Chapter 3

PRESENT DAY

The bid came from the back, and with the lights and so many hands up in the crowd, I can’t get a good look at who just dropped a boatload on my dancing skills.

“Sold!”

The auctioneer in the green tank top signals the DJ to switch songs, and I glance at Theresa, her jaw open in deep shock. I’m unsure what to think of that expression. Does she not think I’m worth four grand, or is she just as shocked as everyone else in the room?

I pull my zipper up only to be booed at, so I smirk and shrug at the crowd before hopping off the stage. Bachelor number twenty quickly takes my place.

My instructions were to head to the back rooms to change, but I’m trying to get through a very handsy crowd to Theresa because I have no clue where the back rooms are. Girls keep touching me, and I love every second of it. I guess those living room sit-ups are doing something. I better keep that shit up.

“Excuse me,” I say as I weave through the crowd. A girl with crazy long pink hair not-so-subtly crushes her breasts into my chest and blinks up at me like, Whoops! Then her left eye suddenly loses its lashes.

“Whoops,” I say through a laugh, plucking the fake things from where they landed on my shoulder. “Might want to go fix that.”

Instead of being cool and confident like she was seconds ago, she covers her eye and bolts away from me, calling me a jackass on the way. She forgets her eyelashes, and I sure as hell don’t want them, so I find the nearest trash can.

“Hey, bachelor nineteen,” a voice hisses at me, and I find the auctioneer covering her mike and tilting her head. “You’re supposed to be back there.”

I follow her line of sight and give her a wave of thanks. As high as I am on the rare attention I get from the opposite sex, I’d like to put on a shirt.

After one more sweep of the room for Theresa and not finding her anywhere, I shrug and hide in the back. A couple of the guys are talking to each other—well, to be more accurate, they’re gloating over their bids. If I was a more outspoken person I’d probably gloat too, but I keep it to myself as I towel off all the oil, deodorize, and yank a white T-shirt over my head and a button-down over that. I’m rolling the sleeves up when bachelor number twenty walks in and does his signature hip thrust.

“Thirty-eight hundred, bitches.” He points at me. “What’d I tell ya? Great spot in the lineup.”

He gets pelted by nineteen sweaty and oily towels from every direction. I laugh and shove my wallet in my pocket.

“Anyone see any butterfaces out there?” a guy with a man bun asks. “Butterface” is a well-known euphemism for a girl who has a great body but a face that leaves something to be desired. But-her-face. I haven’t heard the term since I was in high school.

“I think my winner’s one, but I’m okay with it,” bachelor number seventeen says. “Better than who won Harris over there.” He puffs up his cheeks and makes circles with his arms around his middle, suppressing a gutful of laughter. A guy with a wicked back tattoo—I’m assuming it’s Harris—looks over his shoulder and tells him to go screw himself.

Successful, handsome bachelors in their late twenties. I get it now.

“What about you?” the guy on my right asks. “Catch a peek at your winner?”

I shake my head.

“Damn,” he says, pulling a fresh shirt over his head. “I was wondering who just wasted four grand.”

I grin and casually scratch my eyebrow with my middle finger.

“It was probably Rian. I heard she was in the crowd tonight,” bachelor number twenty, the twerker, says.

I tilt an eyebrow at him. “The street artist?”

He nods. “Yep, that one.”

“Well, business must be good if it was,” says bachelor number seventeen.

“Chump change for someone like her.” Bachelor number twenty smirks. “So yeah, probably Rian.”

The door screeches open and my stomach dips. Theresa’s been the one directing us where to go and what to do, so I expect to see her, but instead it’s our green-tank-top-wearing auctioneer.

“Hey, guys. All the winners are at the bar and they have your number. They pretty much have all the say over what they want to do with you until midnight tonight. If you haven’t already by then, you owe them a kiss.”

The guy with the man bun whistles and the rest of us laugh, a few much louder than others. I blame early drinks.

“All right, guys, thanks for doing this. We raised way over our goal thanks to a few of your moves.” She looks right at me. I give her a tiny encore before she chuckles and heads back out. Those of us who’re fully dressed follow right after her.

The bar is still buzzing, and a few of the patrons are up on the bachelor stage dancing. Looks like fun. A month ago I would’ve found Theresa and pulled her up there to do our routine, which was bound to get us a couple of laughs. I’d be in a state of ignorant, pleasant bliss until we went our separate ways and I pulled my hair out trying to get some sleep. Friendship is so easy when I’m with her, and so hard when I’m not.

Tonight, however…tonight is about moving past it all. Jace is right—if it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not going to happen. If only I didn’t have to convince myself of that every few minutes.

A loud commotion turns my attention from the stage to the front door, where a well-built security staff member is escorting someone outside. I can’t even see the patron, only hear incoherent shouting that sounds a lot like Greek until I think I hear my name. But with the music and the dancers and drunk crowd, I’m pretty sure I’m just hearing things.

After the crowd by the door cheers at having the disruptive party crasher sent out, I head to the bar to try to find my winner. Girls are lined up with giant note cards with a number on it. My number is clutched in a very inked hand, connected to a very inked arm and up to an inked neck and playful smile. Her short purple hair drops over half her face, and she flips it back and gives me a once-over.

“Hey,” she says, and I think I recognize her, but I’m not sure. You’d think I’d remember purple hair.

“Hey.”

“Wanna get out of here?” She tilts her head toward the door, and almost subconsciously I let my eyes drift around the room once more to see if I can find Theresa. Ridiculous. I shake my head and silently laugh at myself.

“Yeah…but first, your name?” I ask with a lift of my eyebrow.

Her smoke-painted eyes widen, and her shoulders jerk with the small burst of laughter that escapes her. “You don’t know who I am?”

Shit. Do I know her?

Another laugh pops from her dark lips, and she smacks a hand on my shoulder. “Your dumbfounded look is refreshing. And cute.” Her fingers curl into my collar. “Come on. I’ve got a few ideas of what I want to do with you.”

She’s strong for such a tiny girl. I like the aggression, though. It’s stoking the fire of adrenaline running through my veins. It reminds me of the way I feel around Theresa. It’s a high I can’t find by myself. Alone, things are calm, steady, like a blue sky with no clouds in sight. But when I’m around a beautiful, strong woman, the clouds gather and electricity crackles and lights up the sky. It just makes me want to match that intensity. It’s why I always thought Theresa and I would be good together.

Damn…there I go again.

“Give me yours and I’ll give you mine,” she says, dropping my collar and hopping onto the street. Her boots smack the pavement and echo through the small alleyway.

“My name?” I ask, and she nods. “Alec.”

“I know an Alex. She used to be my roommate.”

“Alec,” I correct with a half smile. “With a c.”

“All right, Calex,” she says with a teasing wink. I don’t find it too funny, but I widen my grin to humor her. “You see that over there?” She points a bright red fingernail at the brick wall over my left shoulder. The whole thing is covered in graffiti art, but the centerpiece is a picture of the New York skyline before 9/11.

“That’s one of mine,” she says. “I thought it’d be gone the day after I did it, but it’s been here ten years now.”

“Rian,” I say, reaching out to touch her tag. I suppose some of those bachelors have a few brain cells. Rian’s so famous that she doesn’t need a last name, so I don’t know it. I’m not asking either. “Ten years?”

She steps up next to me. “Yep. I look at this one and cringe.”

“Why? It’s amazing.”

“It’s dark.” She snorts. “And I should’ve used a different color on the Empire State Building. It’s faded so much now.”

I stroke the lines she indicated. The black spray paint has blurred into the brick, making the picture look as if it was seen through frosted glass. Even with the imperfection, it’s a thing of beauty. Like other things, other people, I’m familiar with.

“Why not touch it up?” I ask, letting my hand fall.

She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and reaches into her purse.

“You’ve just picked activity number one,” she says, pulling out a spray can. “Be my lookout, then we’ll get something to eat.”

It’s not exactly what I’d call a fun date, but she paid for it, so who am I to complain?

“Oh,” she says, uncapping the spray can, “you might want to cover your mouth. Don’t want you so high that you forget everything else we’re doing tonight.”

She gives me a grin before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pressing it over her nose and mouth. Her entire stomach is inked as well. I shoot my gaze somewhere else before I remember that I’m allowed to look. She’s obviously cool with it; it’s completely acceptable to check her out. But when I let my eyes drift back to her midriff I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt somewhere in my gut that I like the way she looks, and I’m curious about her tattoos, and I sort of want to touch them. This guilt comes from a part of me that I’ve buried deep, but it likes to make small appearances at the most inopportune times.

“So, your bio said you graduated in the arts.” She sprays a line across the bricks. I quickly look out into the street and scan the area. No one’s paying us any attention.

“Theater arts.”

“An actor, huh?”

A hopeful actor managing a store. I conveniently leave that part out.

I grin and lean against the opposite wall. “Broadway someday, I hope.”

“I heard you singing up there. And of course saw your dancing.” She lifts a curious eyebrow at me. “Got any other talents?”

The answer gets caught somewhere between my head and my tongue, sort of choking me. Yes, there is one that comes to mind, though I wouldn’t so much as call it a talent as something that I enjoy doing with a partner. A specific partner. When her hands graze mine as we let our fingers dance across a smooth black-and-white plane and we create music together, it’s always better than playing alone. It’s all kinds of music: enjoyable and lighthearted fortissimos and quiet and moving pianissimos. It perfectly fits us, me and my partner, in more ways than one.

Rian looks up at me, still awaiting my answer.

“Piano,” I tell her. The corners of her eyes crinkle with joy, and then she turns her focus back to her own talent. I watch with careful study, desperately trying to put her into my mind and Theresa out of it. But given all the things I’m passionate about including my best friend in some form or another, I start to wonder if that’s even possible.