Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  “The more the merrier,” I say because I can’t let him know that I mind. I’m the laid-back one in our group, the one who bounces from hookup to hookup because anything longer than twenty-four hours is too long.

  Dev shoots me a look and I bite back a wince.

  Right.

  Lola’s a default setting now and not a user preference.

  After four years at UC Santa Cruz and then flopping together in a crazy small San Francisco studio while we got our businesses off the ground (and I finished off PhD number two), old habits die hard. It’s always been the three of us. Four, I guess, if you count Jack’s wife, Molly, whom he married six weeks after graduation. But things change.

  Items one and two: Dev and Jack have changed. Is it terrible that I feel a little bad about that? We’ll sort it out, but right now I feel unsettled. I don’t like not understanding the rules.

  By the time we’re seated on the deck at T&T, the sun’s down, it’s dark, and I’m feeling better. T&T is the best beach bar in the world. The thatched roof talks back to the near-constant ocean breeze, whistling and flapping and filling up any silence not handled by the waves crashing on the shore just yards away. The furniture’s a comfortable, mismatched set of wooden Adirondack chairs (not Mexican but I cut the owners some slack) and swings suspended from the palapa roof so that you can rock gently back and forth while you belly up to the bar. There’s no better place to unwind and analyze the day’s waves and rides. It’s so good, in fact, that I’ve given serious thought to buying a beach bar of my own on some fun tropical island in the South Pacific but ownership laws for noncitizens are draconian and I suspect I’d get tired of listening to drunk people whine because they won’t own their shit.

  For the first hour, drinks flow steadily as we break down the waves and our rides. We complain about the rooks crowding our sand, and for a few minutes, it feels like it always did.

  But eventually Lola pops in, making a beeline for our usual table in the corner. She’s wearing a tank top and a pair of athletic leggings like the ones Maple wore. I calculate the distance between her San Francisco place and here, and come to the obvious conclusion that she’s once again spent the night at Dev’s Santa Cruz place. At some point, the two of them need to just move in together, if only to cut down on the carbon emissions.

  Item: They have no qualms about kissing in public.

  In fact, Lola launches herself at Dev and they end up wrapped around each other, arms, hands and tongues going all sorts of places. This isn’t a bad thing, although I prefer watching strangers go at it rather than one of my best friends. Dev also tends to be possessive and private, so I’m not sure what to make of this change.

  Lola waves a greeting at Jack and me when she comes up for air, and for the next half hour we chat about the easy stuff—which companies have IPO’d, who’s seeing who, and who’s gone bankrupt since the last time we caught up over nachos. Silicon Valley is tough. We tease Jack about being Silicon Valley royalty, but he always counters that he’s more pirate than prince. Nice people get eaten alive.

  “I hear you’re sending girls flowers now.” Lola digs her elbow into my rib cage. Is she being friendly or is she pissed off?

  “One girl.” I stare at her for a moment. “And how do you know about those?”

  “Maple’s my best friend?” She makes a face. “Plus, it’s really hard to overlook a gazillion purple roses in a San Francisco studio.”

  “Nine hundred and thirty-seven roses,” I correct automatically.

  Lola’s grin widens. “You owed her six more by the time we finished dinner last night.”

  It takes me three seconds to work out that she’s joking, although my fingers itch to order the missing flowers from my phone. “She didn’t delete the app?”

  Lola slurps her margarita. “Nope.”

  Oh. I try to figure out what that means. Is Maple interested in kink? I remember the heat in her eyes when I said that I’d watched her dance. I think she liked that.

  Lola stares at me speculatively. “Why did you really send her flowers?”

  “I wanted to,” I say truthfully.

  Jack looks up from inhaling his beer. “You like her.”

  I certainly like specific parts of her—and is that such a terrible thing? She’s lovely. A whole list of adjectives pops into my head and I let them filter through my head. Funny, talented, tenacious, vibrant. Plus, I’ll bet she’s unbelievable in bed. Her eyes give away what she’s thinking and she’s super bendy thanks to that ballet career of hers. I suspect she’d surprise me, and in a good way. She’s completely unlike anyone I’ve had sex with before, and not just because she can touch her head to her toes.

  But the thing is? We’d never work. She’s the queen of relationships, scouring her kingdom for The One; I’m the king of hookups. She has a wholesome business brand to manage and preserve, whereas I’m all about the dirty and the not-so-secret fantasies. After scrolling through her Instagram, I get why she’s not so happy about her Kinkster stardom. Everything on her Instagram is the kind of pretty polished that makes you wonder why your life doesn’t look that way and if buying a pair of leggings and doing a session of hot yoga might be the magic answer.

  Maple’s selling fantasy, just like me, but hers is a clothes-required world.

  Lola’s phone erupts, an entire troupe of Polynesian drummers banging and whooping it up in her purse. She pulls it out, looks down and frowns. Since I’m sitting next to her, I look down, too, so I can read along.

  Rude.

  Obnoxious.

  Effective.

  Sticks and stones—call me whatever you’d like but Lola has a text from Maple. I know this because the picture of the sender is Ballerina Maple, complete with crown. She looks like a wholesome, pink, sparkly princess, which just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover. I pluck the phone out of Lola’s hands so I can double-check the message for myself.

  HELP

  My inner fixer revs, begging to go into overdrive, and I remind myself to step back. Assess. Maybe she’s just got a shoe emergency or needs help picking out dish towels or forgot the name of the awesome Chinese restaurant they ordered from last night. Maybe it’s nothing.

  Bubbles dance across the screen as Maple texts.

  And dance.

  And dance.

  No words appear—just more stupid dots. Even Tolstoi handwrote War and Peace faster than this. Lola makes a grab for her phone, but no way I’m giving it up. Instead we (she) compromise: I let her squeeze up against my side and angle the screen so we can both see. Finally, Maple finishes her text and hits the send button. A riff of Polynesian drums announces its arrival on Lola’s phone.

  Calling it in on the girlfriend code. Send troops ASAP. Need rescue before this guy cums on my butt.

  And then nothing. I nudge Lola, slapping the phone into her hands. “Text her back.”

  I should try to be nicer. More polite. Something.

  And if Maple wasn’t asking for help, I’d try. Maybe. Lola opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it and starts tapping away. She texts even more slowly than Maple. I resist commiserating with Dev because sexting is clearly not going to play a part in their future life together. Finally she settles on: Where r u?

  That’s the wrong question. “I can find her.”

  Jack groans. “We’ve discussed cutting back on the felonies.”

  “I won’t get caught.” I never do.

  Maple saves me from any felonious behavior by responding: Club XYZ.

  The photo that pops up on Lola’s screen is both slightly out of focus and badly lit. I think Maple’s on a dance floor. Looking down over her shoulder. Where some guy is grinding on her ass and I see red.

  Think.

  I grab my own phone and bring up a little app I wrote. Five seconds later, I have Maple’s GPS coordinates (south of M
arket in San Francisco) and a plan (drive there faster than a speeding bullet, kill the creep, rescue the girl—hot thank-you sex forming an optional epilogue). Fortunately, I’ve had a quarter of a beer so I’m good to drive. I stand up, registering the surprise on Dev’s and Lola’s faces. Jack just looks resigned.

  “Going” is all I say.

  I’m no one to Maple. Of course it’s none of my business. Do I care? Not really.

  Lola bolts upright. Nachos fly. “Not without me.”

  “Keep texting her,” I order Lola. “Let her know help is on the way.”

  I don’t deny that I’m going after Maple, but I drive a Porsche that’s far faster than the piece of crap Jeep Lola owns. I’m going to get there first, and from the way Lola bellows after me as I stride away from our table, she knows it, too.

  I execute the first part of my plan—the speeding bullet step—successfully, arriving in record time at 10:07. Club XYZ is indeed deep in the warehouse district. The surroundings are sketchy enough that I don’t like the idea of Maple walking around here on her own. I bound out of the Porsche, toss my keys at the valet parker along with a generous tip and head for the front door. From the quantity of bandage dresses and sparkles decorating the line of people already waiting to go in, I’m seriously underdressed in my post-surfing uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. Fortunately, cash is always the perfect accessory and the bouncer happily lets me skip the queue when I share a little sartorial wealth with him.

  The music’s so loud that it’s more vibration than sound, the kind of mind-numbing decibel level that entirely rules out conversation. A DJ spins in a cage above the dance floor. It reminds me a bit of my last launch party. I’m downright terrible at interacting with people, and the closer I get to the dance floor, the harder it becomes to avoid my fellow clubbers.

  The outsize price of admission included a private table and bottle service in the VIP section. Eyes follow me as I’m led to my table. Having a table makes the next step in my find-and-rescue-Maple plan easier because I simply jump onto the table, searching for the dance floor. Spotting Maple is easy.

  She’s shockingly beautiful. I stand there a moment too long staring at her face—if only because I can.

  Her hair falls around her face in a silky, flat curtain as she moves. Her part is a perfect white line down her scalp. I don’t know if she came here alone or not, but three men crowd her. They likely think they’re dancing with her but instead they fill up her space, throwing off the line of her dance, forcing her to either move backward or dance thigh to thigh with them. She’s wearing a fabulously short dress with wide straps and a scoop neck. The whole thing is covered with silver sequins. Flowers? Spirals? Pi? Whatever the pattern is, I like it.

  She dances all out, body moving fast and sure to the beat. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling, as she thrusts her hands over her head as if she’s reaching for the moon or the stars. God, she’s special, I think, wishing I was the one dancing with her. Not that I dance. People crowd the floor, bodies brushing, arms touching, everyone moving together for as long as the song plays.

  Maple’s skin glistens beneath the heat of the lights and one hand traces the line of her collarbone, dipping down. I’m staring at her and I don’t want to stop. My fingers itch to touch her, to kiss her and learn the salty-sweet taste of her. Dev was right when he said I was the hookup king and bad news for Maple, but he forgot to factor Maple into the equation. She’s a new variable and that could change the entire outcome of the problem.

  I like to think that when she looks up, eyes roaming over the watchers crowding the edge of the dance floor, she spots me.

  That she’s dancing for me.

  She stares up at me, at someone, for a beat. Another. Her head falls back, hair spilling everywhere, and her lips move. Does she sing along when she dances, make up words when there are none? Is she smiling that secretive half smile for me? I look down, she looks up, and there’s something between us.

  Item: She makes me crazy.

  Item: I don’t mind.

  Item: She needs rescuing.

  Each step dances her farther away from one particular asshole who refuses to get the memo. He follows her relentlessly, gaze lingering on Maple’s tits and ass. He doesn’t look her in the eye and he’s definitely not interested in her smile. He’s missing out and he doesn’t deserve a single second of her attention. Be smart about this. She’s got it. The SOS was a girl thing, a joke, not an action plan.

  And then he says something, Maple stops dancing and I see red. It’s not a pretty color.

  That’s it.

  No more.

  I launch myself over the narrow wall separating the private tables from the dance floor. I’m no superhero, not even close.

  Maple exhales, her eyes digging daggers into the stupid fuck who’s now touching her arm. I agree with her. The guy’s got a death wish, and tonight? I’m happy to play the tooth fairy and fairy godmother to his stupid.

  He’s going down.

  Down.

  Down.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Maple

  #nightlife #vip #sexydance #lifesituations

  WHEN I’M CLUBBING, I dance all out. I throw my body into the techno music, finding the pulse, the beat, the rhythm that perfectly fits each measure and note. The heat of the lights overhead is a familiar weight against my skin, as is the burn in my muscles and lungs, the beat of the music in my body. Tonight I’m dancing solo and it feels good, even if I sometimes miss the intimacy and trust of a pas de deux. You have to trust your partner to be strong enough to lift you high above the stage, to know his part in the dance and support you in yours. Those were good nights.

  Someone puts his hand on my ass.

  I don’t think so.

  Shift onto my left leg.

  Jeté.

  I’m reaching back with a sharp heel when strong hands close on my hips and lift me off my feet. For a brief moment, I’m flying through the air, connected to the ground only through the man dancing with me. I should pull away but I can’t stop myself from smiling; I miss dancing with a real partner. I land gently, my knees automatically bending into a plié as the hands let go.

  I turn my head but he’s behind me already, big body leaning in, eliminating any distance between us. Somehow, even though it’s been five long days since we meet, I’m not surprised it’s Max. For a moment, I tense in anticipation, wanting his hands back on me, lifting me, partnering with me in this dance. This is what I miss most about my ballet days, this connection, the disciplined intimacy between myself and another dancer. He breaks the silence, though, and with it the spell or whatever it is.

  “Holy shit, Maple.” He growls my name. Possibly, he yells it because the music is loud and we’re on a dance floor after all. He’s staring at me, his eyes full of emotions I can’t sort out.

  I noticed his eyes when I stormed his office, dark and watchful but a deceptively sweet, rich hazel with flecks of green like little secrets that you have to get close to discover. He’s just as gorgeous tonight as he was then and no happier, either.

  I look again. But no. So much unhappiness.

  “Problem?” I lean back against him, resting my head on his chest as I slide my arms up around his neck. My hips move to the beat, teasing his with dirty circles. The poor baby’s not feeling playful, though. He stands there like the Colossus of Rhodes, a big, broody, expensive statue just daring me to topple him.

  Okay, maybe he didn’t come here to dance.

  Maybe he doesn’t see the challenge he poses.

  “Dance with me.”

  Hazel eyes hold mine. “I don’t dance.”

  “You’re not dancing right now,” I correct. “But we can fix that. Move your feet.”

  “I saw your SOS.”

  And...still not moving.

  SOS doesn’t compute until I think for a moment
. Right. The text I sent to Lola—and not to him. I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Breaking some more rules, Mr. Bigshot Billionaire?”

  He outright laughs, a devilish smile playing over his pretty, pretty mouth. It’s a miracle I can hear his laughter over the music but we’re pressed close together, so I definitely feel it. His chest shakes so hard he almost throws me off. I press my ear to his chest, grinning up at him. His breath feathers over my cheek, my throat. Laughter looks good on him.

  His head dips. “Did you like your flowers?”

  “Dance with me and I’ll tell you,” I suggest.

  He shakes his head but then one hand settles on my hip, pulling me tight against him as he tries and fails to find my rhythm. His front bumps awkwardly against my rear and one thing is immediately clear: Max was first in line when God handed out penises and he got the biggest, widest dick of them all.

  “See? Anyone can dance.” I tilt my head back, grinning up at him. “One foot, two feet, no feet, you move what you have.”

  He frowns now, his mouth curving down. I reach up and gently tap the corner. “You’re so sulky.”

  He jerks back. I’ll bet billionaires don’t get much constructive criticism and that’s okay. I’m a dancer—I live for that shit. “I don’t know how to dance,” he grumbles.

  Right on cue, his jeans-covered hips bump my ass as he loses our rhythm again. He’s not kidding. He really can’t move. I dance with exaggerated slowness until he finds me, us, again.

  “You don’t dance well.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”

  He snorts. “Says the professional dancer.”

  The other guy, the one who wouldn’t leave me alone and kept trying to grab my ass, hovers a few feet away. He’s stupid enough to believe he still has a chance. The delusion is strong with that one. Max’s other hand, the one not cradling my hipbone, splays low over my stomach, his fingers brushing dangerously low. Awareness heats my skin where he touches me.

  “I like this.” I close my eyes, the better to feel each shift of his body behind me. I think he may say something else, but words don’t matter right now. We’re dancing and the whole world could be watching and that just makes the moment better. I curl a hand behind his neck, setting the other on his thigh. As if he’s fucking me slow and deep from behind, each roll of his hips making my panties wetter even though I’m almost certain I don’t like him.