EVERYTHING THROBBED AS WE DROVE back to Vicious’s mansion. Baby LeBlanc fell asleep and I was still able to smell her sex on my fingers and her coconut shampoo on my shirt, and I guess it fucked with my mind, because I found myself driving around the neighborhood four times at three in the morning, not ready to say goodbye.
You’re in deep trouble, asshole, logic scolded me. You don’t need this shit. Getting involved is a risk. You need to take care of your Nina business and stop drinking.
But logic had no room or space in my mind. I was fully occupied with everything Rose LeBlanc, and I didn’t even give a damn that she was sick and had her own baggage to deal with. She was wearing my varsity jacket over her bra, the one I had found in the bed of my truck from ten years ago. Dr. Dickface’s torn shirt was where it was supposed to be—in a trashcan in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I parked in front of the main entrance of the mansion and contemplated what to do next. She was snoring, producing a sound that was more appropriate for a grizzly bear than a tiny chick—and I didn’t have it in me to wake her up.
Finally, I picked her small body up and carried her into the house. Her flip-flops were clasped between her fingers as I moved past doors, peeking into the ones that were ajar until I found hers, The Strokes poster-covered room.
Tucking her inside her bed, I wrapped blankets snug around her body like you would a baby and kissed her nose.
“By the way,” I whispered to my Sleeping Beauty. “I find flip-flops personally offensive, and I still want to tap you again.”
“Dean,” she yawned, slurring as she stretched, “I find you personally offensive, because everyone tapped you.”
“Welcome to the club, sweetheart. We have T-shirts.”
“Good, because you ripped mine off my body.”
My cock saluted that fine comeback, but it had to wait.
“That’s right. I don’t want to see that fucker’s stuff on you ever again,” I croaked, refraining from uttering his goddamn name. What was it, anyway? Declan? Darren? Didn’t matter. It’s not like she was ever going to use it.
“Ugh.” She turned her back to me, burrowing into the blanket with her eyes closed. “I’m so happy I don’t have to see you until the rehearsal dinner.”
“Don’t be so happy just yet.” I brushed some hair from her face, causing her skin to break out in goosebumps.
“And why is that?” she asked, and apparently, Rosie LeBlanc had the ability to have long-ass conversations during her slumber.
I leaned down, pressing my lips to hers, my tongue darting out and swiping along her bottom lip before sucking it, long and hard. It was the kind of leisured, teasing kiss that left you thinking about the next one for a week after.
“Because I’ve just decided that I’m moving to the mansion to spend time with you,” I whispered, then ambled to the door, turned off the lights, and smirked to the dark blue of the night. “Sur-fucking-prise, Baby LeBlanc. Now we’re not only neighbors, we’re practically roomies.”
I drove home that night, grabbed the suitcase I didn’t have time to unpack, and moved my shit to Vicious’s. I’d tell him my parents were remodeling parts of the house if he asked. Good thing he never gave a shit about anything.
It was better this way. My parents were big on bugging me about meeting Nina in recent months, and I didn’t care for the same old conversation. I also didn’t care why they were so hot on getting me to meet him.
Because all I cared about was my next conquest. Her.
I picked up Trent at San Diego airport the following day, this time taking Dad’s Volvo XC90. The red truck stayed in the garage. I hardly ever used it, but Rosie asked to keep our little date a secret, and for the time being, I was all about pacifying her.
If Vicious saw me picking her up, he’d start asking questions just to piss me off.
And once he heard my answers, we were going to brawl again. Not that I particularly minded. Throwing a few punches into his face was my idea for meditation. Though I preferred to go around it without the excess drama. Vicious, on the other hand, was an over-the-top Sweet Valley type of asshole. He loved making a huge production out of shit.
I double-parked directly in front of the arrival gate and tipped my Ray-Bans down, checking out the herd of flight attendants in blue uniform that crossed the road in front of me. As if sensing my gaze, two of them turned their heads in my direction and smiled. I smiled back, then flicked my eyes down to check my phone.
Jaime
Me and the girls are landing in SD in four hours. C U on the other end, fucker.
Vicious
Hello, Captain STD. Hope you’re sober enough to read this. Make sure you pick up Trent today. Seating arrangement is waiting in your email. Call when you’re done.
Trent
Get your eyes up from your lap. It looks like you’re jerking off.
Laughing, I looked up and spotted my best friend breezing through the gliding doors with a business trolley. To say Trent Rexroth was a good-looking guy was like saying that cyanide was slightly unhealthy. The guy turned heads. Women’s and men’s alike. Sure, we were all easy on the eyes, but there was only one motherfucker who always stole the show. He was striding directly toward my vehicle, in all of his six-foot-four, aristocratic face, ripped-to-fucking-shreds, ex-quarterback glory. Every chick in our radius did a double take, then a triple one to make sure this guy was really human, and when he climbed into my SUV, two even took pictures on their phones. Probably mistook him for that dude from the mug shot—you know, the mixed one with the blue Calvin Klein bedroom eyes.
Trent slapped my back, the international ‘Good to See You, Bro’ signal and buckled up.
“Am I getting older, or are they getting less attractive?” He motioned with his chin toward another harem of flight attendants, this time clad in burgundy uniforms.
“Definitely getting older.” I stuck to my script as the manwhore, even though I wasn’t feeling it either. “Maybe it’s time for Viagra.”
“Maybe it’s time you shoved your foot into your mouth.” Trent shot me a dry look, flipping the glove compartment open and taking out a rolled blunt he knew would be waiting for him.
“Wait until we leave the airport.” I kicked the vehicle into drive. He obeyed, glancing at his phone for emails in the meantime.
“How’s Luna doing?” I asked, checking the side mirrors. His daughter was almost a year old now. Babies were never my jam—I didn’t want to make them, but I loved practicing while using protection—but Luna had chunky thighs like Pillsbury rolls, a big-ass smile, and she clapped and did a weird dance every time I saw her on Skype. There wasn’t really anything not to like about her. Other than her mother.
“She’s good,” Trent said after a long pause, looking out the window with a frown. Dude was an old soul. Wasn’t cut out for the kind of lifestyle we lived. The women. The money. The weed. He didn’t enjoy any of that shit, not really. The only two things I ever saw him fully appreciate were his football—that ship had sailed a long time ago after multiple injuries our senior year—and his daughter.
“Bull. Shit. I’m not buying it. What the fuck is up?” I punched his arm. We were pulling out of the airport and onto a deserted highway. It was noon on a Saturday, and no one drove into Todos Santos unless they were headed to rob a fucking mansion. The blunt was lit, but Trent’s gray eyes remained turned off.
“Luna is amazing,” he said, leaving out a huge ‘but’.
“And?” I prompted.
“And Val is not,” he deadpanned.
Quick recap: Val was the Brazilian stripper who got knocked up with Trent’s baby after a one-night stand. She was a recovering coke addict, but Trent swore she got back on track after he shelled out the money for rehab. They weren’t together, but they were doing the whole co-parenting thing.
“Using again?” I quirked a brow. He threw his head back, scrubbing his eyes.
“Clean as far as I’m aware. She just seems…off.”
“Was she ever on?” I pushed the gas pedal, my mind wandering elsewhere. Rosie seemed downright miserable when I picked her up yesterday. I wasn’t sure if it was about Vicious or the rest of her family, but my bet was on the latter. She was the only person I knew other than myself who didn’t give two shits about Vicious’s power trips and general assholeness. Seeing her hurt stirred something in me. Yesterday was mind-blowing. Best sex I’ve had in…fuck, ever? That couldn’t be right. Two things I was certain of, though:
- Rosie was probably regretting the shit out of it right now; and
- There was going to be a repeat, soon, and this time, I was going to make sure that she was sober.
Trent twisted to face me. “Is it fucked up that I think Val doesn’t really love our daughter?”
Silence, then.
“Stop tripping.” I grabbed a foam ball from the center console and threw it at him, awkward laughter popping out of my mouth.
“She never spends any time with her. My daughter is either with the babysitter or with me. And it’s not like she doesn’t try. She does. But I think Luna makes her really unhappy. Val’s used to the nightlife. Before this, she was grinding her crotch on a pole for a living. Her alarm was set to two p.m., and she still hit the snooze button. She thinks motherhood is boring.”
“She also finds sperm-stealing a legitimate way to make a living,” I groaned, tugging at my hair. Fuck Val. She was manipulative, yes, sneaky, sure, and shady as fuck, but under the daddy-issues exterior, I pegged her for an okay chick. Trent was probably exaggerating. He set the bar way too high where parenting was concerned, taking his kid to swimming lessons and Gymboree classes before she even rolled over. Val was going to come around. She was a strong girl, and Luna was going to grow out of the phase where she shits herself every few hours and cries the rest of the time.
“Dunno, man.” Trent shrugged, smoking and looking out the window. “I just…” he paused, dragging his fingers across his buzzed head. “Sometimes it feels like something bad’s about to happen, but I can’t seem to stop it.”
“Because it might,” I supplied. “And because you can’t. It’s called reality.”
“Reality sucks balls.”
“That’s the rumor,” I agreed. “You need to let it go and make sure that you do the right thing.”
As we passed by the lush green sign welcoming us to Todos Santos, I tried to remind myself the same thing.
About Nina.
About Rosie.
About everything.
Dean
Sup, sleepyhead. That hangover kicking your tight ass?
An hour passed before she answered, but I knew she saw the message. She was probably typing and deleting, obsessing, debating, hating herself, hating me. That was fine. It was all a part of the process. Then—fucking finally—she wrote back. One word:
Rosie
Yeah.
I stared at the word hard. No girl had ever one-worded me in a text message before. This chick was like egomaniac boot camp. I began to type my next text when another one came through.
Rosie
I’m sorry. So, so sorry this has happened. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I can’t leave this room, because I don’t want to face Millie. What kind of sister am I? Please let’s pretend last night never happened.
Dean
Okay.
Rosie
Okay?
Dean
If that’s what you need to tell yourself before we fuck again, I’m not going to burst your little bubble. I’m thinking we should have In-N-Out for lunch. I have a feeling the rehearsal dinner is going to be boring as fuck. What do you think?
Rosie
I think you can’t read. I said we can’t do this EVER AGAIN.
Dean
I said In-N-Out. I didn’t say fisting you on a balcony overlooking the romantic view of the Pacific Ocean.
Dean
(I’m game if you wanna do that tho.)
Rosie
No.
Dean
I’ll bring weed.
Rosie
NO.
Dean
I’ll bring my dick.
Rosie
How is that helping?!
Dean
After last night, I think you know the answer to that question ;)
Rosie
No dice, Ruckus. Today you’re on your own. Forget it ever happened. I know I will.
I smiled, leaned back, and read her message again. She was going to come around—and on my dick—in no time.
After I dropped Trent at his parents’ new house in Todos Santos, I stayed there a couple of hours to catch up with Trisha and Darius Rexroth. They were practically my second parents. I then went straight to the gym at the country club my (real) parents were members of and worked out some sweat. Punching bags and running on the treadmill calmed me down, even if only a little.
After I was done with my workout, I walked to the sauna and sat on a wooden bench, pressing my back against the wall.
You need to stop drinking, asshole.
I needed to stop doing a lot of toxic shit, but what was the point? What was the point in not fucking three women at a time, or drinking until I passed out, or smoking every morning and every night to take the edge off?
That was not to say that I was unhappy. I liked my job. Making money felt good. Burning it on crap I didn’t need felt even better. And I had a great family I wanted to see more of. But the space between phone calls from my family and friends and the long hours I spent at work was empty, so I filled it with pussy, alcohol, weed, and relentlessly pursuing the one girl I should stay away from.
“Dean? Dean Cole?”
The guy who walked into the sauna looked familiar. I blinked away my latest hangover (courtesy of the four gins I downed after I got settled at Vicious’s last night). On second glance, I recognized him. Matt Burton. A guy from high school. We were on the football team together. Not a star by any stretch of the imagination—that title was saved for Trent and me—but still a popular kid. He got rounder around the stomach, which was expected, not everyone was a vain-ass motherfucker like myself, and his hair seemed thinner. We bumped knuckles, because hugging when there was nothing but two towels separating our dicks was unacceptable. He slouched beside me.
“You look good.” Matt let out a heavy sigh.
“You look happy.” His laugh confirmed my assessment. He raised his left hand and waved a golden wedding band in triumph. “I am. Married with two daughters now. How ’bout you?”
“You know me.” I hitched one shoulder. But apparently, he didn’t know, because he was still awaiting my answer. “Still sampling my options.”
“Here in California?” He sniffed. His gut was spilling over the edge of his towel. I looked down to my towel. My abs were barely touching the white fabric. My tan flesh clung to my six-pack like a desperate Pats fangirl after the Super Bowl. Maybe eating tacos made Matt happy, but eating pussy made me happy. They looked about the same, but pussy had less calories. Plus, you always had room for seconds.
“New York, actually. You?” I asked out of politeness. I didn’t give half a fuck. Matt was a nice guy, but I saw my ex-teammates and college friends get married. They always got fat, boring, and weirdly content with their tedious everyday rituals. No, thanks.
“Stayed here. Bought a house just outside Todos Santos. Up-and-coming development. Got my accounting degree and recently became a partner at my dad’s firm.”
Blah, blah, blah.
“That’s awesome.” I stood up. I was feeling a little woozy. Guess it was really time to cut back on all the fucking crap I shoved into my body. “Well, gotta go. It was fun to catch up.”
“Dean,” Matt said, and I felt his hand on my shoulder, and why the fuck was his hand on my shoulder? I turned around. He was standing, too. We looked at each other. Not like friends. Not like enemies. Not like anything. I wanted to go.
“Are you okay?” he asked. If there ever was a more annoying question in the history of questions, it must have been ‘can you come outside? I don’t swallow’. But ‘are you okay’ was definitely a close second.
“Yeah,” I said, leaving out “why?” I didn’t care why he asked.
Matt offered me an awkward smile, removing his hand from my goddamn body, resting his hands on his hips. “You know, I always thought you’d marry the LeBlanc girl. You guys just had this spark.”
I let out a chuckle. Not bitter, just amused. “Who? Millie?”
He shook his head, his expression collapsing into a frown. “The other one. The one who always came to watch us play with her friends and ogled you. She was a hottie. Didn’t put out, though. Then again, she did look like a mouthy bitch.”
Rosie.
Still a hottie.
Only hearing someone else say it inspired my inner jealous asshole, and I wanted to throw a punch in his face. Maybe it was because I still felt her mouth against my shoulder, her pussy pulsing with heat on my lips, and her moans gliding over my skin. Whatever it was, it made me back Matt to the wooden wall with my deadly expression and whisper, “Hey, Matt? Next time you talk about Rosie LeBlanc like that, make sure I’m not around. Because if I hear it, I’ll beat your ass and make sure you can’t see what she looks like these days. By the way, she’s still more beautiful than any woman who’d ever agree to touch you, and you were right, you genius motherfucker, she is going to be my wife one day. Goodbye.”