Easy Ride (South Florida Riders Book 3)

by Breezie Bennett

  “Peace out, asshole.” He chuckles and hangs up, leaving me with an electric buzz and a potentially terrible and crazy idea. I don’t care if it’s crazy.

  I rush to my closet and pull on a Riders T-shirt and shove my feet into some Nikes. I’m going to the damn restaurant. I have to get my girl.

  Thirty

  Chase

  In the least stalkerish way possible, I pull into the restaurant parking lot, wondering what the hell is even going through my psychotic mind. I park far from the front windows so Whitney won’t instantly see my bright green Lambo.

  I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. All I know is that I’m in love with Whitney, and I think I have been for a long-ass time. I know I’m not exactly boyfriend material, and definitely not husband material, but she has to feel it, too, right? She’ll take a chance with me.

  I sure as hell hope she will, because I don’t think our friendship can really ever go back to how it was after everything that’s happened. Definitely not after I crash her fancy, important date.

  I step out of my car, suddenly wishing the vehicle weren’t so painfully eye-catching. A rush of nerves rises in my chest, and I do my best to swallow it and pull my shit together.

  I’ve never in my life had a woman turn me down. And I’ve also never in my life been so unbelievably scared of rejection. Everything Leo said feels true for Whitney and me. I need her. I can’t go on living without her being mine. She has to be mine.

  I pause outside the restaurant, hidden behind a wall but getting a clear shot through the window.

  Of course it’s one of those snooty, pretentious places where people send their wine back and the chef tells you what to eat. Whit hates places like this. Right?

  I’m physically incapable of pulling my gaze away from her and douchepants at their little table in the corner.

  God, she’s beautiful. Her head tilts as she laughs, and I can hear the musical sound of it. An electric current ripples through me as I look at her.

  “Shit,” I whisper as the realization of what I’m looking at hits me harder than a linebacker sacking my ass in a play.

  She’s laughing. Talking with him. She looks so damn happy, at least from where I’m standing.

  But she’s mine. She has to be with me.

  I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw, feeling a wave of disappointment roll through my body.

  That’s him, all right. That’s Whitney’s textbook husband material. Clean-cut, obviously wealthy, stable, ready for a wife and some babies and a damn picket fence.

  He reaches for her hand, and my gut twists.

  I should really look away. I should really just leave.

  He picks up her hand and slowly draws it toward his mouth, giving it a soft kiss.

  I frown and stop breathing as I watch her reaction. She giggles, looking at him like he hung the damn stars. Like he’s everything she wants and everything she deserves.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and walk back to my stupid car. A single raindrop smacks me on the nose, and I wipe it off angrily.

  As I get into the car—the spacecraft, as Whitney calls it—I slump down in the seat and realize what I should have realized before I even left my apartment tonight.

  Taking Whitney would be insanely selfish. This guy, this suit-wearing, world-traveling, spreadsheet-making guy… This is who she wants. The perfect, mature, ready-to-go husband who’s never broken a heart in his life.

  “I’m sorry, Whitney,” I whisper, like a crazy person, knowing what I have to do and hating that it’s come to this.

  I have to let Whitney go. I have to let her be free of me—sex, friendship, love—all of it. She has to go and find her perfectly red-flagless forever dude, and I’d truly be a self-centered piece of shit if I stole that opportunity from her.

  She’s laughing, she’s happy. She likes this guy, and I need to let her. And I know for a damn fact that trying to continue our friendship after all the intense shit we’ve shared these past few weeks will destroy both of us.

  I’m such a chickenshit for this, I know, but I can’t face her. Her brown eyes make me do crazy things, and I need to do the right thing.

  I dig through the glovebox and find my spiral notebook I use to jot down new plays after practice. I tear out a piece of paper and grab a pen, scribbling a note on it that I hope explains my reasoning. I write that I’m letting her go, that I love her, for real, but this has to be the end. She deserves Mr. Right, and I can’t get in the way of that.

  I step out of my car and feel another single raindrop hit my forehead as I tuck the note under the windshield wiper of her white Honda Civic.

  As I’m walking back, another drop rolls down my cheek. I flick it away with my thumb, knowing damn well that one wasn’t rain.

  Thirty-one

  Whitney

  Is he about to kiss my hand? God, I hate shit like that.

  I adamantly remind myself to give it a chance. Give it a fair, honest, open-minded chance.

  I giggle and lean my head back, hoping some fake happiness and excitement will turn into the real thing. They don’t.

  As soon as Perfect Peter’s lips touch my hand, I just want to retract it instantly. I want Chase’s lips on my hand. And everywhere else. I knew I was going after Peter all along, so why does it feel so horribly wrong right now?

  I stab a piece of lettuce with my fork and force a sweet smile. Of course it’s the fancy kind of lettuce that comes in dark green and purple and has curly ends.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I’m on an expensive dinner date with one of South Florida’s most eligible bachelors, who is completely and totally enamored of me, and I’m thinking about Chase freaking Kennedy.

  His body, his voice, his perfect, magical, wildly confusing heart. His bizarre plea for us to be together last night. He opened a door in my mind when he said those things. He planted a seed that I cannot let grow.

  Peter, dumbass. Focus on Peter.

  “So, anyway, I guess that’s the inherent dichotomy of the culture in Brussels.” Peter swirls his wine and angles his head toward me.

  Did he just sniff his wine before drinking it?

  I force a bright laugh. “That’s incredible, Peter. I sure do envy how well-traveled you are. Unfortunately, ER nurse isn’t exactly a profession that sends you around the globe on business.”

  He wrinkles his nose in mock disgust. “I seriously don’t know how you do that. Blood and illness…yuck. I can’t think of anything worse. No offense, I mean, it’s quite noble. Why do you do it, Whitney Cooper?”

  I suddenly have a burning desire for him to stop calling me by my first and last name.

  “The paycheck,” I say sarcastically, delicately placing some bougie lettuce into my mouth.

  He chuckles and sips the wine. “Seriously, though?”

  I lean back in the dark red leather seat, scanning the unnecessarily glitzy décor of the restaurant, ignoring the voice in my head that screams about how much I’d rather be drinking Bud Lights and eating Domino’s with Chase. “It sounds cliché, but I really do like helping people.” I look down at my annoyingly small portion of salad, then back up at Peter. “Caring for sick and injured patients is obviously a rush and more rewarding than anything, but it’s more than that. I feel like my job is one of the only ones where you can actually physically save a life with your own two hands. Or at least change it.”

  “You are a fascinating woman,” he says slowly, as if he’s evaluating me somehow.

  Discomfort makes me ramble, so I keep going. “One time, I had a pregnant woman come in, frantic. She had started…” I stop myself from using medical terms at a high-class restaurant with a hedge fund manager. “The, uh, labor process in the cab, and I delivered the baby right in the emergency room. It was a girl, and the mother named her Whitney. After me. She said I was her angel.”

  My mind dives into a flashback of the moment before Chase kissed me the first time. First down
. When he said he thinks our salaries should be switched. I smile to myself and feel a palpable ache for him.

  Peter raises his brows and draws back.

  Filling silence again, I add, “I guess that’s just an example of why I do it. Why I love it.”

  “You save lives, you deliver babies. You’re like Wonder Woman. Which, of course, begs the question…” He leans forward and narrows his eyes. “Why on earth are you still single, Whitney Cooper?”

  I cringe slightly.

  Hmm. I don’t know, Peter. Maybe because I only recently realized that I’ve been subconsciously in love with my total jackass of a best friend for the past twenty-eight years, and deep down I know that no one and nothing will ever come close to how he makes me feel.

  I lift a shoulder and laugh dryly. “Poor taste, I guess.”

  He lifts his glass and holds it up between us. “To improving our taste.”

  I hesitantly pick up my wine glass and tap it to his, my head awash with an image of Chase shotgunning a beer in my dorm room freshman year of college and then burping so loud I screamed. I stifle a laugh at the memory. “Cheers to that, Peter.”

  “You know…” He swirls his wine again and half smiles at me. “If things do, let’s say for argument’s sake, end up working out between us…”

  I notice the amount of gel in his hair and get the sudden urge to dump a glass of water on it.

  “You wouldn’t have to work that brutal job anymore.” He nods slowly. “You could just be my traveling companion. See the sights, drink in the entirety of the earth and all it has to offer. That’s what you deserve, Whitney Cooper.”

  I swallow hard and feel a ripple of rage curl through my stomach. “What?” I laugh through my irritation. “Peter, I love my job. I would never quit.”

  “Of course.” He draws back defensively. “I’m just saying, you could take a bunch of time off. I mean, you make pennies anyway.”

  When you think about it, Whit, our salaries should really be switched.

  I ache for him again. Shit.

  I frown in disgust and try to slow my increasing heart rate and pick my jaw up. “You don’t get me at all, do you?”

  “Whitney, I just meant—”

  “No.” I hold up a hand, shaking my head slowly and feeling clarity crash into me like a wave in the ocean. “You don’t get me. You’ll never get me. I’m sorry, Peter. I’m not…” I gesture around the restaurant and at the wickedly overpriced glasses of Chardonnay. “This isn’t me. I love my job. I don’t care about the European cultural dichotomy. I’m…”

  Supposed to be with Chase.

  “Please.” He reaches out to touch my hand. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I have to go. I have…work tomorrow.” I stand up and nervously fix my hair, unsure of what electric emotion has come over me. “Thanks for dinner.”

  I grab my purse and hurry out of the restaurant, walking recklessly into a torrential downpour that’s pounding the streets and soaking every inch of grass. I didn’t even notice it starting to drizzle, but the parking lot is quickly becoming a lake.

  I can barely catch my breath.

  No rash decisions, Whitney.

  I’m practically jogging to my car, water sloshing under my feet and making me wish I’d worn sneakers and not these stupid heels. I wipe the mascara running down my face in black rivers, and my hair is stuck all over me.

  I don’t care. Chase is it. Chase is the one.

  I can barely see in front of me through the rain as I finally find my car and notice a white piece of paper stuck on the windshield.

  “Goddammit,” I groan. “A freaking parking ticket? I paid the meter!” I wipe a strand of wet hair off of my face.

  Wondering how this night could possibly get worse, I snag the paper and duck into my car, dripping water everywhere.

  It’s not a parking ticket. It’s a lined piece of notebook paper, completely saturated from the rain. I unfold it slowly, feeling my heart pounding nervously in my chest.

  My hands quiver slightly as I open it, my gut screaming at me that this has something to do with Chase. My Chase.

  It’s a black blur, water stains soaking through the paper, making it impossible to read. The only words I can make out are right at the bottom, where the edge of the paper had been tucked under the wiper and protected from the rain.

  My eyes are hot and stinging as I stare at the only readable sentence.

  This is why it has to be the end. Of everything. Be free, Whit. Six

  “No,” I choke out, my stomach tightening with shock. Sadness drenches me harder than the rain, and I sit in my car—alone, drenched, and utterly devasted. I let myself weep.

  I take a few deep breaths and read the words again. Suddenly, sadness turns to anger, and a ripple of rage surges through me as I crumple the wet note and drop it onto the car floor.

  “That asshole!” I grunt through gritted teeth.

  I knew he couldn’t do it. I knew he wasn’t capable of feeling something real and lasting and beyond just the instant gratification of a one-night stand.

  “He hasn’t changed,” I whisper through more tears. “He’ll never change.”

  The moment he realized we were more than friends and more than sex, he ran. He fucking ran.

  I slam my palm into the steering wheel, thinking how much of a freaking idiot I am for thinking that he could be something more.

  But I knew all along. A living, breathing heartbreak.

  Thirty-two

  Whitney

  “No. Nope. Absolutely freaking not!” Melody flails her skinny arms around in disgust, pacing through the kitchen as I force some coffee down my throat.

  “I told you everything, Mel. He had a change of heart.” I swallow a gulp of coffee and fight the urge to cry for the hundredth time in the last twelve hours.

  She grabs her neon hair and shakes her head vigorously. “I’m just not buying it. He told you he had feelings for you, seemed totally head over heels, and then he left you a note out of the blue saying it’s over? Everything? Even your lifelong friendship?”

  “Yes,” I blurt, my voice cracking unexpectedly. “That’s what happened. Are you really surprised?” I set my mug in the sink and lean against the counter, feeling like my whole body is too heavy and weak to stay standing. “We always knew he was an asshole. He got a little too close to something real, something beyond sex, with someone he actually gave a damn about, and he ran as far and fast as he possibly could.”

  Melody purses her lips and gently touches my arm, and I feel bad for snapping at her. “Not that much of an asshole,” she says. “Not enough of an asshole to throw away twenty-eight years of inseparable friendship.” She knits her brows together. “Are you sure that’s all the note said?”

  I puff out a breath. “Whatever else it said got ruined by the rain. But I saw what I needed to see. I saw that his mind is made up.”

  “He wouldn’t just do that. He loves you. You saw it in his eyes.”

  I pull in a shaky breath and hold my palm to my forehead. “I did. And I got up and left my date with Peter because I realized that Chase is the one. Or at least I thought he was. I thought I was going to drive to him, and we were going to have some magical, movie moment where we kiss and hug and admit that we’ve loved each other all along.”

  “Wait a second… He doesn’t know you feel this way?” she asks slowly, staring over her cup of coffee, the wheels in her vibrant, pink brain turning way too fast.

  “No,” I whisper, another wave of regret and sadness washing over me. “I left his place to go get ready for my date with Peter, and that’s the last time we talked. I didn’t realize…” I shut my eyes and fight the need to sob. “I didn’t know how I really felt until it was too late.”

  Melody jumps like she’s about to burst right out of her skin. “Well, you have to tell him! Are you insane?”

  “I’m not telling him anything.” I tie my hair up into a ponytail and glance at the clock on the oven. I have t
o leave for the hospital in ten minutes, and I’ve never wanted to go to work less in my life. “He made his choice.”

  I walk toward the to door to get my bag off the hook, and Melody leaps in front of me, grabbing my shoulders with both hands. “He doesn’t have all the information!” she squeals, shaking me.

  “Mel, I love you to death. And your enthusiasm in inspiring. But you know what they say about tigers and how they can’t change their stripes?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, they say the same thing about sinfully hot quarterbacks.” I swing my bag over my arm. “Chase just remembered who he is. Who he’ll always be. And now I’ve lost him forever, even as a friend.” I bite my lip and swallow hard. “I think that’s the worst part.”

  “Cuz, no! You can’t just give up!”

  “I’m not giving up, Mel. I was ready. I was ready to dive headfirst into the craziest, riskiest relationship imaginable. He’s the one who gave it up.”

  She cups my cheeks with both hands and smushes my face. “Before he knew how you really feel!” she exclaims.

  “I don’t think it matters how I feel. The proof is literally written on a piece of notebook paper. He’s done. He’s out. It was too much, too deep, too…real. Chase Kennedy doesn’t do real, and that was just his characteristically jackass way of reminding me.”

  “Cuzzie…” Melody gives me a soft hug, rubbing my back lovingly. “I’m so sorry. I saw the sparkle in your eyes that he brought. He’s always brought it, but especially recently. I’m so, so sorry.”

  I let a tear slide down my face as I pull back and force a smile for Mel. “I’ll be all right.”

  Eventually. I hope.

  I walk out of the townhouse and get into my car, realizing that I’ve literally never lived without Chase before. I’ve never gone a single day on this earth where he wasn’t a part of my life.

  I pull out of the parking lot, and the morning sun beats down through my windshield. I can’t hate Chase Kennedy. It’s not physically possible. All I can do is miss him.