I join her with my plastic pancakes and sit with one foot on the seat so my knee reaches my chest. “What’s up your ass? Thought you would’ve gotten plenty of sex while I was gone last weekend to put a smile on your face.”
“Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace.” She doesn’t look at me, just continues scrolling through her phone, nibbling on her granola bar like a chipmunk.
“But the neighbors already think we’re lesbians, so why set things straight now.”
That gets her attention, turning her glare toward me with fire in her eyes like I took her coffee. No matter how much she likes telling people she’s a morning person, I know the truth—that she despises mornings like I despise Cheetos. To make matters worse, she doesn’t even allow herself more than one cup of coffee a day due to it being a diuretic, so her one cup is sacred.
In other words, off-limits.
“That’s exactly why we need a change of pace.”
“But you’re my type. Am I not yours?” I ask as I smear more than a serving’s worth of peanut butter on my pancakes while they’re still warm. This way the peanut butter can melt and ooze down the sides like syrup. It reassures me that I don’t need actual syrup.
She starts putting her shoes on, unfazed by my joking. Probably because it’s normal for us, having known each other since elementary school. I’d be surprised if she wasn’t used to these kinds of conversations by now. Which is why she plays along. “I can’t have eligible people with male genitalia thinking I’m into… well, female genitalia.”
I cringe at her choice of words. “But why? People with penises sometimes like that about a girl.”
“I can’t talk to you.” Emma throws her hands up, unable to continue our banter. As always, I win.
“All right, sorry. Male genitalia it is from now on.” I stick my tongue out.
“Speaking of crude”—another glare—“how’d your date go last night?”
I pause, pretending I’m chewing and don’t want to talk with my mouth full. Which is unlike me, but she’s rummaging through the refrigerator now so she doesn’t notice. I consider lying and telling her I went, but I can never lie too well with her. Instead, I coolly say, “Didn’t end up going out.”
She pulls fat-free yogurt out of the fridge and watches me, waiting for an explanation.
I don’t want to tell her it’s because of Sebastian. That I can’t get him out of my head. Seems too dramatic for someone I’ll never see again, and I’d hate to actually give a reason for people to keep calling me that. “He’s the one I went out with a couple weeks ago, remember? The funny one? Or at least I think he was. He kept laughing before his stories were over, and I could never understand the ending through the snorts. It was cute for about five minutes, but after that, I wanted to jam a fork through my eye. Or his.”
“Wow, now I know never to withhold jokes from you.”
I shrug and continue shoveling the pancakes in my mouth. Big bites help me eat it faster in order to forget that I dislike the taste, even though Samantha Ray swears it’s delicious. Probably the only time I disagree with the queen of godly abs and legs awarded to her by angels themselves. “He also tried to cuddle me after sex.” I wince thinking back to the mediocre sex. Not the mind-blowing sex with Sebastian—fuck-master extraordinaire.
“How dare he.” She grabs her keys from the entryway table and turns back to me. “Why did you even sleep with him?”
“He was a good kisser. And pretty hot, actually. And I was horny as fuck, so why not?”
“Such a slut.” She smiles at me. “At least with your healthy appetite, people won’t continue questioning our sexualities.”
“You’re welcome.” I grin sarcastically, holding my arms out and taking a bow from where I sit. “Hey, guess who has a new boy toy.”
“I swear, if you say Samantha Ray…”
I nod and swallow the last of my food. “Samantha Ray, and he’s a mystery. She won’t give any details.”
“You act like you two are best friends. That’s creepy, you know that, right?”
I continue as though I hadn’t heard her. “She’s calling him Gym Bae. She’s going to start selling hats and tanks with hashtag gym bae logos. That Samantha, she’s hilarious. I should get me a shirt when they release.”
She just stares at me, like she does every time I go on ranting about Samantha. Or Britney Spears. I have fascinations with certain celebrity women that I can’t explain.
Maybe I should revisit the lesbian thing.
When Emma doesn’t respond, I mutter, “Maybe you’d laugh more if you had your own gym bae.”
“No time for that.”
I roll my eyes at her usual response. She says she wants a change of pace, but I know she doesn’t mean it. She intentionally stays away from all male genitalia, having decided that all men are assholes like the one she used to date. Brant hid behind his sweet dimples and wavy hair, but underneath, he was really burning with Satan’s fire for a heart.
Emma’s gorgeous, with long black hair that reaches just above her ass. A perfectly round, toned ass from all the hours of teaching yoga and Pilates. Her cream-colored skin is a blessing. Her whole family is naturally tan, but somehow down the line, Emma didn’t inherit that gene. Instead, her skin is as silky as it is creamy. Not the sickly pale kind, but silky like almond milk.
It matches her icy tendencies, which she mainly acquired since said Devil betrayed her trust almost two years ago. It worked out for me, since it allowed me to move out here and in with her, but I’d never be thankful for it because of what it did to my best friend.
Ever since her ex dumped her with a figurative slap to the face, she’s been extra wound up, working and volunteering every chance she gets in order to stay busy.
But I miss her spunk. I catch a glimpse of it every now and then, but she’s still brokenhearted.
I reach across the table for a spare sheet of paper and write down the number from the guy at the gym this morning. He’d already texted me by the time I got home, but I decided not to respond. Now I have a better idea of what to do with it. He may not be worth the risk, but he could be what Emma needs to get back out there. A casual fling could do her some good.
“Here, you should call him. Easy smile and nice, toned shoulders. He’ll help you out.” I wink as I hold the paper out to her.
“Who’s this?”
“Some guy I met at the gym earlier. Seems like you need him more than I do. You’re into bald dudes, right?”
She ignores me and checks her Apple watch, her birthday present she bought for herself last fall. “You’re going to be late for work.”
“Nuh-uh, I have plenty of time,” I say without checking the time.
“No, you have thirty minutes before you need to leave.”
“Plenty of time.”
“You take an hour to get ready. At the very least.” She shakes her head, her tight ponytail following suit. “I’ve taught you nothing about time management, no matter how hard I try. Text me when you’re fifteen minutes late. I’m off to my class, and then I have that charity dinner tonight. Are you still coming as my date?”
“You have a class this morning? On a Saturday?”
“Yes, remember I told you last week that I added classes on the weekends to bring in more people, and therefore money? LA isn’t cheap, as you may have noticed.”
I shake my head, trying to jog my memory.
“We had a whole conversation? While eating takeout from that new Chinese place downtown for our cheat meal?”
“With the good egg rolls?” I nod, remembering the crunchy heaven. “Let’s get some of those tonight.”
“We have the charity dinner tonight. Please tell me you remember that conversation, at least? The one to raise money for the animal shelter?” She loops her purse onto her forearm. It’s the Michael Kors one her dad sent her a couple months back, the one she told him she’d send back but then decided to keep once she saw how hurt he was on FaceTime.
> “Yes,” I say slowly. “Now will they have egg rolls?”
“I’m leaving. Get ready.” With that, she shuts the door and locks it behind her.
By the time I get to work at the shoe store, Margo and George are already there. I check the time once I’m inside.
Nine forty-five.
And of course, right then, I receive a text from Emma.
Emma: You just got to work didn’t you? You owe me $5.
Son of a bitch. For a woman who teaches yoga several times a week and volunteers—like on purpose—she can be a real minx.
I roll my eyes as I type out a response.
Me: I already gave you a boy toy to call. That’s worth more than $5.
I slip my phone into my back pocket as I make my way to the front where Margo and George are discussing what pair of shoes Margo should buy. She has yet to decide if she wants the strappy sandals or the heels for her date tonight.
I join their debate, the whole time wondering when my next date will be. Contemplating when Sebastian’s smile and hands will leave my memory. When he’ll stop being in my dreams.
I go through the motions of my shift, wondering when I’ll stop missing the way he made me feel. I actually felt like my old self again. No games or front. Just me.
Even though we only spent one night together, it felt like I’d met him long before that. And now my chest hurts knowing it was a onetime deal.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway. It’s what I told Emma too. But the truth is, I’m holding out hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a one-night stand.
There’s a hope in the back of my mind that we’ll meet again.
Chapter 16
Sebastian
LA.
That’s what it says.
Fucking LA.
I don’t know whether to grin or frown, to pump my fist in the air with excitement or pound it through the wall.
I’m left standing in the middle of our practice studio while the rest of the guys make their way out. But I can’t stop staring at our schedule of upcoming travel dates and locations in my hands, gripping the sides so fiercely that I can only see half the paper.
LA shows are nothing new, but the location has a whole new vibe now, knowing she’s there.
For the last two weeks, I’ve been doing everything in my power not to think about Kendall. Twice I thought about looking her up on Facebook, my fingers hovering over the keys of my laptop, ready to type her name in, but I talked myself out of it.
It’s not like I would find her. I don’t even know her last name. Every inch of her body? I got to know that very well. Like no one ever has, according to her.
Ty high-fives me, our schedule in his other hand. “Damn, I love LA. This is going to be dope.”
I merely nod and reach down for my things, my stomach growling after that gruesome dance practice. Dancing is the reason I’m able to stay so lean. Otherwise, my weightlifting habits would have me barely fitting through the door. That and the fact that I eat like I have a bottomless stomach, never getting full.
Ty walks out with me into the desert heat, continuing around the corner of the studio to the parking lot. We pass a liquor store with windows caked in dust, but it does nothing to curb the urge to down a bottle of whiskey. Maybe Jack Daniels can help me figure out what to do, and how to find Kendall, because the universe knows I want to find her and bury myself inside her for just a little while longer.
Ty shoves his phone in his pocket. “Isn’t that girl from LA? You going to look her up?” he asks hesitantly. I spent the whole day after Kendall and I hooked up talking about her with Ty, going back and forth about it being a mistake but also the best night of my life.
“Can’t. Don’t know her last name or even have the slightest idea of where she lives.”
He tsks at me like I’m a kid who disappointed him, and it pisses me off. I don’t need him to tell me how hopeless I am for this girl I just met. And how fucking miserable I am that I don’t know how to find her.
“You give up too easily,” he says.
I stop by my car, crumpling the piece of paper in my hand. He smirks at me, holding up his phone, though I can’t make out what’s on the screen from the glare.
Ty exhales and comes over to me. “I have your girl right here. Kendall, right?”
I take the phone from his hand and see Kendall’s smiling Facebook profile picture, her blond hair slung over to one side while a monkey pecks her cheek. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry that I found her. To hug or punch Ty for finding her. “How the fuck did you find her?”
“Well, there was a divorcée at the party, so…” He shrugs.
“So, of course, you had to get all her information for ‘safekeeping,’” I finish for him.
“My charming talents came in handy, though, huh?” I roll my eyes at his use of “charming” when he knows we’re both thinking “whoring” is more appropriate. “Found her mutual friend, who just so happens to have magical powers.”
I give him his phone back, along with a confused expression.
“To have broken your dry spell? She definitely cast a spell of her own.” He jumps back as I leap for him, missing him by an inch. He continues backing up and around my car to get to his own before he winks. “I got your back, bro.”
I smile at Ty because he does, in fact, always have my back. Even when I don’t ask him to, he’s always there for me.
The minute he starts his car, I pull my phone out, not wanting to waste any more time. I pull up Kendall’s profile, and as the sun starts setting, I click “Add Friend.”
Fucking LA.
Chapter 17
Kendall
“You have to come out tonight.” I rest my phone on my shoulder as I finish eating my rice cake. I can still hear Emma’s groaning on the other end over the crunchy chewing, but she already told me she doesn’t have another charity dinner tonight like she did last weekend. She has no out.
And that was so boring I just can’t have her going to another one on another Saturday night. I told her it’d make me feel like a bad friend if I allowed that, unless she finally hooks up with the young surfer guy who also volunteers. He’s the only reason I went—to ogle his tan skin and wavy hair.
But even he didn’t make me feel better about Sebastian.
“I’m teaching an early class tomorrow. No way am I going out tonight. If I did, I wouldn’t drink or stay late, so it’d be pointless.” She ends her argument like the whole conversation is over. Like I’m not also persistent.
“You never go out with us,” I start, just as Margo comes in to warn me that I have one minute left for my break. “Just think it over. We’ll meet some nice touristy guys and get free drinks. Maybe one of them will grind his dick on you while dancing. It’ll be magical.”
“Seriously, Kendall—”
“Oh sorry, male genitalia.” I hide my smile behind my half-eaten rice cake like Emma is here in the break room with me.
“Not exactly the romance I’m looking for.”
“Who said anything about romance? This is about getting laid.” I raise my hand up like I’ve seen half my hometown do in church every Sunday. Right now I’m praising—well, praying—for the unsuspecting soul who’s going to show my friend a good time tonight.
It’s been two whole weeks since Sebastian made me come like he was bringing me back from the dead. Two weeks since I’ve had anyone else. Since I’ve even had a date. Haven’t even sexted any guys I have on hold.
Emma even asked me if I’ve been ill.
I run a hand through my hair as I prepare to get off the phone and back to work. “Please come with us. And wear your sexy red pumps. They make your ass pop.”
She pauses. “I might do that…”
“Yes!” I spin in place. “And you’ll drink too. You know I love it when you get drunk, and I could use a good laugh tonight.”
What I don’t tell her is exactly how much I need a good laugh since I haven’t had
one in two weeks. Since that night with Sebastian when I laughed so hard, a real laugh, like a holding my stomach and panting kind of laugh.
But drunk Emma might be able to do the trick and change all that.
The last time she got drunk, probably a month ago, she thought a guy was Zac Efron and talked to him for an hour about his transformation from High School Musical baby Zac to Baywatch sexy godly Zac. Poor guy went along with it, probably thinking he’d get some action, but Emma dumped him for a Chris Pratt look-alike.
Yeah, I need her to get drunk tonight.
“Gotta run. The new shipment of athletic footwear isn’t going to unpack itself.” I roll my eyes, preparing myself for the next hour of shelving new sneakers. Sneakers with sequins that are for looks, not function.
The only thing that gets me through my shift is George. He’s in charge of the music and plays Lady Gaga every fifth song because that’s his lucky number. He sings along but usually makes up his own version. The longer he’s been at work, the more ridiculous his lyrics become.
Now there’s no one in the store, and “Perfect Illusion” comes on. He stands across from me humming, ready to debut his own version any minute. And sure enough, when the chorus comes on, he abruptly stops unpacking the shoes from their boxes and uses a pink sneaker as a microphone. He whisper-screams along as he changes the lyrics to describe how bored he is and ready to go out later.
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small grin tugging at my lips. But while I try to hold it in, a snort escapes.
This is what I need. Positive and happy energy.
As I focus back on the work in front of me, I will myself to think more positive thoughts. Like George’s singing. Like Emma’s aversion to the words penis and dick.
Like going out tonight with friends. We’ll have a few laughs, and maybe I’ll even find a guy who can make me forget a certain chiseled male dancer with magic lips that know the right things to say and do to make a girl moan, scream, and whisper her heart’s secrets after.
Strip for Me Page 8
