouldn’t? The man was fucking hot—but I never expected him to see me remotely in the realm of anything attractive. “Um, I did.”

  His expression became blank. Like he deliberated a huge business deal but didn’t want the other party to see his true interest. He was not a man who let his poker face slip. He was COO of a corporation. He was wealthy, educated…my inspiration for late night fantasy. And at the moment he was speechless.

  People who lived in the friend zone didn’t look like that…did they?

  Shaking my head, I grabbed the quilt off my couch and tossed it over the painting. “Shall we get breakfast?”

  He only nodded.

  On the way to the restaurant we fell into easy conversation, as if the bizarre scene at my place hadn’t happened. What we talked about, I have no memory. I can remember, however, the way his bicep muscles flexed when he turned the steering wheel of his Range Rover. And the way his tanned thigh muscles swelled when he drove. And how his stubble highlighted his strong bone structure, the way his lips worked when he spoke, and how the corners of his eyes crinkled when I made him laugh. At one point I had to close one eye to focus on his face, which only made me realize I was openly staring. Way to be obvious.

  Go home, Blair. You’re drunk.

  He drove into a parking lot, and we walked to the restaurant. His arm draped over my shoulders, and he pulled me close so we walked hip to hip. As well as a 6’4” guy could walk hip to hip next to a 5’6” person, anyway. I had no choice—really—but to put my arm around his waist and admire the way his torso muscles hardened under my touch. If I didn’t have him hold me up, I’d probably fall over.

  How could a real man who wasn’t a pro athlete or model be so built? I mean, yeah, he and I ran together almost every morning. But this? This was ridiculous.

  We were seated in the restaurant at a booth across from each other. He ordered Bloody Marys and cheesy nachos for us, and read the newspaper.

  The initial hangover I’d felt when I awoke was fading, giving way to the slap-happy drunken feeling I’d felt before passing out on my couch last night. I’d take it. “Thanks for taking me out this morning. I feel so bad I ruined our run.”

  He shrugged. “Any time. But don’t think you’re off the hook for tomorrow morning.”

  “Of course not.”

  I couldn’t help but notice two women, probably in their early forties, standing in a huddle nearby, whispering. Without much discretion, I peeked their way just in time to see one point. They held a magazine up to Sawyer for comparison.

  He read the newspaper, and I sipped on my water, still wearing my sunglasses. Yeah, yeah. Only major douchebags wear sunglasses indoors while they eat. But my eyes wanted to shrivel up and fall out of their sockets every time I took them off. So douchebag it was.

  He tore his eyes from the paper. “There’s a 5K at Copper Mountain in August. Want to run it with me?”

  “I can barely keep up with you,” I said, hopefully not giving away how delighted I was at the idea of him asking me out. Okay, not really out-out. But to something that would require us to go somewhere alone. Together.

  Setting down the paper, he regarded me with the same delicacy he would bestow upon the village idiot. “Please. I’m the one who’s trying to keep up with you now.”

  “It’s him,” one of women said, and the other two nodded. I pegged them to be ladies who lunch on their way to Old Town Square for some shopping, gossiping, and flirting, judging by their barely-there summery dresses.

  I glanced at Sawyer, who seemed oblivious to them while he obliterated another nacho. Out of the corner of
my eye I noticed them coming closer. By the time they reached our table they were more than a little excited, and became less and less discreet about whatever it was they were going on about.

  This had to be good. Please let this be good. I needed a distraction.

  Within seconds they’d stopped at the table. Sawyer, no longer unaware to the odd spectacle anymore, dared to look at them.

  “Hello,” he said politely, although his eyes darted to mine in that startled is-this-really-happening? type of way.

  “It is him!” The woman’s voice echoed inside the tiny restaurant so loudly it brought my hangover back full force.

  I closed my eyes and pressed the pads of my thumbs against my temple. Oh, please make the bad feeling stop.

  “Excuse me?” he repeated slowly.

  Whatever was happening, it was bound to be good. No matter how hungover I was, I’d find tons of enjoyment from this.

  She flipped the magazine around. Fort Collins had a few local magazines, and this one tended toward the social aspect. Within seconds it dawned on me that it was his mug on the cover, with Colorado’s Most Eligible in block print.

  “Oh God,” I breathed, and clamped a hand over my mouth to stop the impending guffaw. Laughing my ass off would hurt. Possibly make me puke.

  His expression went blank, but I had no doubt he didn’t enjoy my enjoyment of the situation. But when he turned to the ladies, he put on his most charming smile, the one that undoubtedly yanked the hearts right out of anything with two X chromosomes. “This is certainly a surprise.”

  “Can you sign it?” one of them asked. She twirled one of her blown-out curls and smiled, dragging her lower lip through her teeth.

  “I don’t have a pen,” he said. Poor guy. If he could wish for anything at this moment, I bet it would be to banish all writing instruments from the face of the planet.

  Too bad I was here. I stuck my hand into my purse and found a pen. “Oh, hey, I have one.”

  The message broadcast from his eyes clearly said he would stab me in the aorta with that pen if we weren’t in public. He signed the cover and handed it back to them wearing the tightest of smiles.