BECKHAM

“I warned you about redheads.” Xavier Fox sips artisan beer from a frost-covered mug, his eyes glued to the sports reel flashing on a TV above my head.

I’ve just filled him in on my last twenty-four hours, or at least the condensed version because we’re men and we stick to the facts.

“You did,” I say.

“And you didn’t listen.” He takes another sip.

“You’re not right about everything.”

His eyes meet mine. He smirks. “I was right about the penthouse I sold you.”

“And you never let me live that down.”

“It’s not everyday you sell a ten million dollar penthouse and watch it nearly double in price over the next three years.” He slams his fist against the table, cheering at the TV along with a handful of men at the table over.

I never got into sports, and it might be because I never saw a TV screen until I was almost sixteen or an actual football until I was seventeen. Regardless, I grew into a man who preferred to get his hands dirty in ways that satisfied on carnal levels.

“You got lucky,” I say.

“It’s called knowing the market and striking while the iron’s hot.” Xavier is as cocky as I am. Can’t imagine having a mild-mannered schmuck for a best friend. “I can’t help it if I’m fucking amazing at my job.”

“Didn’t Magnolia tell you about that neighborhood? And the Green Quarter Revitalization Project?”

His face pinches. I shouldn’t have brought up Magnolia Grantham.

“Why’d you have to mention her? We were having a nice time, drinking our beers…”

“You need to get over her.” I slip an extra cardboard coaster between my fingers, flipping it and examining the gaudy beer logos on each side. “It’s been, what, a few months now?”

“I am over her.” He attempts to say it with conviction but falls flat on his ass.

“There are plenty of other women. Women who’d kill for a night with you.”

“You act like I’m sitting at home every night just ‘cause I’m not at the bars with you looking for my next lay.”

He acts like I’m a drug addict. I wouldn’t say women are my addiction. I wouldn’t even say sex is my addiction. Hobby maybe. Addiction? Absolutely not. Hobbies are fun, done purely for enjoyment. Addictions imply a lack of control.

“When was the last time you got laid?” I ask.

“I don’t keep track.”

“Right.” I call bullshit.

His gaze snaps to the TV, his fist clenching in the air for a second before he returns his attention to his beer.

“Don’t ignore my question.” I sit up straight. “You’re too wrapped up in Magnolia. You need to get her out of your system.”

Xavier juts his lips out, nodding side to side. He agrees, but he won’t say it. I’ve been there before. Saying it the first time is fucking terrifying. Saying it out loud makes it real. Making it real forces you to act, make a decision, and move on.

Watching a man like Xavier sit there like a deflated balloon is too depressing for me to deal with, especially on a Friday night. I need to see to it personally that this man gets some ass tonight.

“Come with me to Pellegrino’s.” It’s always been a lucky spot of mine. Three blocks from here. The girls that frequent that bar would be all over someone like Xavier. Dark hair, clean cut, and well-dressed, permeating with success and overpriced cologne.

“You want me to get laid that bad, huh?”

“We either go there or I’m finding someone to hang out with who doesn’t depress the fuck out of me.”

“You brought her up.”

I swallow the last of my drink and rise, pulling my jacket over my shoulders before slapping some cash on the table. Xavier finishes his beer, hesitates, then follows suit.

“Did you meet that crazy redhead at Pellegrino’s?” he asks when we hit the pavement.

“I did.” I smirk. “But in my defense, I’d never seen her there before. She’s not a regular.”

Xavier needed a nice, big-breasted blonde to keep him warm tonight. Magnolia, his ex-business partner and former flame, was a leggy brunette with a southern accent. Something new and adventurous tonight would make him a new man. The last thing I need is him plowing some cheap knockoff of the girl who broke his heart.

* * *

Xavier slips out of the bar, his hand on the small of the back of some petite blonde with a pixie haircut and a short dress the color of sunshine. She couldn’t be any more different from Magnolia.

I’m proud. My work is done.

I slip the bartender my credit card and take care of the tab.

“Going home alone?” he asks, returning with my receipt and a pen. Eric knows me well.

I’m all about being a shameless, modern day man-whore, but I don’t do two nights in a row. My self-respect runs a little deeper than that. And furthermore, I’m still spent from my sleepless evening with Odessa.

“Been a long day.” I rise from the barstool and replace my wallet. “I’ll see you next week.”

Eric sends me off with a salute and a nod, and I spend the bulk of my ten-minute walk home appreciating the crisp fall air and ignoring how lonely this time of year always feels.

I don’t permit myself to feel lonely, and if that unwelcome sensation happens to creep into the corners of my mind, I don’t let it stay long.

I’ve been in Xavier’s place before, and I’ll never go back there again.

The man who took my brother and me in at fifteen once told me to do everything with eyes wide open and to never compromise my beliefs to make someone else happy. The one instance in my life when I refuted Leo Fickbaum’s golden rules, I paid the price and then some.

“You’re too arrogant for your own good, you know that?” Uncle Leo said to me the day my twenty-one year old self packed my belongings into the back of a Mustang and drove from Utah to New York. “But you’re going to be the King of New York by the time it’s all said and done.”

“That’s the plan, Uncle Leo.”

“Remember the Golden Rules,” he called out as I left a trail of gravel dust down his country road.

The first thing I did the second I arrived was change my last name from Townsend to King, because I needed a fresh start and the name was only fitting.

The second thing I did was fall in love with a hotel heiress by the name of Sophie Glass.