The Last Guy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “Fuck you, Marv!” Chas is singing and pointing her long fingers toward the door.

  “I have to call Nancy . . .”

  “We have to celebrate!” Now my roommate is clapping. “Get dressed—we are going dancing!”

  I think about the texts Vicky had sent me over the last few weeks, apologizing again, asking if I were okay. I’d ignored them all. “I have to call Vicky and thank her.”

  “You can do all that later. I’m calling for a car. Put on your party dress!”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re in Barbarella, a funky-fun downtown dance club with 1960s Space-Race-era décor. We’re in the center of a smoke-filled, semi-crowded dance floor. Neon-purple lights flash all around us, and we reach for the stars, which are little white points of light scattered across the black ceiling. It looks just like the Milky Way, and with our arms up, we twist our hips to classic 90s house music. Chas is in a short sequined slip dress, a classic Julie Newmar flip wig, and sky-high stilettoes. I’d thrown on my red dress and heels, touched up my lipstick, and ran out the door behind her.

  “It’s Priscilla!” Chas cries, and we jump up and down, singing and dancing to “Finally” by CeCe Peniston. “I’m Queen of the Desert!”

  The song mixes into Robin S’s “Show Me Love,” and Chas pulls my arm toward the bar. I make a pouty face. “I love this song!”

  “Too much desert. I must have refreshment.”

  We’re stopped on the way off the floor by one of Chas’s fans wanting an autograph. I snort a laugh when she signs the guy’s bicep then squeals about how big and hard it is. Selfies taken, we make our way to the crowded bar.

  “Why aren’t you performing tonight?” I ask as we wait for fresh Cosmos.

  “I have the week off,” she says, rocking her hips to the beat. “Maybe I’ll go with you to New York. I haven’t seen Nan in ages!”

  My eyes drift up to the flat-screen television hanging behind the bar. The news is ending with a recap of scenes from the charity ball earlier this evening. I’d done my best to avoid all coverage and put the event out of my mind, since it’s to benefit the same inner-city school where I’d started to fall in love with Cade. Eli Manning appears with other local celebrities, and my stubborn gaze searches every face looking for his. I see Coach Hart followed by Cheetah . . . and my heart stops when Cade appears on the screen.

  Dark hair flops onto his brow, and his steel blue eyes laser from the television to burn a hole in my already decimated heart. The television is on mute, but I watch his full lips surrounded by that beard, his perfectly straight teeth as he smiles, waiting patiently as Matt asks him a question.

  Tears burn my eyes as much as I fight them. It hurts so bad to see him standing there, looking healthy and amazing, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I can still hear his voice. He stopped calling me, but I still have one of his voicemails saved on my phone. Sometimes, when it’s really bad, I’ll press it to my ear and listen to the rich vibration of him speaking. Hot tears will stream down my face, and I’ll cry myself to sleep . . .

  Those are the bad nights, the nights when I wonder how much I truly care that he knew the entire time, every time I’d thanked him . . . when I’d told him everything, when I’d bared my deepest feelings, my hopes and dreams. He’d known it had been over for me the whole time. He hadn’t even tried to warn me.

  “Be My Lover” by La Bouche comes on, and I turn to find Chas. I want to dance—correction: I need to dance. Only, I don’t turn fast enough to miss it. The last shot of the gala is that same blonde stick-insect prancing up to Cade and planting a kiss right on his face. Maggie Grace in a mixture of words including fiancée appears under her image, and my heart drops to my feet. I lift my martini glass and chug the rest of the pink liquid, ready to slam it on the bar when a deep voice freezes me in place.

  “She’s always looking for some way to be on camera.”

  Spinning around, I almost fall when I see Cade standing behind me staring up at the TV screen. He looks just as luscious as he had when Matt was interviewing him, except his black tie is gone. The top button of his white shirt is undone, and both hands are in his pants pockets.

  “Cade . . .” My stomach clenches, and my voice is just above a whisper.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here. Trent wanted to celebrate.” His blue eyes move around my face. “The gala was a big success.”

  A sharp pain shoots through my forehead, and I fight back the tears. I remind myself my life is better now. I don’t need Cade Hill or his player ways and half-truths. I’ve just gotten the chance of a lifetime. I am not focusing on the past or betrayal or how much I want to bury my face in his chest and lose myself in the scent of warm fires and citrus and him.

  I clear my throat. “I’m glad to hear it.” I sound way calmer than I feel. “Deadrick is a worthy cause.”

  Cade waves at the bartender. “A Cosmopolitan and a Jameson.”

  “You don’t have to buy—”

  “So you’re working with Tommy now?”

  Shaking my head, I do a dismissive wave. “It’s just a temporary thing. I-I actually got a letter from Brian Caldwell today. He’s with the NBC affiliate in New York. They want to interview me.”

  Cade studies me a moment, and I can’t figure out the expression on his face. It’s some strange mixture of pride and anger. “You’re going to work in Manhattan?”

  “It’s just an interview.” He hands me my drink, and I nod. “Thanks. I don’t know that anything will come of it. It’ll probably be just an expensive trip, but at least I’ll see Nancy.” His brow furrows, and I continue, borderline babbling. “My old roommate. She moved up there to go to culinary school and hopefully get a job with the Food Network, although—”

  “They’ll offer you the job.” He cuts me off, and it sounds almost like saying the words makes him angry. “They’d be fools not to.”

  I don’t know how to answer that, and we fall quiet. House music fills the gap, Be my lover . . .

  “So you’re engaged now?” My stupid brain just has to know.

  “No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t know why she . . . I’ll get Vicky to correct it.”

  I look down, taking a slow sip of my drink. I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m buzzed and sad and having him this close is killing me. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep talking to him this way.

  “You look . . . really good,” he says, and pain echoes in my chest with every heartbeat. “I always liked that dress.”

  “So do you.” My voice breaks, and it’s time to go. I have to get out of here before I lose my grip on control and completely humiliate myself by falling apart. “Well . . . good luck to you.”

  I turn and almost bounce off Trent and Chas prancing up arm in arm. “Rebecca Fieldstone!” Trent presses his hand against his chest. “Watch where you’re going, girl! My safety is your priority!”

  I force a smile as we air-kiss each other’s cheeks. “Congratulations on the gala tonight.” I squeeze his forearm. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to celebrate.”

  “Houston! We have a problem!” Chas cups her mouth dramatically with one long hand. “What’s up, buttercup? You’re calling it a night?”

  “I’m sorry.” I step forward to air-kiss my roomie. “I think today’s hitting me all at once. I’m suddenly exhausted.”

  “Do you need me to see you home?” My roommate’s chin starts to lift in Cade’s direction, and I see her trying to make history repeat itself.

  I grip her arm, and my jaw tightens. “I’ll be fine. I’ve already called an Uber.”

  “Bolt the door as soon as you get inside.” Chas uses her exaggerated mom-voice.

  “I will.”

  Trent and Chas are calling “Byeeee” in unison, and the heat of Cade is burning at my back. Without looking over my shoulder, I adopt a confident stride and make my way through the crowd and out the door.

  Only a few steps more, and I can fall apart . . .

  Cade

/>   THE CLUB IS smoky and packed to the gills with writhing bodies, but the only thing I see is Stone’s curvy backside as she walks away from me.

  Her hair is down and long in the back, the sleek strands like a cascading waterfall. God, I sound lovesick. My fingers itch to pull her head back against my chest and put my mouth on her neck. She’d taste like coconuts and summer, and I inhale sharply at the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.

  I want her.

  She doesn’t want you.

  “Go after her,” Trent hisses in my ear and gives me a nudge toward the door. Of course, he and Chas had been texting tonight, hence the reason we’d ended up at the same bar.

  “She’s almost gone,” he says to me. “It might be your last chance!”

  I want to go after her. I want to follow her out and beg her to forgive me for not doing more to stop Marv and his stupid shenanigans.

  But I can’t.

  My body tightens with tension. “No. She hasn’t forgiven me.” I force myself to shrug nonchalantly. “She’s moving on anyway to New York.” I clear my throat. “Which is great for her. Fucking great.”

  I slam my drink and signal the bartender to bring me another one.

  I want to feel numb.

  Chas, who’s been shimmying to the music, takes a seat at the bar and pats the one next to her. “You look down, Star-Lord. Come here and talk to Mama Chas. I’m a good listener.”

  I manage a smirk. I don’t acknowledge the Star-Lord comment but know it has something to do with Stone.

  “Trying to psychoanalyze me?”

  “Naturally, darling. My aunt LouVerne lived in Little Rock, but she was a New Orleans gypsy.”

  “That so?”

  “She said I inherited her gift. Come on, sit your hot ass down and show me your hand. Let me tell you what it means.”

  I heave out a long breath, suck down the rest of my drink, and plop down. “Alright, lay on the bullshit.”

  “Right hand, please.” She nudges her head at my hand, and I place it on the bar.

  With a serious expression, she studies my palm, her long mocha fingers drifting and tracing over the intricate lines.

  Trent is fascinated and hovers around us. “Do you read tarot cards too?”

  “Sure, honey. I do it all,” she says, without looking at him. “Fortune-telling, tea leaves, astrology, crystallomancy, feng shui—”

  I pop an eyebrow. “You’re part Chinese now?”

  “I sense a hostile vibration,” she says.

  I roll my eyes, and Trent pops me on the arm. I chuckle, the alcohol kicking in. “Okay, okay. Just get it over with.”

  Chas points to a line at the top of my hand. “See this here? It’s a long fate line, which means lots of happiness . . . although here you have an interruption.”

  “Is he going to die?” Trent gasps.

  Chas’s lips twitch. “Don’t freak . . . he has a long life line, but sadness and heartbreak have plagued you recently. You made a mistake . . . a tiny one . . . and it hasn’t been rectified. You must fix this or never have happiness again.”

  “Dude. That sucks,” Trent says, giving me a sympathetic look. “You can’t leave things unsettled. Think about Dad. I mean, we aren’t perfect—never will be—but things are better.”

  I exhale. “Okay, what else?”

  Chas peers at my hand, tracing the line near my thumb. “This is your love line.”

  I smirk. “I bet it’s horrible.”

  She ignores me, intent on her reading. “You love deeply, but you’ve been hurt in the past.” Her heavily lashed eyes flick up to mine.

  My mouth tightens. “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “Maggie Grace, aka Lying Bitch,” Trent exclaims. “She walked out on him when his knee was busted. Didn’t even leave a goodbye note and then goes and tells everyone she’s his fiancée. Crazy ass—”

  “That’s enough,” I say.

  Yes, she’d left me, and it had stung. But it was nothing compared to watching Stone march out of my office.

  Chas nods, her voice low and serious. “Fear of being hurt and a mountain of pride are keeping you from getting what you want. There is someone you care for very deeply—not your ex—and you must tell her or nothing will ever be right again. If you want something, you must fight for it.” Her knowing gaze sweeps over me. “You feel me?”

  Even though my bullshit meter is going off, a tingle goes down my spine, and my heart thuds. I am a fucking fighter. Always have been. But when it comes to Stone, she’d walked away from me. So. Fucking. Easily. I have my pride, and if a shit ton of phone calls and texts aren’t enough . . .

  I jerk my hand away from Chas.

  “She gave up, not me.” Picking up my drink, I take a deep swallow. It burns going down, and I’m glad. I need it.

  With my index finger at the bartender, I order another one. He quickly obliges.

  Trent gives me a concerned look as he watches me suck it down. “Bro, you okay? I haven’t seen you drink this much—”

  I cut him off. “I’m fine. Bathroom break.” I stand, weaving for half a second until he straightens me.

  “Want me to go with?” he calls as I walk through the crowd to get to the back of the club. I raise my hand up and flip him off without even looking.

  Making my way down the narrow hallway, I find the restroom, shoving open the door with my palms. Thank fuck it’s empty. I grip the sink and peer at myself in the mirror. My face is ashen and there are bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. It isn’t because of work or the gala or Trent.

  Stone, fucking, Stone.

  And right there, I allow myself to process what she’d said.

  She’s going to New York and going on to a hell of a lot bigger things than being in car commercials in Houston. She isn’t just walking out of my office . . . she’s walking to another part of the goddamn country.

  A wave of nausea hits me, and my knuckles whiten as I hang on to the sink.

  “Get yourself together,” I mutter.

  I’m going to be sick because I drank too much.

  That’s a lie—I’m sick because of Rebecca Fieldstone.

  My chest tightens at the thought of her. I straighten my shoulders and roll my neck, needing to alleviate the pressure.

  Suck it up, Killer. Move on.

  Right.

  That ship has sailed.

  Trent pops into the room, his nose wrinkling. “Damn, this place reeks.” He shudders. “I hate public restrooms. Can’t use them.”

  “What do you want then?” I bark.

  He smirks and takes my arm. “Simmer down, princess, I’m rescuing you and getting you out of this dump.”

  I let him lead me out. “Where we going?”

  He pats my arm. “I’m taking you home and tucking you in.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “If you don’t want to be alone, I’ll sleep over.”

  I don’t say it, but it’s scary how he reads me.

  We weave through the dancers, and I wonder how we must look, me the six, four bulky guy being lead around by the lean and much younger Trent.

  I reach over to ruffle his hair and my words are a bit slurred. I focus on enunciating. “I might be drunk, so disregard anything I might say, but you’re my favorite brother.”

  “You are definitely drunk, and I’m your only brother.”

  “Thank God.”

  He beams. “I love you, too.”

  Chas is on the dance floor and waves us air kisses as we pass her and head to the exit. “Come by the apartment,” she calls. “I have a crystal ball . . .” The rest fades out as we exit and Trent calls us an Uber. The ride home is a nightmare, and I find myself staring out the window, fighting with my roiling stomach.

  When I finally get inside my apartment and get into bed, I can’t sleep, which is the whole reason I drank. The room spins, and I close my eyes, digging for solace. All I see is a spunky blonde.

  Stone. She’s got me tied up in a knot an
d the only way out is to—fuck, I don’t see a way out.

  The rest of the weekend passes excruciatingly slow. I wake up with a pounding headache and an uneasy stomach. Ditching my run, I spend Saturday morning in bed with Killer watching pregame football shows. More times than I care to admit, I find myself studying the lines on my hand. I am a fighter, I keep telling myself, but when the car commercial with Stone comes on, I turn it off. I don’t even want to see her face.

  If she’s leaving . . . then that’s the end of it.

  By the afternoon, Trent calls about our Sunday get-together at the movies. I drag myself out of bed, shower, and head to meet my family at the local cinema to see Guardians of the Galaxy 2. Star-Lord . . . I’m not him. I’m right here on this planet wanting her.

  That night, I toss and turn, my body wired and on edge. I finally sleep when I flick on the TV and the monotonic drone lulls me under.

  By Monday, I’m still feeling dark though, mulling over the weekend as I dress in a Tom Ford suit and head to work. I arrive earlier than usual, and the lobby is empty except for a page dropping off some mail. I mumble out a greeting and stalk to the sports den. My grouchiness is heightened when I can’t even find a pen that works on my desk. With a growl of frustration, I stomp to the supply closet.

  It’s the low throaty moan that gives me the first clue something isn’t as it should be, and it’s confirmed when I fling the door open. I don’t know what I expect to see—maybe the cleaning lady had gotten locked inside overnight—but it sure isn’t the sight of Savannah on her knees with Marv’s skinny dick in her mouth.

  With the backdrop of copy paper, toner, and boxes of pens, she’s deep throating him and he’s pumping between her lips, a blissed-out expression on his thin face. He eeks out his orgasm, and she swallows it down. I steel myself not to barf. They haven’t even seen me yet.

  I open the door wider and clear my throat. “Morning, party people!”

  She chokes.

  He screams like a girl.

  His expression is part horror, part ecstasy.

  I shake my head and say, “Well, well, well, this explains a lot.”

  Marv shoves a disoriented Savannah off him, and she falls down and screeches. Her shirt is off, and her tits flop around. Ignoring her calls of protest, he quickly zips his pants and tries to buckle them.