Chapter Four
I wake up alone in bed, sun streaming in the windows. I’m spread out on the sheets, and as my eyelids flutter open, I realize I’m not alone. Well, I’m alone in bed. I’m just not alone in the room. I sit up with a start, naked other than my underwear, and find Zoey sitting at the desk drinking coffee. She glances over.
“About time,” she says like it’s totally normal for her to be in here while I’m asleep mostly naked. “It’s almost noon.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, pushing my curls away from my face.
“I was bored,” she says. “Porter went to work, Ry went back to wherever he came from, and you were sleeping. I almost made you an omelet, but then I remembered that you’re a better cook.” She grins.
Oh my God. I totally had oral sex with Ryerson last night. Some other stuff, too, but that’s the important part.
“What?” Zoey asks, like she can read my filthy thoughts.
“Nothing,” I say, and quickly get out of bed, reaching down to grab my shirt and pull it on.
“Yeah, right. Ew… are you thinking about Ryerson? Do you actually like him?”
“Uh…”
“Shut up!” she says. “You do! He is pretty hot.”
“I thought you said to stay away from him,” I say.
“Oh, you definitely should. He’s bad news. But fantasizing is okay.”
“Right,” I say like I understand.
She narrows her eyes, and looks me over. “Did you…?” She taps her finger on her bottom lip, trying to read my body language. “No.” She shakes her head. “You have the afterglow, but not the triumphant grin. What’s the deal?”
“No deal,” I say, my voice annoyingly high. It’s a dead giveaway.
“What the fuck, Cheyenne?” Zoey says, actually pissed. “What did you do?”
“I… didn’t have to do much.”
“Okay…” She crosses her arms over her robe. “What did he do?”
Now I smile, and she throws her head back and groans. “How good was it?”
“So good.”
“Best ever?” she asks, glaring at me.
“Quite possibly the best head I’ve ever gotten.”
“Fuck me,” Zoe says, pushing her coffee away. “That’s it, then. You’re a lost cause. A guy who’s good downstairs is going to crush your soul. He’s a player. He’s like… a fox in a chicken coop or whatever the hell it is.”
“Hen house, I think.”
“Who cares?” she asks like I missed the point. “He’s in there, eating everything, getting all the hens worked up. You know what happens after that?”
“They’re… dead? I’m sorry, I really don’t get this analogy.”
“No, they’re not dead. Okay, maybe they are. But the point is, the fox is in control. He can get those little hens to do anything. Destroy their lives. And I can’t let that happen.”
I furrow my brow. “So… are you like, the farmer with the shotgun in this scenario?”
“Obviously that’s Porter. But damn it—you can’t get involved with someone like Ryerson Banks. I know I like to pretend we’re both badasses, but this guy—he’s for real. He’s going to hurt you. Break your heart.” Her expression softens. “He’s bad news, Cheyenne. For real.”
“For the record,” I say. “We are badasses. But I will be careful,” I say. “We didn’t even have sex.” I don’t mention that it was his idea.
“I feel like I shouldn’t cheer for that part, but I’m grateful,” she says. “And if you really want a Banks brother, Porter has three others that are not felons.”
“What was his felony?”
“Huh?” Zoey asks, looking away.
“Ryerson. What did he get arrested for?”
“Not just arrested. He went to prison, Cheyenne,” she says.
My stomach sinks. “What?”
“Okay, not like, real prison. But juvenile detention, or something. I don’t know. Porter doesn’t talk about it.”
“Jesus, Zoey,” I say. “You can’t say prison if it’s not—”
“Hey,” she interrupts. “You’re over him, remember? Let’s change the subject. What are you going to do about Frankie Miller? Don’t you usually work on Sundays?”
“I do,” I say, chewing on the inside of my lip. “But when he told me he was marrying Rayanna, I sort of… I kind of quit.”
“Stop!” She pretends to collapse on the desk, head down on her folded arms. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding,” I say, embarrassed.
She picks up her head, and looks at me. “Cheyenne, you don’t even like Frankie.”
“I like him,” I say defensively. “But as a cousin or something.”
“So then why are you going to freak out and quit because he’s getting married?” she asks. “That garage is half yours. You helped him start it.”
I laugh. I never wanted anything to do with that garage—it was always his dream. I would never in a million years take it away.
“Frankie might see it that way, but Ray sure doesn’t,” I tell her. “She’s a nice girl, but she will probably drop to her knees and praise Jesus when I’m gone. I wouldn’t want me hanging around.”
“Neither would I,” Zoey says, and I frown at her. “What?” she asks. “You’re super hot. You’re funny and mostly smart. Hell, you got a convicted felon to go down on you with barely a sentence. I wouldn’t want my future-husband around you either.”
“You let Porter around me,” I say. She smiles.
“Yeah, well. I got that shit on lock.”
We both laugh, and there is the sound of a motorcycle engine outside the house. Zoey perks up. “Speak of the devil,” she says. She grabs the sweatpants off the floor, and tosses them at me. “Now get dressed and don’t mention anything about Ryerson,” she orders.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I mumble. Instead of putting on her pajamas, I get my dress from the party, and go into the bathroom. I brush my teeth with my finger and some toothpaste, and gaze into the mirror. My lips are fuller, a little redder—raw from kissing, I’m guessing. There are no marks on my neck, but there is a mouth-shaped mark on my breast.
I smile to myself, then force it away. I get dressed and go to join Zoey and Porter in the kitchen.
***
They’re kissing. I swear they’ve been attached at the lips since the day we met him. I walk in, and sit at the kitchen table while they make out at the refrigerator. Porter, still kissing, rolls his eyes in my direction. He pauses.
“Hello, Cheyenne,” he says.
“Hi, Porter.”
He kisses Zoey, smiles at her, and kisses her again. The absolute adoration in his eyes makes me ache for that kind of connection. What would it be like to be loved so completely? I’ve never had that. Not with Frankie. Not with anyone.
I’m probably just feeling sorry for myself, but I’m not sure I ever will.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly take it out. Shit. It’s Frankie.
Zoey looks over curiously, and pours a glass of orange juice. Porter starts making a sandwich, and I know I’m infringing on their Sunday routine. I click ignore on the phone.
“I’m going to take off,” I say, getting to my feet. Zoey pretends to pout, and Porter takes a large bite of his sandwich and waves. “Call you later?” I say to Zoey.
“You better.” She flashes me a knowing smile, and I see Porter notice it. He doesn’t miss much. It must be the cop part of him. He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but I’m already turned around and heading for the door.
My keys are on the entry table, and I snatch them up and head to the garage. I’ll have to resolve this little… issue with Frankie.