Cocky Best Friend: Samantha Cocker (Cocker Brothers Book 21)

by Faleena Hopkins

  “I’m hurt, too! I’m losing my friend!”

  “Oh Sammy, I wish I could make it go away.”

  The sobs wrack through my body until I have nothing left. Finally, Lexi sits back with a forlorn sigh. “I have some tissues in the glove compartment. Let’s go to the Four Seasons.”

  “I can’t go looking like this.” Snatching the traveler-size case, I tug some free and wipe my face.

  Lexi asks, like she can read my mind, “Was he just saying that because he’s jealous?”

  My voice is hoarse, throat tight. “I’m trying not to believe that! He wouldn’t do that.”

  Looking in her rearview to merge with traffic, she nods, “No, he wouldn’t. So, you want to go home? I’m assuming you don’t want to go to the cast party in this condition.”

  “Take me to the hotel.”

  Trepidation hisses through her teeth. “Here we go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Samantha

  Lexi is following me into the lobby.

  I repeat, “Go home!”

  “No chance.”

  Our heels tap along slick marble floors. “I need to do this on my own.”

  “Yeah right.”

  I freeze beside an enormous floral centerpiece that must’ve cost my rent. “I’m serious.”

  She lowers her voice. “Oh sure, I’ll let you go upstairs to the hotel room of the guy who might have broken a girl’s leg, so you can confront him about it, all alone. Because I’m sure he won’t want to hide that little secret that, were it to come out, would ruin his entire life.”

  We stare for a beat. “You have a point.”

  She shrugs and we continue to the front desk with her taking charge as she was born to do. “Hi, I’m Alexis Cocker, and this is my sister Sam. Our cousin, you might’ve heard of him Gabriel Cocker?”

  I’m so used to Lexi’s antics that I don’t even blink.

  The girl behind the counter lights up as though someone plugged her big toe into a wall. “No way! I was so bummed when he got married. Is he happy?”

  If Lexi didn’t want something from this person, she would read her the riot act over that question. How rude can people be? Yeah, we’re going to tell you—a complete stranger—if our cousin is happily married. Don’t people understand the sanctity of marriage or family loyalty?

  Lexi steamrolls, “Gabriel is hanging out with Asher Gladstone. I have his phone, or I would call him. But see, he can’t answer since it’s here.” She flashes hers. “Can you tell me what room that is?”

  “Oh, I wish I could. I’m not allowed to give away that information.”

  “Samantha! Lexi!”

  We turn our heads to find our cousin, Elijah, walking toward us. The front desk clerk almost passes out because Elijah is the identical twin of Gabriel, but even with the shorter hair and an exquisitely-tailored suit, she doesn’t realize that this isn’t the rockstar, but rather the ambitious politician who is far more severe.

  We’re in a pickle.

  His ice-green eyes narrow on me before he cups the back of my head and kisses my forehead. “You been crying?”

  Lexi is pissed that her plan is not going as intended. “What are you doing here?”

  This completely confuses the front desk clerk.

  “This is where I’m staying for a couple weeks. Since I’m going back and forth to DC, this was the best option. What are you guys doing here?”

  I start to answer, but my sister cuts me off, bright green eyes twinkling. “Your brother is here. I have his phone. So we’re trying to get this nice lady to tell us which room he’s in.”

  Elijah cocks his gorgeous head, suspicious. “Gabriel is here? Registered at this hotel?”

  I chime in, “He’s not staying here. He’s hanging out with the lead actor of the musical I’m in. The one you didn’t see.”

  Clearing guilt from his throat, Elijah glances to the clerk. “I’m guessing you didn’t give them his room number?”

  “Oh, you’re his brother! I could call up,” she offers, ready to do anything he wants.

  My heart races.

  Lexi stares straight ahead.

  “No. I want to surprise him,” Elijah says, saving our asses without knowing it.

  She giggles, “Well, since I know you are who you say you are.” Her eyelashes flick to the hotel registry and back to us a search later. “You’ll find them in Room 444.”

  He gives her a wink and the three of us walk to the shiny elevators as Lexi smirks, “You are smooth, Elijah. The looks you gave that poor girl.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Touching his lapel, she stops him. “And so am I. Gabriel’s not here. Thanks for the help though.”

  Elijah stares a beat, and chuckles. “I can’t believe I fell for that. I know you better, Lexi. And you, Sam, backing her up!”

  I shrug, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She points to her dress. “No sleeves here. Don’t be too rough with yourself.”

  “I’m always rough with myself,” he smirks as he heads away.

  Lexi calls after him, “Too much information, thanks.”

  Elijah points at me, “Whoever broke your heart like this, make him pay.”

  Lexi pushes the elevator call button as we watch our favorite candidate walk away. Under my breath so only she can hear, I say, “I think Logan is hurting enough.”

  I motion for her to stay back.

  “I’ll be right here,” she whispers pointing both of her index fingers at the carpet that hid our approach. A door opens to our right and someone in a hotel uniform walks out carrying a tray of covered dishes, uncorked champagne bottle showcased in a silver ice bucket. The employee locks eyes with me and glances to the door, realizing I am where he is supposed to be.

  I’ve studied in the school of Alexis Cocker my entire life so, without missing a beat, I reach for the tray. Since I had no hesitation, he gladly hands it over and hurries back to the employee elevator so he can return to his busy night.

  Lexi reaches over and knocks for me three times, calling out, “Room service!”

  I hear footsteps growing louder, just like my heartbeat.

  How am I going to ask him, Did you drop Marion on purpose? And after I accuse him of this, how am I supposed to dance with him in New York?

  It’s not really an accusation, is it? I’m telling him what other people have said.

  Clearing the air.

  That’s all.

  Then why the flash of perspiration?

  His door swings open.

  Stuart is wearing a white terrycloth robe loosely tied around his middle.

  I stammer, “Oh, Mr. Rogess, I must be at the wrong room.”

  Behind him, Asher steps out in a white robe, too, flushed, happy, until he sees me. “Sam!”

  I am speechless.

  Asher rushes forward, eyes flicking from our producer to me. “Stuart was just…”

  My arms slide forward, and Stuart takes the tray, begging me, “Samantha, please don’t tell anyone. My wife.”

  Like a zombie, I turn left. Lexi stays by my side as we head for the elevator. She glances back at Asher calling my name.

  After a moment of shock, he runs after us. “Sam, please, let me explain.”

  “I think she gets the gist, thanks.”

  I raise my hand to tell Lexi I’ve got this. “Give us a second.”

  She is also dumbfounded by what we never saw coming. Her eyes have no shine as she nods and backs away.

  Asher takes my arm and guides me toward the wall for what little privacy there is. There’s a framed photograph of Piedmont Park eye level behind him, and I’m staring at it as he says, “We need you to keep this a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on!”

  I meet his eyes to ask, “Did you drop Marion on purpose so that I would get the part?”

  He spontaneously gags, horrified. “No! How could you ever think that?”

  “I didn�
��t. Other people do.” In a fog I turn away.

  He gently takes my hand to regain my attention. “Samantha, we’re in love. I’m sorry, but I had to use you to hide it.”

  I yank my hand free. “I don’t understand! You asked me to come back to the hotel with you on opening night!”

  “I knew you’d turn me down.” He holds my look. “You’re the good girl, Sam. You wouldn’t have come back here with me. It was the perfect cover.”

  “Oh my God,” I moan, horrified as all the times he acted like he liked me, play back in my mind. “Why do you have to hide it?! Are you ashamed?”

  His beautiful eyelashes flutter closed. “He’s married. Please don’t ruin this for me.”

  The breath I take jails my heart in a vice. “What you do is none of my business. But his wife should know.”

  “I told him that. Don’t you think I told him?” Asher looks toward the room but the door is closed now. “He’s probably freaking out right now. And I’m going to have to start back at square one.”

  Lexi rescues me by dryly saying, “Well that’s too bad for you, isn’t it?” She takes my arm since I’m a shell with no idea how to function. “Come on Samantha, you’ve done enough for this jerk. Let’s go.”

  Asher watches us, then starts for his room as she pushes the elevator call button. I’m staring at my warped reflection in the etched steel as she raises her voice to tell him, “You are gorgeous, you dumb shit. There are a lot of men out there who would have you. Don’t know if you know it or not, but newsflash, infidelity is wrong.”

  Asher doesn’t respond to her soapbox rant. Instead, he calmly says, “I didn’t drop Marion on purpose.”

  I meet his eyes before the elevator opens to take me home.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Logan

  Stuart owns a couple of lofts in Midtown Manhattan for new talent flying in to do a temporary show.

  I’m rooming with five other guys, the 1800 square-foot space partitioned off. White walls are scuffed from what look like rehearsals, unfortunate dance blunders permanently etched into drywall. I can tell by the slant of some, the height of others, in the way they dig in.

  There is a pinewood kitchen island where we make breakfast in the morning before what will be our first rehearsal. The apartment comes complete with everything you could possibly need in the kitchen. It’s a mishmash of styles which gives the impression that performers have left bits and pieces from their stays, behind over the years.

  I pick up a silver-plated butter knife, twirl it in my fingers before placing it next to a copper fork in the utensil drawer.

  Looking up in time time to see Elliott throw a banana at me. “Catch!”

  As I peel, the memory of Marion reprimanding Samantha when she was eating one of these our other first day, returns. I take a big bite, frowning to myself.

  Johan bounds out of his bedroom, another of the new cast members. He’s been flown in from a show in San Francisco I found out last night. “How did you sleep?”

  I ask, “Me?”

  “Yeah, I know how Elliott slept. Don’t I, Elliott?”

  He gets a wink in response.

  I chuckle, throwing the peel in the garbage, “That was fast.”

  “What, you think I have to romance him first? This show could close tomorrow. And I know cool when I see it.” Johan opens the refrigerator for orange juice. “Where are Terrence, Joel, and that other guy?”

  Elliott pops a crêpe into his big mouth. “There’s no coffee left.”

  With everything he’s got, Johan screams.

  Under my breath, I mutter, “That’s the proper response,” as I head for the shower. “Don’t worry, they’re bringing back more for everybody.”

  He screams again only this time in ecstasy.

  “What if I told you that coffee is bad for us dancers?” Elliott asks.

  Johan counters, “Do you want me to stop fucking you?”

  “Coffee is so good for us. It’s like vitamin C, only healthier.”

  As I close the door I hear Johan dryly announce, “That’s better.”

  This is the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen and there are piles of mostly empty shampoo bottles, hotel soaps, little plastic containers those body gels use.

  There’s a stack of fresh towels on a shelf above the toilet that could rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “Come on, honey. You’re not the only one who needs a shower!”

  Casting a glance to my reflection, I shake my head and turn on the faucet. “I’m going to use all the hot water.”

  “You better not!”

  “Wait and see.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Logan

  “Winter is no joke,” I mutter as I zip up an ineffective jacket I’ll need to replace soon.

  The guys agree as we head down a cement staircase that leads underground, to catch the ‘C’ train.

  Terrence has been here for two weeks and already knows his way around the subway system. He showed me how to use the map on my phone. “All you have to do is put in an address and it gives you options for which train to take, and a walking map that leads you all the way to your destination.”

  Its simplicity relaxed my shoulders.

  We’re at 14th Street but we need to be at Eighth Avenue and 36th Street. So the ‘C’ it is. Or the ‘E,’ but apparently it’s not running today, so say the signs littering steel beams.

  Down in the tunnels we pass street performers—a violinist, and a small band further down. They’ve got buckets for tips on the ground, and their music is damn good. Joel throws some dollars in and mutters, “Hot damn. Create wherever you can!”

  As we pass movie posters tagged with graffiti, Elliott tells us, “I read in an article that a famous musician came down here and did his thing, and nobody paid attention. You see how most everyone is walking past and not watching? People normally pay hundreds of dollars to see this guy perform and here he was playing for free and they walked on by. It’s all about perception, man.”

  I ask, “Was it an experiment?”

  He stops in front of kiosks where we’ll buy our tickets. “He was curious.”

  Terrence gives us the quick rundown on how to do this and soon we’ve all got a thin slip to pass through the reflectors, gates unlocking one at a time to allow us entry. The mix of people waiting for a ride is about as diverse as you can imagine. We went colorblind a long time ago, so all we notice are the fashions that identify how people choose to present themselves. You look at our clothes and you can tell we’re dancers. And if you’re not clued into our culture, you’d recognize us as artists of some form, at the very least.

  With the approaching train comes a gust of wind. I close my eyes to force an uninvited image of Samantha from my mind. This would’ve blown her hair back, and the excited smile she’d have had is something I would pay to see.

  She’s staying in the girls’ loft. We haven’t spoken. Last night, my chest didn’t stop pounding with suspense until the plane’s wheels left the ground and clouds were underneath my feet. It was a relief to not be on her plane, and I counted myself lucky.

  But now I’m about to face her for the first time since I blew everything. Did I, though? She had to know about Asher. My sister was right about that. Samantha needed the warning. Just in case. But then I leapt over the line.

  How can I take back what I said?

  How do you retract, I love you?

  Turns out the ride isn’t long. Terrence makes a joke about us being lazy, and how we should have walked. We don’t pay lip service to the obvious fact that it’s freezing outside and nobody wants to walk in this wind. Besides, we’re about to have our nuts handed to us after grueling weeks of rehearsals our legs will hate us for later.

  Up in the overcast light of day, the six of us weave around countless pedestrians on 8th Avenue, as honking vehicles on our left head north since it’s a one-way road. I rake my anxious gaze along the front of a skyscraper much bigger than our reh
earsal home back in the other Midtown. She’s up there. An image of her literally running into me when I discovered ketchup on my shirt flies into my mind.

  We were just us then.

  Happy.

  “This is the place?” Elliot asks.

  Johan waves a big YES while eyeballing a store across the way. “Is that food?”

  Terrence explains, “Yeah, that’s a bodega. Your basic convenience store with a mini-buffet. Note it and memorize it! We will be living there!”

  There are three options to get into this building from the front—a spinning door, double doors, and a handicapped entrance with automatic doors.

  “It doesn’t lack for options,” I joke, but I’m secretly impressed by the size. Everything I’ve seen is impressive, if it weren’t for this impending sense of doom I’m swallowing.

  We file in, hand our ID cards to a somber security desk that employs not one but four guards scanning information while dryly asking, “What floor?”

  The guys and I exchange looks, feeling pretty special.

  Only Terrence asks, “Did something happen here that they now need so much protection?” as we head for our pick of seven steel-grey elevators.

  Johan turns right, but Elliot grabs his shoulders and steers him opposite. “Those are for floors 35-55.”

  “Holy shit, that’s high. I’m glad we’re just on 33.” A spacious, clean car is waiting for us to file into.

  As we ride up, the guys are fucking with each other, talking so easily they don’t notice I’m not.

  The doors open to a gutted-out floor that might have, at one time, housed office cubicles. Now it is one gigantic room, four times the old rehearsal space, with couches lining the walls, bathrooms in the distant right, a refrigerator in the distant left stocked with infused water bottles.

  I see none of it.

  I’m scanning every blonde head for the one I can’t stop thinking about.