by Chloe Blaque
“I thought that was you, Evan. Salut.” Grinning broadly, Johnny clasps Evan’s hand in one of his and pats him on the back with the other. “I heard last night was fantastique!” Johnny’s French accent slips out on the last few syllables of his sentence.
Oh, right! Baie is French for bay. I grab the menu and see the miniscule italicized French translations under each food choice. I tingle at the thought of him choosing this place just for me. But he’s obviously friends with this guy, so maybe not.
“It was great, man. Too bad you couldn’t make it. Coming tonight?” Evan asks Johnny.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there. Hello,” Johnny says to me. “I’m John. Enchanté.”
“Enchanté. Je m’appelle Lex.”
“Ahhh, tres bien! Tu parles Francais!”
“Un peu.”
Evan turns to me. “Johnny owns Baie.”
“Welcome and enjoy,” Johnny says.
“What do you suggest?” I ask. “Everything looks great.”
“Any one of the savory crepes. They melt in your mouth.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say.
“We’ll take six of your choice,” says Evan.
“Tres bien,” Johnny says before disappearing inside the restaurant.
Folding back into his chair, Evan slides my black-rimmed glasses toward me. “You dropped these.” He smirks.
I smirk back. “Thanks.”
“Contrary to your profile, I am a gentleman. I should probably apologize for last night, but I won’t.” He leans in. “Those lips are killer, Ms. Martine.” His gaze flicks to my mouth and returns to my eyes. My pulse jumps.
“Yesterday went too far. We don’t know each other.”
He leans in. “Then let’s get to know each other.”
“For what purpose?”
“So you’ll let me touch you again.”
We lock gazes. “You see why I called you arrogant?”
“Confident, not arrogant. If I see something I want, I go after it.”
Is he talking about wanting me? I take a few sips of my mimosa. “You sound like Maverick in Top Gun,” I say drily, trying to keep the words “let me make you come” out of my head.
“That’s a great movie,” he says, as if I have committed an offense against guy code. “I have it on DVD.”
“Of course you do.”
“You loved that movie too,” he says.
I look away. I did love it. I had a crush on Tom Cruise for years after that came out. “I may have felt the need for speed back in the day,” I say. “But I’ve learned that some things are better when you take your time.”
My favorite dimple appears with his smile. “I like you.”
“Better than the girl you mistook me for last night?” Sarcasm drips from my voice.
“Much better,” he says, his eyes twinkling.
I shake my head and laugh. Sexy and arrogant.
“I can’t stop to play. Gotta keep working night and day…” sings out as Evan’s phone rings. I flash Evan a surprised look and smile. That song takes me back, waaay back. I never would have pegged him for old-school rap, and yet I should know better. I’ve been judged by my skin color for years. Personally, I’d like to know more about this white boy who loves hip-hop and street art. His story seems more interesting than gossip about Josie Pink.
Apologizing, Evan excuses himself, assuring me he wouldn’t take it if it wasn’t urgent, and moves out of earshot. He comes back a few minutes later, frowning. His gaze shifts to the water as he tries to let go of whatever just bothered him.
“Gang Starr, huh?”
His eyebrow shoots up. “What do you know about Gang Starr, young lady?”
“Oh, I know Gang Starr. I have all four volumes of ‘JazzMatazz.’ And who are you calling young lady?” I ask, rolling my neck. “I am older than you.”
“How much older?”
“Almost four years.”
He smiles over the lip of his flute. “I love older women.”
A waiter arrives with our crepes and another round of mimosas. The golden wraps smell so delicious we both just pick one and dig in. Spinach, mushroom, and gruyere fill me with pure heaven. Evan stabs his meal with a fork and eats silently.
“God damn, try the salmon one,” he says. He slices off a piece of his and places it on my plate. I taste the salmon bite. God damn is right. When I look up, Evan is watching me.
I return the favor and put a piece of my mushroom crepe on his plate. He spears it and pops it into his mouth, making a sexy sound as he savors the small bite.
We both reach for our drinks at the same time, and he smiles as if he is having a private conversation about me in his thoughts.
“So tell me more about the unfinished art gallery behind the club,” I say.
“Sounds like you want to conduct another interview. Are you ready to exchange more questions?”
“That game is trouble.”
“I know.” He nods cheerfully. “Me first.”
“Ladies first. I thought you were a gentleman.”
“Your questions are boring. We need to get to the nitty-gritty.”
“What’s the nitty-gritty?”
“How would you describe your boyfriend?”
I roll my eyes. Why did I tell him about Pete? “That’s the nitty-gritty?”
“That’s what my readers want to know.”
I shrug. “Hardworking, sensitive…” I pause, unable to think of something other than unreliable, chauvinist, or narrow-minded. “Traditional.”
“My readers just fell asleep. That’s how you describe him? What does he like to do?”
“Not much,” slips out under my breath.
Evan cocks his head. “He’s a homebody?”
“Sort of. He likes to go out, but he doesn’t like to travel.”
“But you do?”
“Very much.”
“Where was the last place you went?”
“Brazil for a few weeks in February,” I say, popping another bite into my mouth.
“Rio?” he asks.
“No. Just Florianópolis during the last days of Carnival.”
“You’re kidding,” he says, sitting up straighter. “I was in Florianópolis on the last day of Carnival. I flew from Rio to see a friend who lives right by the beach in Praia Mole.”
“Wow. I rented a townhouse on Praia Mole, right at the bottom of the hill by this surfer shack with an amazing—”
“Food buffet? With the smoothies?”
“Yes. I had a smoothie every morning,” I say in amazement.
“I hate to think I saw you there, or on the beach, and didn’t know who you were,” says Evan.
For a brief moment, I’m lost in his eyes. To think I could have run into him across the world. I try to envision what he might have looked like at the surf shack—suntanned, hair mussed from the wind and sand, board shorts hanging from his hips…
Evan’s phone vibrates my way, and I spot a J pop up on the text before he scoops it up. Must be Jared, I think, until I see him frown. He texts something and puts the phone down, allowing me a glimpse of an image of black blonde-streaked hair and pink lips. I blink as a memory pushes into my head. Excusing myself, I go to the ladies’ room.
Flying into a stall, I pull my phone from my bag and bring up the picture of Josie and her secret lover. The faceless man is wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled. I zoom in on what I thought was shadow on the inside of his lifted arm. The letters O-T-H-E-R are fuzzy but visible.
Holy… Fucking… Shit!
Chapter Eight
My mind is racing when I come out of the stall. Evan and Josie! I briskly wash my hands and ponder my wide-eyed reflection. This guy is a piece of work. First the Latin girl, now Josie Pink? How dare he flirt with me! I’m disappointed that he’s turned out to be such a player, but I shouldn’t be so blinded by that smile. He’s a handsome and successful guy. I bet that club is like his personal harem.
Well, he’s trying
to play the wrong girl.
Randy picks up on the first ring when I call. “Yes, ma’am? Did you see my hot pics?”
“Did you see that I already posted them? No, because you probably just woke up.”
“I did. I’m on my way to brunch and then heading back to LA.”
“Can you stay? I need you to do some research on Josie Pink and Evan Cain. I think they know each other…intimately.”
“Are we digging for dirt?” he asks on a hushed breath.
“The dirtiest.”
“Oooh, child, you’ve come to the right place. Okay, I’m on it.”
“Call me when you have something good,” I say and toss my phone in my bag.
Evan watches my every movement as I walk back, throw my bag on the seat, and drop into the booth with an aggressive slide. His quizzical expression is priceless. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great. It’s my turn for questions.”
He leans in, his gaze caressing my face. “Fire away.”
“How long have you and Josie Pink been sleeping together behind Big Skinny’s back?”
With a hard expression, Evan sits up straight and pushes away from the table. All semblance of playful Evan is now gone.
“So you snapped a picture of Josie and me together, and you think you have the whole story figured out?”
I blanch. Apparently I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought.
He continues, his expression dark. “First it was Jared and Josie, right? Now it’s me and Josie. What are you after?”
“What am I after? What are you after? You don’t need to be talking about my killer lips if you and Ms. Pink are an item.” A lightbulb goes off in my brain. “You brought me here to find out what I know, didn’t you?”
“I never pegged you for one of those bloodsucking gossipmongers.”
“Gossip isn’t necessarily false. And you sure haven’t denied it.”
“Fine. I’m not sleeping with Josie. Neither is Jared.”
We stare hard at each other. There is something behind his eyes that tells me there is more to this story. Whatever news he’s been getting from her hasn’t been good, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t up to something. Whatever the story, it feels like it’s the story that Viper wants.
“You don’t believe me,” he says. He takes a deep breath and looks at me under lowered lids. “You know, Lex, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. A lot. You do have killer lips, and they have been haunting me since last night.” His shoulders tighten, and his chin goes up. “But if you write a story about me and Josie, or Jared and Josie, I’ll sue you and Viper without hesitation.”
My eyes want to pop out of my head, but I keep my cool. Getting Viper sued doesn’t sound like it would yield a contract offer. “If you really aren’t sleeping with Josie, why threaten to sue?”
“I have a reputation.”
“For model banging. Porn star is just another notch,” I say. His mouth lifts a little as he rubs with exasperation at his brow.
“I have other projects in the works that wouldn’t accept my association with porn. And Jared’s wife knows it’s a lie, but they don’t need that in their lives. I meant what I said.” He’s stern but lighter than a second ago, and I decide not to push. “I know I am going to pay for telling you this,” he says under his breath. “Josie Vasquez and I have known each other long before she was Josie Pink. She is still with Skinny, but they are having problems. There is no affair. None.”
Oh, he’s good. Trusting me with information. Reverse psych. But my journalistic spidey sense is still tingling. He’s not lying, but he is omitting something. And by the look on his face, it’s something big.
We barely acknowledge each other as Evan pays the bill. I offer to expense it, but he waves me away, still not looking at me. I miss him teasing me. He called me a gossipmonger, and I wonder if my lips don’t look so good anymore. Fucking Viper. Fucking Lou. Once again, gossip is ruining my life.
Evan and I are silent as I lead the way out of the restaurant, waving to Johnny.
“See you later man,” I hear Evan say behind me.
It’s still a gorgeous afternoon, and I eye the taxis that are dropping people off.
“So what are you up to the rest of the day?” Evan asks over my shoulder, and I turn to him. He is wearing aviators and standing motionless with his hands in his pockets like he’s closed for business.
“Maybe walk around Golden Gate Park, sightsee, relax.” I shrug and smile.
He pauses for a moment, his mirrored shades and stony expression making him look ominous. “Come on, I’ll drop you in the park.” He cocks his head in the general direction of the parking lot, and I fall into step beside him.
“It’s okay, I can find my way,” I say to his back.
He just shakes his head at me and starts off toward the car lot. My feet fall in line.
“Thank you for brunch,” tumbles out of my mouth just as he slows in front of a shining black Mercedes-Benz. After two squeaks and a flash of the headlights, he holds open the passenger-side door.
“You’re very welcome,” he says, offering his hand for support. I take it, noting his hold is gentle but firm. My skin tingles with memory. “Careful,” he murmurs as I duck into the leather interior. After shutting the door, he walks around the car and slides into the driver’s seat.
The car purrs as we pull out of the parking space, and I remember how much I miss driving. Living in Manhattan, I don’t need a car, but I love feeling that power in my hands and under my feet. If I’m honest, sports cars turn me on, and I feel a stir of desire as Evan comfortably whips through the midday traffic, his forearms flexing with each turn of the wheel.
I wonder if he’s ever gotten a blowjob while driving or has been fucked in the backseat while parked in a dark alley…
“What’s wrong?” Evan asks when I glance behind me, trying to picture it.
“Nothing. Um, I like your car,” I say quickly.
“Thanks,” he says proudly, as if I’d praised his cock. “Do you have a car in the city?”
“Don’t need one. I train it mostly.”
“Where do you live?”
“Tribeca.”
Town houses whiz by as he expertly navigates the street. My heart races a little. The car takes a smooth corner, and I notice how his right hand goes to the gear shift.
“Tribeca’s nice,” he says. “I have a client who has a penthouse there along the Hudson.”
“Right, you mentioned that you were still practicing.”
“Just some private clients. Athletes mostly. Deal brokering and contract stuff.”
Just then we clear a hill, and a massive green lawn peppered with people becomes visible. Evan swings us into an empty parking space and shoots out of the car to open my door.
“You drive like you used to drive stick,” I say as he pulls me up by one hand.
His brows draw together at my observation. “The piece of shit I used to drive in high school was manual. Plus my buddy and I race cars from time to time at a track in Vegas. Did my driving scare you?” he asks almost apologetically.
“No, you just move your hand off the wheel to downshift.”
“It’s crazy that you caught that.”
“I tend to overanalyze.”
“No shit,” he says with a rueful smile. “So what have you gleaned from your analysis of my driving?”
“Aggressive,” I say.
“Is that bad?” he asks with an intense look.
“No,” I murmur, then glance toward the park. I feel rather than see his smirk. I turn back to him. “Well, thank you for the ride. It was nice getting to know you.” I try to etch the moment in my brain, studying his face, his lips. It feels like something is slipping away.
I wonder, if we had met under different circumstances, could we have been friends? Or lovers? Either way, things are a bit messy now. I offer my hand for a formal good-bye. His nose scrunches.
“I told you last night, it’s not over.” Walking
past me, he begins a lazy pace toward the lawn.
Chapter Nine
At a coffee cart, Evan hands me a chicory blend that makes my day a little brighter. The unexpected company doesn’t hurt either, regardless of the fact that we are walking on eggshells. I don’t know what is on his agenda now, but I decide to just go with it. Delicious coffee. Picturesque park. Hot man. It’s the romantic-comedy trifecta. Rom-com trifectas—that might be a fun post for Fierce.
“What are you thinking about?” Evan asks, leading us to a line of benches.
“My impending lawsuit,” I say. He eyes me behind those mirrored aviators.
“You glaze over when you talk to yourself in your head,” he says.
“Actually, I was thinking of an article for work. Sometimes ideas just pop up. I guess I’m sort of always working.”
“Do you need a pen? I bet the cart has one.”
I shake my head but appreciate his efforts. Pete always gets annoyed when I need a few seconds to jot down ideas. I ask myself why I have been with Pete for so long, but my thoughts stall when Evan stretches out on the bench next to me. His arm rests on the back by my shoulders, and his hand is inches from my hair.
“So you still have clients in New York. Anywhere else?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light even as I inhale his cologne, which the breeze takes right under my nose.
“Sure, New Orleans, Atlanta, Vegas.”
“How do you meet them?”
“Um… The first few were through Jared.” Slipping off his glasses he avoids my gaze, obviously uncomfortable talking candidly about his best friend with me.
“Look, today is off the record. Okay? Maybe we can start over.”
“Okay.” He nods and takes a sip of his coffee, glancing at my mouth. I wonder what he is thinking about, because I find myself reliving that kiss every time his lips touch the rim of his coffee cup. Was he thinking about it too? He continues, “Should we start when you slipped into my office? Or on the couch right before you bolted? I vote the couch.”
He is teasing me again. It feels good. “You want to go back to where you were taking advantage of me on the couch?”
