Finally, the guy took the hint.
Annie: Friends sounds good.
Duncan: And if you ever want to add benefits to that title, call me. I’m not into anything serious.
He certainly got points for being candid.
Annie: Noted. And if you don’t mind, please don’t tell Wes about the date or the DJing stuff. I can’t deal with his meddling.
Duncan: Only if you promise to talk with him about work.
Annie: Deal. I’ll keep you posted.
She’d tell Wes about her piano lessons and DJing once she’d achieved a measure of success, when he wouldn’t call her Squirrel and tell her she was wasting her time. Until then she’d take a breather from him before checking on his work stress. Force all naughty Wes thoughts from her mind. She’d focus on her DJ lessons and try to figure out why Falcon had left her in the lurch. She’d do her best to forget Leo’s July 27th anniversary was just five days away.
9
Weston stood outside Imogen’s, his hands shoved into his pants pockets. The bar’s exterior was as shabby as the day he’d dropped Annie off for her first shift. A homeless man was asleep down the alley; drunk girls sang as they stumbled across the street, elbows linked. In his dress shirt and slacks, he probably looked as out of place as a tin man in the Sahara.
He checked his watch again. Only six minutes had passed. Annie’s Monday shifts usually ended at midnight. Twenty minutes from now.
He shouldn’t be anywhere near her, not since that kiss five days ago. He’d heard from her twice since that night. Two succinct texts. One to say she’d dropped Felix off with his secretary, and one to tell him she was working and couldn’t hang out as they usually did on July 27th. She hadn’t admitted she'd neglected her rabbit-sitting duties. No mentioned of her date or Falcon, the club, any of it. He’d played dumb while remembering every flick of her tongue, the tight press of her body against his. He’d avoided communication after that. A self-imposed restraining order.
Until today.
He’d texted her several times, had left voice messages. She hadn’t replied once. So here he was. The last place he should be. He had no choice on the anniversary of Leo’s death.
Pushing thoughts of that kiss from his mind, he snuck a bill into the homeless man’s cup, a habit he’d picked up from Annie. People living on the street made him picture her and Leo like this, just kids, dirty and begging for food. It had made him realize the homeless were real people with real lives and real problems, who’d been knocked on their asses one too many times.
And look where Annie was today.
Inhaling that hit of pride, he walked into the bar. It was busy for a Monday. Not too packed to spot Annie. She wasn’t wearing those insane red thigh-high boots or a sequined top, but she looked breathtaking in skinny jeans, heels, and a slim turquoise striped tank. She was a chameleon these days, creative and playful with her daytime vintage clothes, dressing seductively at work and clubs. His body stirred, the remembered feel of her hips against his flooding his veins. He fisted his hands.
She laughed at something a customer said, then glanced over. Her smile faltered.
They both knew why he was there.
She waved at him and grinned widely. Typical Annie, putting on a brave front. He always let her do it, didn’t want to bring up upsetting subjects.
He met her by the bar. “Hey there, Squirrel.”
“This is a surprise, Herbert.” Another exaggerated grin. “You here for a drink?”
This close to her he saw a red mark on her cheek, a remnant of their kiss, and possessiveness washed through him, the desire to tell her who she’d kissed, have an encore performance. He cleared his throat. “No, thanks. I’m here for you.”
She blushed, the sudden color unexpected. Like she felt the same intoxicating pull. “I might be a while,” she said quickly. “This rush started late.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Or we can chat another day.”
“Or I can wait.”
They stared at each other. She looked away first, mumbled, “Suit yourself.”
An hour later Annie held up her finger, signaling she’d only be another minute. She disappeared through a staff door and reappeared with her purse. “Must be important if you waited this long.”
He worked his jaw, debated how to play this. Avoiding the topic of Leo was how they rolled. He respected her privacy, and he had his own reasons for letting those memories lie. But they’d spent every July 27th together. They’d eat pizza or Chinese takeout. He’d watch a movie while she’d scrapbook. He’d tease her for quitting her Sudoku puzzles halfway through. They let each other grieve in their own ways.
Today she’d avoided him.
He stood from his stool. “There’s a late-night dive a couple blocks down. Come for a drink with me.”
She tucked her purse closer, chewed her lip. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“I have a second wind.”
“If you’re passing wind, I’ll take a raincheck.”
He barked out a laugh. God, she was funny. And he knew this Annie setting: sarcastic comedienne. He could work with this. “Come on, Anthea. Humor me.”
She stared at him, then strutted ahead.
They walked side-by-side, enough space between them that they didn’t touch. The physical and emotional distance maddened him. He didn’t understand why she’d been avoiding him, or why she hadn’t mentioned her DJ interest. He used to be her sounding board. A job she hated, a new one she wanted, dreams of a West Coast road trip she’d laid out in a scrapbook—he’d heard it all. Now she was keeping secrets. Dating a player like Duncan.
Maybe his deceptions were to blame. His secret identity and DJ life. He’d left her standing in an alley, for God’s sake, rather than come clean about being Falcon. He still hated himself for that cowardly act. He’d probably stonewalled her at other times, insensitive slips, pushing her away without realizing it, all in the name of his alter ego.
“What have you been up to lately?” he asked.
“This and that.”
“Been going out at night?”
“Some, not much.”
Talking to a brick wall was easier. “Did you happen to swap bodies with a moody thirteen-year-old?”
“That’s rich coming from a control freak who still treats me like I am thirteen.” She slammed to a stop, pressed her fingers to her lips. “God, Wes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Her hand shook slightly.
His shoulders seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me. Today’s a rough day.”
Her hazel eyes were all forest tonight. Dense, unreadable. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” She wrapped her arms around her middle.
He shoved his hands back into his pockets. It was either that or pull her into his chest. “Yeah, I’m fine, too.”
He’d driven to the bar from work, had barely taken a break to eat today. Aside from running on his treadmill until his thighs cramped and his lungs screamed, the only non-work activity he’d done in the past five days was see Rosanna.
Since their deal, she’d made an effort to talk when they were out. They’d even laughed some. Yesterday had been their third public date. She’d regaled him with stories of her wild parties, the havoc she’d caused. She had no qualms talking to him about other men. He’d even told her about Annie. No details about his complex feelings for her, but he’d found himself telling stories, laughing, bringing her up often. But he’d never mentioned today’s date and its significance.
“So,” Annie said, awkwardness drifting between them. “I guess we’re both fine.”
“Seems that way.” His old therapist would have had a field day with this level of denial. “But I think you’re lying.”
She snorted. “You’re lying more than I’m lying.”
It was a childish comeback, but she was right. He was lying about Falcon, about that kiss, about his secret DJ life. He was lying to the world about Rosanna, a
nd he’d been lying to Annie about Leo’s death for thirteen years.
“Liar or not, I could use that drink. You still in?” he asked.
Her attention drifted to his left, then dragged to her feet. A beat later, she nodded.
Annie was tired, emotionally, physically, and the patrons at Sticks and Stones sure put the dive into this bar. The first man she passed smelled like urine, the second like he’d slept in someone’s gym bag, and her heels kept sticking to the floor. She had a sneaking suspicion the pretzels in those bowls had been swept up and reused.
“I knew there was a reason I’ve never walked in here.” She scrunched her nose at a dark stain on the floor.
Wes settled into a booth bench. “Place seems fine to me.”
She gave him a condescending smile. “Says the guy who insists on having his towels laundered daily by his personal housekeeper, ensuring only the softest material touches his dainty hands.”
He held up his hands. “These are not dainty.”
No, they weren’t. Wes’s cuffs were rolled to his elbows. Muscles defined his masculine forearms, veins stretching along his hands. He had big hands. Strong hands. Very non-dainty hands. “Dainty is as dainty does,” she said.
“Yet, I’m the one relaxed in this fine establishment.” He placed his phone on the table and stretched his arm along the top of the booth, oblivious of the dirty napkin he was about to hit. The second his fingers brushed it, he snarled and snapped his hand back.
“Yeah, you seem really relaxed.” She grabbed a fresh napkin, wiped ketchup off her bench seat, then slid in.
Wes picked up a beer list and flicked the paper’s edge.
She tucked her hands under her thighs. “If you touch your mouth after touching that, you’ll probably get gonorrhea.”
Eyes bright, he laughed.
She used to make a game of it. The Make Weston Laugh game. Subtle jokes. Well-placed sarcasm. Coaxing a grin onto his stoic face had always given her a swell of pride. Tonight his laugh had a different effect. That strong chin, those sharp cheekbones and styled hair, his blue eyes and all that physique packed into tailored clothing—his level of handsome was giving her hot flashes, and his smile only upped his masculine appeal.
She’d tried to deny her recent growing interest in him, hide from it. Pretend it wasn’t happening. This was Wes, after all. The guy who drove her extra-special batty. But there was no hiding from one startling fact: every time she relived her Falcon kiss, she ended up picturing Wes. She’d avoided him as best she could since. Tried her darndest to feel annoyance over attraction. But when she’d googled him this week, eager to cut his infuriatingly handsome face from a printout and create a new page in her Weston Aldrich scrapbook, she’d seen a picture of him with the stunning Rosanna Farzad, and her chest had ached.
A waitress came by to take their drink order.
“So,” Wes said when she left, “you’ve been okay today?”
She’d have been better if they’d hung out as usual, silent about all things Leo, while still supporting each other. These new feelings complicated matters, especially since he’d been dating publicly, an anomaly for him. Wes bringing today’s history up was also new. “Okay enough. It’s always hard, but I think the lead up is worse.”
“How do you mean?”
She was tired of rehashing things in her mind. She wanted to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow. Have this day, this week, this year be over. “I hate talking about it,” she said.
“You and me both.”
“I hate admitting he’s gone.” And showing her weakness. So why was she opening up now?
He nodded, the beer list forgotten. “I hate acknowledging what he’s missed out on, even movies and TV shows he would have loved. I hate that I…” He glanced down and scratched his nose.
She pointed to his face. “Felix had that same twitchy look. I guess the whole ‘owners look like their pets’ thing is true. Except for the dainty hands. Felix has more masculine hands.”
There was that smile again. “If I looked like an animal, it would be a jaguar, Squirrel.”
“What the hell’s a jaguar-squirrel? I told you to quit the animal experimentation.”
This laugh was louder. So damn sexy with his neck stretched and head tipped back. “If anything, we should experiment on your brain. Figure out why you’re obsessed with animal mutations. Is it a bestiality thing?”
She cringed. “You crossed a line, Herbert. And how’s Felix, anyway? Back with his rightful owner?”
Wes tapped his thumb on the table. He scratched his nose again and mumbled something under his breath.
“Sorry, my bionic hearing’s on the fritz. Please speak at human volume.”
“I kept him.”
Her hearing was definitely off. “You kept the emotionally stunted rabbit-squirrel?”
“I had no choice. He’s happier at my place.”
Her cackle had heads whipping their way. Wes had always held a hard line against owning pets or plants or anything that took long-term care. She had no clue what had prompted the bunny adoption, but she imagined doing a new scrapbook page, with him feeding Felix from a bottle. “I should throw you a bunny shower. You can register at bunny babies.”
He glared. She grinned.
Making fun of Wes was way better than rehashing how she’d flipped through Leo’s old Batman comics this week and had found herself crying. She’d alternated between reliving her fading memories and blaring music in her quiet apartment, noise to drown her sad thoughts. But she hadn’t been lying to Wes, either. She was okay enough today. Happy the date was almost behind her. Pushing through hardships was her normal.
Looking at Wes across from her, imagining straddling his lap and ripping those designer buttons from his perfectly ironed shirt, was definitely not normal.
The waitress brought their drinks. Wes sipped his beer. She guzzled her wine.
Annie didn’t know when her attraction to Wes had begun or why, but the one-sidedness of it—her temptation, his oblivion—emphasized their power imbalance. Wes had more money. He was older, bigger, stronger. He’d had goals and a life plan since pre-school. She was her usual impulsive self.
“Why’d you stick around?” she asked, suddenly edgy.
He squinted at her, head cocked. “I told you, I wanted to hang out tonight.”
“I mean in general. After Leo, when I went into foster care—why’d you insist on staying in touch, taking care of me?” She didn’t know why she was pushing. Sitting across from him was scrambling her brain.
“Because I promised Leo I would, and because I care.” His voice lowered, intimate almost. “You have to know how much I care about you.” His blue eyes shifted to her cheek, to the small scratch from Falcon’s mask. He swallowed. His attention darted to her lips, then to a flashing Budweiser sign above the bar.
Her hackles rose. Wes fidgeted when he was lying, which meant her biggest fear was true. “I’m your charity case.”
“My what?”
“Your charity case. Your philanthropic duty. A project to make you feel like you’re bettering the world, like your mother would have wanted. I’m just…” She was nothing real to Weston Aldrich, and the sooner she remembered that, the sooner she’d quit wondering how his non-dainty hands would feel on her body. “You know what, forget it. I’m not good company. I think I’ll head home.”
She started shimmying out from her side of the booth, but Wes clamped his hand on her knee. He stared at her so long, her lungs seized. “You’re not a charity case, Annie. Don’t ever think that.”
God, the vehemence in his eyes. She tried to reply, tell him it was okay. He’d been unbelievably generous with his help over the years. She’d never expected more from him, had no clue why she wanted more now. A lot more. Those lips on hers. He had scrapbook lips, a perfect pucker you’d find on a Calvin Klein model. Broodtastic with a side of devil-may-care. Or just plain devil. She couldn’t open her mouth to speak.
His thumb moved
slightly, harder pressure on the inside of her knee. “You’re the most important person in my life.”
Her insides hummed, an involuntary reaction to the contact and the intimate drop in his voice, and he was breathing harder, like there was more he wanted to do or say. Could he be attracted to her, too? Had he been as confused as her lately?
His phone rang, and the name Rosanna flashed on the screen. Oh my God. Annie had officially lost her mind. One touch from Wes and she was imagining the two of them riding off into the sunset, his stupid rabbit-squirrel on her lap. The guy was dating a notorious socialite, for heaven’s sake. The woman was stunning, with piles of shiny dark hair and flawless skin. Annie needed to get a grip. Wes would never see her as anything other than a pity sister, and Falcon had stood her up. She’d have better luck asking out the urine-smelling man at the bar.
Wes didn’t move to answer his phone. She didn’t care. She shoved his hand off her leg while shoving her Wes feelings into her internal lockbox, next to all things Leo.
“Word of advice,” she said as she stood and brushed off her jeans. “Don’t bring your girlfriend here. It smells.”
She turned and left. Not before Wes winced, like her words had stung him.
The second she made it home and slammed her apartment door shut, she got ready for bed, but she wasn’t tired. She powered up her computer and searched her various online chat groups. She needed distraction. From Wes. From thoughts of Leo. From her overtired rambling brain. Pegasus wasn’t around the Punchies scrapbook page, so she chatted with Deaf Jam in her BOOMPop forum. They messaged about music and upcoming festivals. She raved about Falcon’s DJ skills, leaving out details about his kissing skills. There was no mention about what this day meant to Annie or how things with her and Wes had veered from awkward to worrying.
Instead of feeling more relaxed, the random online chat had her feeling antsier, claustrophobic in the apartment that had always been her comfort zone. A shift in focus was needed. Something to funnel her anxiousness into action. Falcon was the answer. She’d made progress with him at his last show. He’d singled her out, brought her up on stage. And that kiss? He owed her answers for his seductions, but the man was practically a superhero, vanishing into the night.
The Beat Match Page 9