by Meghan March
God bless alcohol, because without it, I would never be bold enough to say what is on my mind.
“You want me as much as I want you, Gabriel. Now, what are you going to do about that?”
Thirty-Five
Legend
Trouble.
That’s exactly what she is.
I stare at her face, her cheeks pink from the dance floor or the booze, with the question hanging between us.
She thinks I want her as much as she wants me.
Fuck.
She’s dead wrong about that. Because there’s no way in hell the woman in front of me knows fuck-all about the depraved things I want to do to her. The feeling of her pressed against my body hasn’t faded enough yet for me to forget how much I wanted to drag her off the dance floor, find a dark corner, pin her to the fucking wall, and take everything she doesn’t realize she’s offering.
She’s the epitome of a good girl. The high-class society princess who doesn’t associate with men who’ve even thought about the things I’ve done to survive. We couldn’t be from two more different worlds, and as much as I want to take her and drag her into mine . . . I can’t.
Scarlett deserves better. Someone whose hands aren’t scarred from fighting night after night to bank every dollar possible. Someone who isn’t more comfortable in the darkness and shadows than in the light of day.
With all that on my mind, I force myself to step back. It almost kills me to watch her expression, because every single thing she feels shows on her beautiful face.
And this is really going to fucking suck, because no matter how much I want things to be different, they’re still exactly as they should be.
She’s untouchable, and I know better.
“Nothing, Scarlett. I’m going to do nothing. Have a good night. Thank you for coming to Legend tonight.” I turn away because I can’t watch the disappointment crush her. If I see it, it’ll break my resolve.
As I stride in the other direction, I tell myself she dodged a bullet. Tomorrow, the thrill Scarlett got from walking on the wild side will be gone, and she’ll be relieved it didn’t go any further. I’m doing the only thing keeping us both from making a giant mistake.
Walking away without looking back.
Thirty-Six
Scarlett
“Nothing, Scarlett. I’m going to do nothing.”
The words echo in my head with all the finality of a guilty verdict. Stabbing pain jabs me in the chest as he turns and walks away.
“Oh shit,” Harlow whispers, and I’m reminded that Legend and I were not, in fact, all alone on the planet. “That stings.”
I give her my best fake smile. “I’m starving. Anyone else feel like grabbing some food?”
All three of my friends wear as much sympathy on their faces as makeup, like they just witnessed something utterly humiliating.
Oh, wait. They did.
Kelsey recovers first. “Fuck yes, I want to eat. Dolly’s is around the corner. They’ve got the best biscuits and gravy, and since I only eat that shit once a year, I think I’m due.” She glances at Harlow and Monroe with an expression that can only be described as militant. “You girls in?”
I know firsthand that Monroe doesn’t eat anything that’s not organic, so there’s no way she’s going to eat at a greasy spoon that would be more at home in Nashville, since Dolly’s Diner is named for the legendary country star.
“Count us in.” Harlow answers for them both before facing Q. “We don’t need a hotel. Thanks for the offer, but we can take care of ourselves. Make sure to tell your boss he’s an idiot.”
“Harlow!” Her name squeaks out of my mouth.
Q’s smile borders on apologetic, and his dark brown eyes meet mine. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Priest. We truly appreciate everything you’ve done tonight.”
I hear what he’s said, but my mind is still on Gabriel.
Nothing.
I can’t get the word out of my brain. Even though humiliation burns my cheeks, I straighten my shoulders and hold out my hand.
“It was our pleasure, Mr. Quinterro. Please let Mr. Legend know I’ll be back to fulfill my side of our agreement. Good evening.”
Q shakes my proffered hand and pitches his voice low so that only I can hear it. “It’s better for both of you if you don’t get any ideas about Legend, Ms. Priest.”
“It’s none of your concern, Mr. Quinterro,” I reply in my haughtiest tone.
A smile ghosts over his lips. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’d be good for him. But God knows, he’ll never let you get close enough to try.”
He makes the statements like he’s talking to himself, and not aloud. Some of my humiliation fades away as he studies my face.
“We’ll see you next week, Ms. Priest. Take care.”
“He looked like he was going to fuck you right on the dance floor.” Monroe, who doesn’t know how to whisper, speaks loud enough to make two tables of diners spin around and stare at us. “Like pick you up and put you on his dick and bang you right there for God and everyone to see.”
Harlow tosses a sugar packet at her face. “Shhh. You’re making her get all red again.”
I fan my face to calm the rising color as Kelsey pops a french fry into her mouth.
“No offense, but you were impressively red. I almost went after you with the powder to calm your face down,” she says.
Giving up, I drop my face into my hands as my cheeks burn with embarrassment. My buzz is finally starting to fade, and I can’t believe what happened tonight.
“Let’s watch the video again!” Monroe grabs Harlow’s phone off the table and taps in the pass code she has apparently memorized. “Because, seriously, I think I could get myself off just watching the sexual tension between you two.”
I open my mouth to tell her no, but I want to see it again too. Before, it was dark and loud in the club, and Harlow’s hand wasn’t exactly steady as she held out her phone.
Harlow snatches her phone from Monroe’s hand, comes around the table, squats down between me and Kelsey, and cues up the video. As soon as it begins, I’m transported back into that moment, into his arms.
“His body was hard. I didn’t know a man could be hard like that.”
“Oh, honey, that’s called an erection. It’s what happens when a guy wants to fuck you.” Monroe giggles with her witty reply.
“That’s not what I mean. Like his arms and his chest and his stomach. Oh my God, do you think he still has abs? I saw them on the videos of him.” As soon as my little admission is out, my lips snap shut as all the women at the table stare at me.
“What do you mean, you saw them on the videos of him?” Harlow asks as she leans toward me.
“On YouTube. He . . . he was a fighter.”
Kelsey is nodding. “I watched them too. But I swear it was just to do research for you. I didn’t feel remotely turned on by the sight of him rolling around on the mat with another man. Actually, that’s a lie. I watched two fights and then had to go to Tumblr to find some hot man-on-man action to take care of business.”
As Legend spins me on the screen, I want to do the same thing. Well, almost. I don’t need any hot man-on-man action to get me there, but I could seriously excuse myself right now to go take care of business.
Has that ever happened to me before?
Dumb question. Nope. Never. Ever. Not like this.
Stop, Scarlett. You heard the man. He wants nothing to do with you.
The reminder kills the rest of my buzz as Harlow drops her phone onto the others piled in the center of the table.
But remember what Q said? my brain argues. “Maybe you’d be good for him. But God knows, he’d never let you get close enough to try.” Before I can dissect that statement further, Kelsey’s head jerks to the side.
“Oh my God, don’t look now, but isn’t that Meryl Fosse? Holy shit. What is she doing here?” Harlow says, and I thank God she can actually whisper at a safe volume.
Of course, we
all look.
“It’s like spotting the elusive cheetah at the watering hole,” Kelsey murmurs without moving her lips.
I’m holding my breath, hoping Monroe doesn’t say anything, but she shockingly doesn’t and reaches for her phone.
“You should say something to her, Scar. Isn’t this the perfect chance to show her how wrong she was about you?”
I still remember the sting of Meryl Fosse’s rejection when I invited her to come to Curated. “The best lives aren’t Curated, Ms. Priest. They’re lived. What you’re selling is too perfect. Too . . . fake.”
Fake. God, the word still has the ability to make me want to break out in hives.
I’m not fake. My life isn’t fake. It’s real, I swear it. And it’s definitely not perfect, even if I can’t post fun pictures of my rambunctious family using the hashtag #LifeIsMessy.
Meryl Fosse, a third-generation Fosse who still has all the money from her forebears, runs a charity for at-risk youth. Her husband and children often accompany her to events, and I have to admit I’ve spent way more time looking at pictures of her social media accounts than I should. She’s one woman who seems like she has it all. So, of course, because we move in similar circles, I reached out to her to see if she’d like to come to Curated.
That’s when she burned me with her low opinion of what I do.
“I hope you find meaning in your life, Scarlett. Because otherwise, what’s the point?”
I want to write her off as a bitch, but I can’t. Something about the self-possessed way she moves and her absolute certainty about what matters in her life is mesmerizing. That, and the fact that no one else has ever been bold enough to say something like that to my face. Except, she wasn’t mean about it. Just . . . dismissive. And it freaking eats at me.
“I can’t talk to her. Not right now.” I glance down at the red dress I have on, which coincidentally matches the dress on the cowgirl-shaped salt shaker on the table, who is paired with a cowboy in jeans, boots, and a pearl-snap shirt on the pepper.
I fucking love those salt and pepper shakers. I wonder if they’d sell them to me, or maybe they have a gift shop? Dolly of the salt is clearly Dolly from the big neon sign out front.
“Hi, Meryl, fancy seeing you here,” Monroe says, waving the woman and her husband over to our table.
Mortification blows through me like a blast furnace. Why, Monroe? Why?
Meryl and her husband, Johan, come toward us, and her lips tilt in a bemused smile. “Now, isn’t this an unexpected coincidence.”
Harlow takes one look at her. “Let me guess. Charity dinner and dancing. Dinner sucked and was barely edible, but you had a few too many glasses of wine and decided to live it up like you did before you had kids.”
Johan laughs and claps his hands. “You must be psychic.”
“Nope, Meryl still has her name tag on.”
Meryl looks down at the magnetic badge attached to her dress. “Dammit. I always forget to take them off.” She moves to undo it, but her husband beats her to it.
“That was my job. I shook too many hands trying to get us out of there instead. Sorry, baby.”
My heart melts at his endearment. They’ve been married almost fifteen years, and I think it’s adorable he still calls her baby.
I want that. I want a partner like Johan, who will shake hands to get us out of a charity event so we can go eat breakfast at three a.m. at a greasy-spoon diner and relive the old days.
Meryl glances down at me. “I’m surprised to see you here, Scarlett. This doesn’t seem like it fits your image.”
It isn’t a taunt, but it feels like it could be.
“I’m looking for meaning.” I don’t know where the words come from, but as soon as they’re out, Meryl’s face softens.
“Good for you.”
“Our table is ready, honey,” Johan says before leading her away.
Meryl smiles at me before turning to follow him.
“What was that about?” Monroe asks. “Looking for meaning? You should’ve said looking for some dick.”
“Nothing,” I say, returning my attention to the plate in front of me. I only get one bite in before someone pulls up a chair and plops into it beside me.
My jaw drops. “Flynn?”
My former stepsister is wearing tight black pants, black leather boots, a tight black tank top, and black leather gloves with big star-shaped cutouts on the back of them, which is a far cry from the designer jeans and cute blouse she had on at the psychologist’s office.
“Whoa, girl. What the hell are you wearing?” Harlow’s gaze is locked on Flynn’s gloves. “Are you a stripper at a kinky club? Because if you are, I need to hear all about this.”
Flynn tosses her leather jacket on the back of the empty chair and reaches out to grab the tip of each finger to pull her gloves off. “I’m not a stripper. If I were, I’d still be at work.”
“Coyote Ugly?” Monroe asks as she steals a french fry off Kelsey’s plate. “I could see you getting up and singing on a bar while you do body shots.”
I stare at Flynn, concern welling inside me for what kind of trouble the twenty-year-old who is technically no longer my little sister could be getting into.
“I was working.”
“You have a job?”
She yanks her head back like I suggested something stupid. “No. I’m taking twenty-four credits as soon as the semester starts. I won’t have time for a job.”
“Then what the hell, Flynn?” A million scenarios burst to life in my head. “If you’re—” I cut myself off because I don’t even want to voice the possibilities in my head.
“I’m not stripping or hooking or dancing on bars. I’m racing.”
All four of us blink at her. “What?” Our voices overlap, and other patrons turn to look at us again.
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Racing? I don’t understand.”
She reaches into her bra to pull out two folded pieces of paper and drops them on the table between the plates.
I snatch one, and Monroe grabs the other. I unfold the paper and stare at it. It’s a title to a car.
“What the hell?” I skim down to the make and model, a 1993 Toyota Supra.
“Why do you have a title for a 2014 Camaro?” Monroe asks, sounding just as confused as me as she looks up from the other piece of paper.
Flynn plucks the titles out of each of our hands and tucks them back in her bra. “The guys thought they could take me. They don’t take girl drivers seriously enough. But it’s cool; being underestimated makes it even sweeter when I crush them. Me and my baby were on fire tonight.”
“You race cars. For money. Or rather, for other cars?”
“It’s called racing for pinks. How do you think I pay for college? I can’t touch my trust fund until I turn twenty-five unless I beg my mom, which I refuse to do. I also didn’t want to go into debt. It’s not like NYU is cheap.”
“Wait a minute.” Kelsey chimes in, a french fry dangling from her fingers. “You race for pink slips and sell the cars to finance your tuition so you don’t have to take out student loans that you could easily pay back when you’re twenty-five and can access your trust fund without your mom?”
“Exactly. Besides, I’m really good at it. And it’s fun as hell. You’ve never had an adrenaline rush like this before.”
I turn to Kelsey. “Am I still drunk?”
“Possibly, but this is real, and your sister is an illegal street racer.”
Flynn steals the fry from Kelsey and pops it in her mouth. “A damn good illegal street racer who doesn’t have to worry about tuition until spring semester, and then I’m graduating a whole year early with a double major. So don’t judge me. I’ve got my shit covered.”
The door chimes, and Harlow’s attention shoots to the entrance. “So those cops that just walked in aren’t looking for you?”
Flynn slides down in her chair as she reaches for the empty coffee mug and pretends to sip. “Probably not. There wer
en’t any cops called. At least, none came up on the police scanner.”
I stare at Flynn like I’ve never seen her before. “I literally saw you yesterday, and you didn’t think it was important to mention any of this?”
She shoots me a smile. “I would’ve at coffee. Now, pretend like I’ve been out with you all night if they start asking questions.” She reaches out to tap my chin, signaling me to close my open mouth as she blows me a kiss. “You’re the best, Scar.”
Thirty-Seven
Legend
The club is still rocking when I walk out the door with Roux and Bump on my heels. I have to get the fuck out of here, and if I could have left them behind for Q to deal with, I would have. But I always handle my responsibilities, and Bump and Roux are exactly that. Mine.
Unlike Scarlett Priest.
She is not and never will be.
“That lady was pretty. Like, really pretty.”
I whip my head sideways to stare at Bump. “Which lady?”
“The one with the girl I brought for you. She had pretty brown hair. It looked soft. I want to touch it, Gabe. Can I touch it?”
Fucking hell. Now Bump is fixated on one of Scarlett’s friends, which is the last fucking thing I need to worry about, because it means that she is back in my head.
We walk out to my Bronco, which is parked in an alley spot behind the club. I scan the area quickly, making sure no one has fucked with it or is waiting around to jump us, and unlock it. Bump opens the back door for Roux, and she hops up inside.
Once we’re rolling out of the city, Bump is still jabbering about something, but I’m not listening to a word he says.
I can’t stop thinking about Scarlett. What she felt like. What she said. How fucking badly I wanted to take her up on the invitation she made.
No. I made my decision, and that’s it. There’s not a fucking chance in hell that I’m going to go down that road. Nothing good could possibly come of it.