The Fall of Legend

by Meghan March

  Bump’s face screws up into a sad expression. “I don’t wanna move again. I like it here. I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s okay, buddy. Shit happens. What do you say I take you out for breakfast instead? Just you and me?”

  Instantly, his expression softens into a smile. “Really?”

  I know in that moment that I haven’t spent enough time with the kid lately, and it cuts deep. “Yeah, really. Get dressed. We’ll take care of the pan later.”

  He claps his hands together like I just told him we’re going to a strip club. “Okay, Gabe! Give me two minutes. I’ll be ready. Don’t go without me.”

  “I’ll meet you in the truck. Take your time.”

  With Bump’s excited humming following me out of the apartment, I head back to grab a shirt, a different pair of pants . . . and my phone.

  Still no text.

  Maybe it was the alcohol talking last night.

  Maybe Scarlett doesn’t want a damn thing to do with a guy like me in the light of day.

  Forty

  Scarlett

  After waking up Harlow and Jimmy with my phone call, I learn that she wasn’t responsible for the text to Legend.

  Which means it was Monroe. Instead of calling, I hoof it over to the Upper East Side and pay her a personal visit.

  “Why are you here so early? You were out last night too. Don’t you ever sleep?” Monroe asks with a yawn.

  “Are you going to invite me in or not?” I ask her from the airy lobby outside the penthouse door.

  Monroe rolls her eyes and steps back, letting one of the double doors swing open. “Fine. But I’m making a bloody mary, and I don’t want to hear about how it’s not good to start the morning with vodka. It’s Sunday, and I don’t give a fuck.”

  As soon as the door closes behind me, I follow her across the travertine foyer and into the massive kitchen that Monroe mostly uses to mix drinks.

  “Why did you do it?” I cross my arms over my chest and wait for her to turn around and face me.

  She glances over her shoulder as she pulls a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “Do what?”

  “Text Legend from my phone! And how the hell did you get his number?”

  Instead of looking sheepish, a cat-got-the-canary smile spreads over her face. “Did he reply?”

  “Oh my God, Monroe! What the hell were you thinking? And why didn’t you tell me? I thought he was coming after me, but then I open the text to see he was only replying to some dirty message you sent him! What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Untwist your panties from the bunch they’re in and thank me.”

  “You don’t even feel bad about it, do you?” I ask her, my voice rising with my temper. “Why would you? You never feel bad about anything you do. This isn’t a game, Monroe. This is my life.”

  She sets the organic bloody mary mix on the counter so hard that the bottle lands with a crack against the granite. “And you’re the one who decided you had to bring his club back to life and wouldn’t tell any of us why. Don’t you think that makes you the one going after him from the beginning?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the kidnapping and what happened next, but I can’t. Because right now, I don’t trust Monroe any farther than I could throw her, and considering she’s all of five foot ten, that’s not very far.

  “You had no right to do that.”

  Monroe rolls her eyes at me. “Get off your fucking high horse, Scarlett. I did you a favor. You should be thanking me, not bitching at me first thing on a Sunday morning before I’ve even had a drink.”

  My head feels like it might explode, so I suck in a few deep breaths that help calm me down a degree or two. Monroe’s inability to see that what she did was wrong shouldn’t surprise me.

  “Here, have a drink.” She shoves a shot of vodka across the counter to me as I glare at her.

  “I don’t drink at ten a.m.”

  “Whatever.” She adds a dash of Tabasco, followed by a few sprinkles of celery salt and a grind of pepper. Monroe pops a leafy stalk of celery into her concoction to stir it before taking a swig. “God, that’s good. Almost worth being woken up at the ass crack of dawn by an ungrateful friend.”

  Those couple degrees of calm I felt? They evaporate.

  “Why would you do that? What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  “Fuck the man so you finally know what it’s like to have decent sex? Then maybe you’ll get the memo that you’re supposed to thank me later?”

  I drop onto the white sculpture-like stool on the other side of her expansive kitchen island and bury my face in my hands. “I can’t believe this.”

  “That you’re finally single and interested in a guy who can show you what it’s like to be with a real man?”

  “Stop. Just stop,” I mumble into my cupped hands, but Monroe doesn’t listen.

  “I know you think you have to plan every minute of your fucking life, Scarlett. I get it. You’re perfect, and the rest of us are just a hot mess.”

  I jerk my head up to face her. “I don’t think that at all. I’m not perfect.”

  Monroe responds with another eye roll and a big drink.

  “Plus, I’ve been single for less than a day, and Chadwick broke into my apartment last night to return his key and left a shitty note on my counter, so it’s not like—”

  The glass smacks against the countertop. “That motherfucker did what?” Monroe snaps out the question.

  “He left his key. Last night.”

  “Did you call the cops? Report him? That’s fucking stalking, Scarlett.”

  Monroe’s instant protectiveness calms my earlier annoyance at her more than I thought possible.

  “He had a key. There’s nothing they’d be able to do.”

  “Maybe not, but you’d have an official record of it. What if he tries to do something else? You need that record if there’s a chance you may need a restraining order. Remember when I broke up with Steve? He went batshit crazy and jacked off on my bed using my underwear.”

  “Oh God, Monroe. I’m so sorry. I totally forgot . . .” I trail off, wondering if I’m the one being the shitty friend here.

  “It’s fine,” she replies with a flip of her hair. “It’s not like any man would be okay with losing me. Yet more than one has had to deal with that sad reality.”

  Even though she plays it off like it’s nothing, her earlier concern makes me realize that it wasn’t no big deal like she told all of us when it happened.

  “So, should I call the cops? I kept the note. I have the security footage of him using the key.”

  Monroe slides a hand into the pocket of her robe to retrieve her phone. “I’ll text you the number of a detective. He’s discreet. He’ll document it quietly, so it doesn’t end up in the press.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket as soon as she finishes speaking, and when I unlock it, it opens to the screen with the text from Legend.

  “He did text back,” I say to Monroe, almost like a peace offering. “But I don’t know what to say to him now. I don’t know how to do this. I—”

  With more speed that I thought she was capable of in the morning, Monroe reaches across the island and nabs the phone from my hand.

  “Oh. My. God,” she whispers before breaking into a dance in front of the massive stainless-steel fridge. “This is amazing! I knew he wanted you. The way he held you when you danced . . . and the way he made sure to talk to you before we left. He’s hooked. Now all you have to do is reel him in, babe.”

  “I don’t know how, Monroe. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.”

  She tilts her head to the side and scoops up the bloody mary. After taking a sip, she replaces it on the counter with a smile. “Then I guess it’s time for that to change.”

  Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and I watch in horror as she grins.

  “Done. Now all you have to do is wait.”

  Forty-One

  Legend

  I’m
paying for breakfast when the text comes. Bump is staring at the blond cashier as she counts out change, so he doesn’t notice when I glance down at my phone.

  * * *

  Scarlett: You’re going to have to be more specific. Because I don’t want to wait until Saturday night to find out what you want from me.

  * * *

  My dick jerks in my pants. Fuck. I shove my phone back in my pocket and take my change, ignore the inviting smile of the cashier, and hustle Bump out of the diner.

  “She was pretty,” Bump says as soon as we’re outside. “I wish I could see her titties.”

  Fucking kid. He has no filter, and normally it’s funny, but right now, all I can think about is Scarlett’s tits, which I have no business thinking about at all.

  She’s sober now and she’s still texting you. That’s the part that sends a charge straight through me.

  Whatever happened last night could easily have been written off as an alcohol-fueled mistake, but this morning . . . not so much.

  Still, I have to wonder. “How the hell did she get my number?”

  Bump looks over at me from the other side of the truck. “How did who get your number?”

  “Scarlett Priest,” I say, unable to come up with a reason I shouldn’t tell him the truth.

  “I gave it to her friend. The one with pretty brown hair. I want to see her titties too. They were big.” Bump holds out two hands in front of his chest as he demonstrates just how big.

  Given his physical description—brown hair, big boobs—he has to be talking about Monroe Grafton, the wife of a starting pitcher, who was at the club with Scarlett last night.

  Well, hell.

  “When did you do that, bud?”

  “Last night. She was walking back to the stairs. I wanted to see her up close. I told her I was your little brother so she’d talk to me.”

  I can only imagine how well that went over.

  When I don’t reply, Bump’s face droops. “Did I do something wrong? Shouldn’t I have told her that?”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Nothing bad happened.”

  His smile comes back instantly. “Okay. I hope the pretty lady calls you. I like her. I should probably tell her I’m sorry I knocked her on the head and wrapped her up in that rug, huh?”

  I unlock the truck. “Get in. Let’s get home so you’re ready to watch football this afternoon at the Quinterros’ with Big Mike.”

  His face lights up at Q’s dad’s name, and all thoughts of Scarlett fly out of his head, which is exactly as it should be. I’m thinking about her enough for both of us.

  What do I want from you, Scarlett? Where do I even begin?

  I wait until I’m home and Bump is back in his apartment, getting ready for football, before I decide how to reply. I don’t want to scare her off before I get a chance to see her again.

  Wait. I don’t?

  No. I fucking don’t. I’m more attached to the idea of seeing Scarlett again than I should be, and I don’t care how bad of an idea that is anymore. I warned her. She didn’t listen.

  Maybe I should walk away, but I don’t see that happening. How in the hell could I?

  * * *

  Legend: When’s the last time you let go and just had fun?

  * * *

  Her response comes a few minutes later.

  * * *

  Scarlett: Last night.

  Legend: What about before that?

  Scarlett: To be honest, I can’t remember. What about you? When’s the last time you just let go and had fun?

  * * *

  I didn’t expect her to turn the question around on me. I drop onto the couch and think back to last night. What happened on the dance floor was totally out of character. I shouldn’t have left my office at all, let alone gone to her and danced.

  But in that moment, there was nothing I could have done to stay away, not even my sense of self-preservation, which is pretty fucking strong.

  I answer her honestly.

  * * *

  Legend: Last night for me too.

  Scarlett: We have something in common then. Imagine that. ;)

  * * *

  I stare down at the phone screen and read her words over and over. The statement should be false. We shouldn’t have a single thing in common . . . except we do, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this kind of anticipation building in me.

  I want to see her again. Dance with her. Watch her let go of her inhibitions and laugh and smile and . . .

  I’m totally fucked.

  Completely. Totally. Fucked.

  Even though I know I should block her number and never see her again, I tap out a reply.

  * * *

  Legend: Just wait. I can do even better than that.

  Forty-Two

  Scarlett

  Holy. Shit.

  I’m flirting with the most dangerously attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. The grin on my face is so wide that it hurts my cheeks. And the butterflies in my stomach have upgraded to flop-eared rabbits running roughshod at a trampoline park.

  They’re just texts, and not even sexy ones at that, but they feel like more. They feel . . . bigger, somehow. Like we’re actually finding common ground, me and this man who I can’t stop dreaming about, or—if I’m being totally honest—fantasizing about.

  Men like him aren’t interested in women like me. He lives hard and fast, and I’m more comfortable at sedate afternoon tea parties.

  Except, what if I could be whatever I wanted? What if I could have whatever I wanted?

  It’s not something I’ve ever considered before. Despite being raised in luxury and having ample resources available, I’ve lived most of my life in a box. A luxury box, but a box all the same. Opening Curated pushed the edges a little, but not much. It still fell into the category of “acceptable professions and activities” for Scarlett Priest.

  Just like Chadwick fell into the category of “acceptable boyfriend material” for Scarlett Priest.

  Screw the boxes and categories. I’m totally over it. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m following my gut, and wherever she takes me, I’m sure it will be unforgettable.

  Bad Scarlett is behind the wheel now.

  I carry my newfound resolve with me all the way through Monday to self-defense class.

  “Better. Now practice striking with the pen. It may not look like much, but you can kill someone with something as basic as an ink pen.” Bodhi, my instructor who still intimidates the hell out of me, went over everything I learned last Friday and then moved on to new material.

  I swing my arm down toward the big pad on the floor, pen firmly gripped in my hand as I practice stabbing someone in the eyeball. It’s kind of gross, but when I remember how helpless I felt wrapped up in that rug, I realize that if it ever happened again, it’s unlikely the outcome would be as positive.

  Especially since the troll is relentless right now too, but this time under a new account. I had to block him or her this morning after they commented on the photo of Kelsey, Harlow, Monroe, and me, taken before we hit the club. The comment read, “Whores need to be taught a lesson.”

  I screenshotted everything, then deleted and blocked the profile, but I still haven’t forgotten about it. In fact, I was considering trying to reschedule self-defense until I saw it. Now, regardless of whether or not I like this instructor’s clipped, to-the-point method of teaching, I’m committed. No one will get the best of me simply because I’m not prepared.

  “That’s all for today,” Bodhi says twenty minutes later when he drops the pad I was kicking at. He’s a freak of nature. A giant who moves so fast that he seems to defy physics.

  “Thank you, Mr. Black. I appreciate your time.”

  “Bodhi or Black. I told you, no mister.”

  I give him an awkward smile at being corrected and escape to the locker where my bag is stowed. As soon as I unlock it, I grab my ph
one, and no, I’m not ashamed to admit it.

  Texting with Gabriel Legend is the most exciting part of my day. I thought maybe I wouldn’t hear from him again for a couple of days, or even until Saturday, but I was wrong.

  This morning, while I was writing in my gratitude journal, my phone buzzed with a text. I forced myself to finish writing, regardless of how quivery my belly was at the possibility of what it might say. It was short and simple.

  * * *

  Legend: Have a great day.

  * * *

  I felt those words down to the marrow of my bones because he was thinking about me.

  My reply was just as simple, but I hoped it conveyed everything I was feeling.

  * * *

  Scarlett: Thank you. I hope yours is fantastic too.

  * * *

  I was proud of myself for not checking my phone during my meeting with Amy or while I was working, but my restraint for today has run its course. I’m done trying to pretend I don’t care if he’s texted me. I flip my phone over as fast as I can to check the screen for a new message.

  And there is one.

  It just isn’t from Legend.

  * * *

  Dad: Very disappointing to hear how you treated Chadwick. He’s a good man and would make an excellent husband.

  * * *

  I blink twice as I reread the message.

  Hurt gouges me, and instantly, I throw on some armor to protect my old wounds.

  Really, Dad? You’re disappointed to hear how I treated Chadwick? What about how he treated me?