I frown. “So someone from out of town, but not Los Angeles. I thought all the stars and star parasites lived in California.”
“Not necessarily,” Colin says, tapping something into the search field on his browser. “Austin has a pretty serious music scene. But this guy could have just based his corporation in Texas and not necessarily be living there full-time. You owe me karaoke, by the way. And I will be collecting.”
“No, you won’t. I don’t sing in public. You know this.”
“But you should. You’ve got a great voice.” His attention is fixed on his cell, so he misses the gagging face I make. I add a sound effect to make sure he gets the message, and he smiles but continues to tap away at the screen. “You do. And you already have a flying phobia.”
“So?” I prop a hand on my hip.
“So you only get one phobia. You can either be irrationally afraid of flying or irrationally afraid of singing in public, not both. Those are the rules. Okay, I think I found something.” His brows lift only to swoop back together again a second later. “Never mind. This is P. Eater Events Incorporated. And they’re based in Montana, not Texas.”
I shift to stand beside him, looking over his arm at the screen. “Well, they could have moved right? Or given a fake address?”
“Doubtful,” he says. “Looks like they manage competitive eating events.”
I skim the welcome message on the site with a shake of my head. “I’m constantly amazed by how many strange jobs there are in the world. I wish I’d known competitive eating management was a career option in high school. I think I missed my calling.”
“You absolutely missed dinner,” Colin says, swiping the search window closed and tucking his phone back in his pocket. “And so did I. The furball is the only one who’s eaten since lunch. Want to grab food here before we head back to the hotel and ponder next steps?”
“Sounds good.” I nod toward the opposite side of the strip mall, where a cluster of outdoor tables gleam red and white beneath the bright lights illuminating the theater entrance. “We can eat outside so Murder doesn’t have to hide in my bag the entire time. He’s usually good in there, but more than ten minutes or so in captivity might strain his patience. The only thing he and my other little monsters have any real patience for is stalking baby mice. They’re shamelessly cruel about it, but I guess death demands attention.”
Colin smiles down at me. “You’re doing it again. Talking in song lyrics. The first time I’m away from my guitar in months and songs are popping up all over.”
“Then let’s get you a guitar.” I lean into him as he wraps an arm around my waist. “Vegas has music stores. And I owe you a belated birthday present, too.”
“I’ll buy my own guitar. The only present I want from you is your pussy coming on my mouth again as soon as humanly possible.”
I bite my lip, and I’m positive I’m blushing, but I don’t look away as I say, “I think that can be arranged. But first I’m going to suck your cock like it’s my job.”
His eyes darken as his hand slips down to cup my ass through my jeans. “Like it’s your job, huh? Hmmm… And I know how devoted you are to your work.”
I press closer, my breasts flattening against his chest. “Very devoted. As well as committed to excellence.”
“Maybe we don’t need food, after all,” he says, his fingertips digging into my hip. “I can survive on sex alone.”
“Orgasms are probably rich in vitamins and nutrients,” I murmur, moving in for a kiss only for my stomach to growl—loudly—right before my lips meet Colin’s.
He laughs. “Food it is.”
“No, I don’t need food. Ignore my stomach. It’s not calling the shots around here.”
Colin takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Food, woman. We’ve gotta keep your strength up. You have some very important work ahead of you.”
I grin. “Not sure about important, but I’m definitely looking forward to it.”
“Me, too,” he says with a smile that could break my heart if I let it. But I won’t. At least not yet.
Chapter Twelve
Colin
We get chicken pita sandwiches and lemonades from the Greek restaurant a few shops down from the theater and take them to the outdoor tables. Kirby ties Murder’s leash to one of the chairs and gives the cat water in a bowl she pulls from her purse and a few pieces of her chicken.
And then Satan’s spawn curls up beside my foot to eat without even attempting to devour a chunk of my flesh as an appetizer.
I’m cautiously optimistic—maybe a vacation was all we needed to turn our relationship around—but also committed to never taking my pants off in front of him again.
Almost bite off my balls once, shame on you.
Almost bite off my balls a second time…
“So what do you think?” Kirby casts me a tortured look over the top of her pita. “Should I text him? Or call maybe?”
“Call who?” I claim my own sandwich. “Sorry, I was lost in thought. Who are we calling?” I take a bite and chew, pretty sure I’ve never had a pita this good.
“Peter,” she says, pulling a face. “I mean, he is a private detective. He might be able to help. And we wouldn’t have to tell him what the drone recorded while it was filming us.”
“Then how would we justify how badly we need to get our hands on the footage? Or explain why we’re sharing a hotel room in the first place?” I ask as she takes her first bite, moaning her appreciation around a mouthful of Mediterranean goodness. “Good, right?”
“So good,” she agrees, plucking a napkin from the center of the table as I continue to chow down. “We wouldn’t have to tell him we’re sharing a room. The suite has two bedrooms. And he knows we’re just friends. I made that abundantly clear to him when we were dating.” She rolls her eyes. “He used to get so jealous.”
I cock my head. “Really? Why?”
Kirby shrugs. “He thought we had a strange vibe.”
“Strange vibe?” I scoff. “We don’t have a strange vibe. If anyone’s strange, it’s him. What kind of weirdo quits his job as a high-paid attorney to become a private investigator? That’s like…a job for guys who live under bridges and lurk in pervy movie theaters.”
She laughs around a bite of pita, swallowing before she says, “It is not. It’s a perfectly respectable job that gave him flexibility he didn’t have as a lawyer.” Her smile fades as she takes a deep breath. “And he did it partly for me. So we could travel more. But we know how that worked out.”
“Actually, we don’t. I mean, I know you broke up while you were in Ireland, but you never shared the gory details.”
“Oh, well…” Kirby suddenly becomes very interested in the straw in her lemonade, twirling it in a slow circle. “He, um… He asked me to marry him.”
I freeze mid-bite. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Seriously.”
As long as I’ve known her, Kirby has been vehemently anti-marriage. I can’t believe after two years of dating, Peter didn’t get the message. “So you said no, and that was it? He was done?” I ask, setting my sandwich back on the paper.
“I told him I thought marriage was an outdated institution. And fairly insincere, really, considering we live in modern times and divorce is always an option. So why act like a forever promise is really going to last forever when there’s a good chance it won’t?” She gives the straw another spin. “He said that was all a bunch of bullshit. An excuse to hold people at arm’s length because I don’t trust anyone enough to let them in.” She presses her lips together, hesitating before her gaze lifts to mine. “Anyone but you.”
My chest tightens, and the last of my appetite fades away. “Me?”
“Peter thought you were the only person who got all of me.” Her shoulders lift as she looks away, watching the people streaming out of the theater. “He said it felt like…”
I study her tense features, feeling like shit for upsetting her, but sensing that I ne
ed to know whatever she’s holding back. I reach across the table, running my fingers lightly across the back of her hand. “He said it felt like what?”
She glances down to where our hands touch. “Like I was having an emotional affair with you. By that point, he finally believed that we’d never had sex, but it didn’t matter. He said emotional cheating was just as bad, and that if he and I were going to stay together without getting married, then I had to promise to stop talking to you so much. That I could see you when you came into town for a show or whatever, but that was it.”
“Fuck him,” I say, temper flaring hot. “What a controlling, manipulative piece of shit.”
Kirby’s lips quirk. “Yeah. I said something similar. I told him there was no way I was turning my back on fifteen years of friendship because of his insecurities. He said I was deluded, we argued some more, and then…he left. Flew home before he’d seen a single castle.” She sighs. “And he was really excited about seeing the castles.”
I sit back, pulling my hand away from hers. “So that’s why I didn’t get the gory details, huh? Because your break up was my fault?”
“It wasn’t your fault.” She pulls a piece of chicken from the remaining half of her sandwich. “It was my fault. I guess I did a shitty job of making him feel loved.” She extends her arm under the table and a purring Murder hurries over to pluck the treat from her fingers. “He also hated that I fed Murder from the table. Said it was bad cat parenting.”
“I didn’t realize he was an expert on cat parenting,” I say, laying on the sarcasm. “In addition to being a licensed psychoanalyst qualified to judge whether or not you were having an emotional affair.” I exhale through my nose. “And what about you and Bridget? You talk every day. Was he jealous of her, too?”
Kirby blinks and reaches for her purse. “Shit, that reminds me, I should text her. Tell her that I decided not to come home tonight, after all, before she starts to worry.”
I cock my head. “You told her you were coming home tonight? When?”
“Um, right before I found you on the couch,” she says, avoiding my gaze again as she digs for her phone. “I thought maybe it would be better to leave before things got any more physical between us.”
I start to ask her why, but she stands, phone in hand. “I’ll just call her. I’m pretty sure she’ll still be awake since her routine has been disrupted.” She motions toward the base of the table. “Keep an eye on Murder for me?”
“Sure thing.” I glance down at the cat as Kirby moves away, seeking privacy for her call. “So you think your mom regrets sleeping with me?” I ask, earning a murderous look from Murder and my first hiss of the night. “You’re right,” I say. “That was an inappropriate question to ask a fur kid about his mom. I apologize.”
I shift my attention back to Kirby, watching a warm smile bloom on her face as Bridget answers the phone. She’s only three years older than her sister, but their relationship is more mother-daughter than the typical sibling bond.
Kirby has always protected Bridget. First from their mother, then from bullies at school who sensed that shy Bridget was easy prey, and eventually from the rest of the big, bad world. Kirby paid for Bridget’s degree in hotel management and then as a graduation present, bought her a bed and breakfast to run.
That’s probably why Mr. Possessive wasn’t jealous of Kirby’s relationship with Bridget. Kirby’s honest and open with her sister, but she doesn’t tell her everything. She protects her from the hard truths of the past, glossing over all the times she stood between Bridget and trauma at the hands of their mother, not wanting Bridget to feel guilty or upset.
I’m not even sure that she knows that Kirby has PTSD, or that there are times when it brings her calm, controlled sister literally to her knees. She certainly doesn’t know that Kirby was hooked on sleeping pills for a while, had a nasty time getting off of them, or that she’s still suffering from insomnia years later.
That’s when we talk on the phone, late at night, after I’ve finished a show and am too ramped up on adrenaline to turn in at a decent hour, and Kirby’s awake because she’s always awake. But there are times, at least a couple of nights a week, when I’m able to talk her off to sleep. She jokes that I’m just that boring, but that’s not the real reason my voice sends her off to dreamland.
It’s because I make her feel safe. Kirby lives a quiet life these days, but when you grow up constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, you tend to stay on edge. On edge becomes a pattern, a ghost that lives inside you, keeping the anxiety going long after the original source of stress has gone.
Kirby hasn’t spoken to her mother in years, not since Georgia moved to Florida with her biker boyfriend the summer after our junior year of high school. But Georgia is still with her in spirit, in the dark quiet, when the worries that hide in the shadowed corners of our mind come out to play.
But my voice can sometimes send the worries away.
It makes me wonder what my arms could do if they were wrapped around Kirby every night, holding her close.
I blink, shocked by the thought. It’s not a “just friends” thought, or even a fuck-buddy one. But before I can examine it too closely, my phone buzzes in my pocket, once, twice, a gazillion times, leaving little doubt who’s texting me. Regina apparently has a motto in life—why send one text when you could send seven?
Sure enough, when I pull up my messages there are a cluster of new ones from my ex that read—
We need to finish our conversation. Alone.
I deserve the chance to talk to you in private, without your new girlfriend around.
I still can’t believe you’re dating her, by the way.
She’s so short. And pale. Ugh…
I seriously don’t get what you see in her.
Is she super kinky in bed or something? If that’s it, you don’t have to go slumming with Creepy to get what you need, baby. I’ve got a kinky side a mile wide, you know that. We can even play in public if you want, have some make-up sex neither of us will ever forget.
But meet me at the Spot tonight, and I’ll pull out all the stops for you, Daddy.
Nose wrinkling with distaste—why on Earth would she think I want her to call me “Daddy;” that’s nowhere on my kink radar and never has been—I text back a firm, There’s nothing left to talk about, Regina. It’s over. Good luck with whatever and whoever comes next for you.
Almost instantly, she shoots back—Are you sure about that?—followed by a picture of a pregnancy test with a plus sign in the little pink window.
Fuck. Me.
Chapter Thirteen
Kirby
Another car and another ride across Vegas—this time to that top-secret sex club Colin is apparently a member of—and we’re no closer to finding out who filmed us or whether they can be convinced to hand over the recording.
And now yet another steaming pile has hit the fan.
“It can’t be mine.” Colin’s voice is muffled by the hand lingering over his mouth as he stares out at the lights streaking by, but I have no trouble understanding him.
It helps that he’s said the same thing about a dozen times since Regina sent her live grenade sailing into his text messages.
“It can’t,” he repeats. “We haven’t been together for four months, and we used protection. And wouldn’t she be showing if she were that pregnant? You saw her today. She looked ready to model for Sports Illustrated. Like she hadn’t eaten a sandwich in days, let alone gotten knocked up over four months ago.”
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I’m no expert, but I’ve heard a lot of women don’t show much with their first pregnancies, at least, not until they’re farther along.”
Colin curses beneath his breath, and I rest a hand on his arm. “Let’s talk more when we get there,” I say, casting a pointed look toward our driver, a middle-aged Indian man who appears not to be paying attention, but recent events have made me paranoid.
Jaw clenched, Col
in nods and turns back to the window as we pull off the busy four-lane road onto a narrower residential street.
I shift my purse on my lap and stroke Murder’s head, wishing I’d left him in the room, after all. Shopping and dinner accompanied by a feline friend is fairly easy, but confronting an ex at a sex club sounds like something best done without a capricious animal in tow. Murder doesn’t usually bite people—except for Colin—but he comes by his name honestly.
In the first week after his adoption from the pound, when he was still a barely-weaned kitten, he killed four baby birds, ate all my beta fish, and wholly disemboweled a squirrel he dragged in from the backyard.
That’s how Baby Whiskers became Murder, and I realized I had to step it up to protect the native bird population from my adorable black menace. I started keeping Murder on a leash when we went outside and stopped letting him roam the garden without supervision, but he still manages to slaughter something weekly, even if it’s just a cockroach from the basement or a mouse unfortunate enough to wander into our attic.
Hopefully, they won’t have a fish tank at this sex club, or I’m not going to be able to take my eyes off of Murder for a second.
Maybe I should stay outside with him while Colin goes in alone.
Honestly, the more I imagine what it might be like to wander through a home where strangers are naked and doing kinky things to each other right in front of me, the more staying outside starts to sound like a lovely idea. I’m no prude—far from it. I love sex as much, if not more, than the next girl. But I like my sex private and observed only by the other person involved in the sexing.
And occasionally a random cat. I try to make sure all the felines are out of the bedroom before making out commences, but sometimes I forget, and it’s not like they’ll be traumatized by anything they witness. Sex is a natural, no-big-deal type of thing for animals.
People are the only species that make it weird.
The Bangover Page 9