The Right Stud

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “It’s bros before hos then?”

  She exhales, regret on her face, the corners of her mouth turning down. “It’s not like that, Ash.”

  “It is like that. You chose him over me.”

  She sits on the bed, a defeated slump to her shoulders. “He kisses so damn good, and when he rubs my feet after a hard day of walking the dogs—”

  “Oh, God. Just stop. I don’t want to hear about you fornicating with my brother.” I set my glass down on the vanity and apply more lipstick although I’m not really paying attention.

  My hand shakes a little and I feel betrayed. Again.

  Lulu sniffs and I turn to see that her eyes are glistening with tears.

  Fuck me.

  Lulu is a tough nut to crack. Hallmark movies won’t do it, and even when she stubs her toe, she’s invincible. The only time I ever recall her getting misty-eyed is when her beloved pet hamster broke his leg and passed.

  “Don’t cry, Lulu.”

  A tear falls down her face. “It’s just… I’m really sorry to drop the Ben bomb on you after Jax. I’m a terrible person, an awful friend.”

  “No, you’re not,” I say softly.

  She pats at her tears with a tissue I hand her. Her green eyes peer up at me. “You’re so much more important than good sex. I’ll ditch him altogether. I’ll never fantasize about him again, I swear. I’ll never even LOOK at him.” Sadness passes over her features as she sends me a pleading look. “You and I are friends forever, like Thelma and Louise, but without the going over the cliff part.”

  I sigh heavily, as the final tendrils of anger over Ben and Lulu fade. True, she is sleeping with the enemy but she’s been dreaming of it since high school. And who knows? Maybe she can soften him.

  “Don’t stop seeing him. Not if you think there might be something real there. Ben’s always been a good guy before. Maybe someone like you can bring him back to the light.”

  Hope flits across her face. “Really?”

  I nod, feeling more firm and sure as I think about it. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with my house, but I do know that you will always be my friend and he’ll always be my brother.”

  She nods up at me, and I reach down to give her a quick hug.

  “Thank you. I had to tell you because I’ve felt so guilty. I’m going to do my best to talk to him about backing off.”

  I smirk ruefully. “Good luck with that. Ben seeing a pile of money is like a hummingbird seeing red.”

  We’re distracted as Mrs. C waltzes in the room, Rufus sitting atop her shoulder.

  “Ah, me so horny!” he squawks and flies off to roost on the curtain rod above my window.

  I send him a glare. “Watch your language, buddy.”

  “Fuck off!” he cries.

  I turn to Mrs. C to ask why she waltzed into my room with that bird and without even knocking when I see she’s wearing an elaborately embroidered purple kaftan. She’s taken off the turban and her graying blonde hair is styled in a fashionable up-do with soft curls framing her face. Pink lipstick adorns her lips, and her rouge is artfully applied to her cheekbones. I vaguely recall her mentioning going to the salon earlier this morning…

  “Hello, ladies,” she says airily. “I am beautiful, and I have arrived. What do you kids say? Oh yes, let’s get this party started.” She claps into the air.

  “You’re going with us?” Lulu sends me a questioning look.

  I shrug. This is all news to me.

  “We’re going to a night club, Mrs. C.” My voice is delicate. I don’t want to offend her, but I also don’t want her to have a heart attack. “It’s going to be very loud with lots of flashing lights. Sweaty people will be everywhere, and some will smell worse than Rufus.”

  “A juke joint.” She nods, rubbing her hands together. “It’ll be like that time I took LSD at Burning Man.”

  I blink.

  She continues. “And it’s karaoke night at the Smoky Siren. I looked it up on the interwebs.”

  “It’s the internet,” I say.

  “Potato, po-tah-toe.” She waves her hand around and glides over to me, inspecting my dress. “Why, you look lovely, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nods, tapping her chin. “I’ve been trying to come up with a duet for us to sing all day, and I think I have it.”

  I laugh. “Are you sure you’re up for all that?”

  She arches her brow. “Please. I can out-party you any day of the week. You will sing with me, right? You can’t turn me down, especially since I rarely go out.” She thinks for a moment. “In fact, this is the first time I’ve been to a club since that night back in 1998 when Mr. C made love to me in a jazz bar down in New Orleans.”

  Oh.

  “We got caught by the manager.” She looks from me to Lulu. “Mr. C was going down on me. He was very talented with his tongue—”

  “Well!” I clear my throat. “I can’t wait to sing. What song did you have in mind?”

  “How about ‘I Will Survive’?” Lulu chimes in.

  I huff out a laugh. “Goodness knows I need a girl-power song.”

  Mrs. C purses her lips. “I was thinking ‘Like a Virgin’ or ‘Shake it Off.’” She does a little shimmy.

  Lulu giggles.

  “Fine. I’ll sing whatever you want, Mrs. C, but first we have to get there, and since I’m buzzing from the bubbly already, let’s get an Uber.” I pull out my phone and order the car.

  This is going to be one wild night.

  Twenty-Six

  Jax

  The New York skyline glows as the last rays of the sun glint, reflecting off the high-rises surrounding my apartment. I stand on my small balcony listening to the shouts and honks of the evening traffic on the Upper East Side.

  It’s a far cry from the beach in Palmetto, and as soon as my plane landed at JFK, a gnawing pit of regret settled in my stomach and took up residence. It hasn’t left.

  I take a sip of the scotch I poured earlier as my eyes drift along the horizon. I wonder what Ashton is doing. I picture her standing on the porch at The Conch, gazing out at the waves. Is she thinking about me right now? Is she missing me?

  Don’t be an idiot, Jax.

  I left Palmetto because she threw me out. She fucking hates the sight of me.

  Right.

  I scrub at the scruff of evening shadow along my jawline—which reminds me I need to shave. It’s been a few days, but I haven’t felt like doing much since leaving South Carolina. If I had a therapist, they’d probably tell me I’m depressed.

  Whatever. I have to get back to work and forget Ashton Hall.

  I toss back another sip just as my doorbell rings. Stepping into the den, I pass by the classic 1980s movie still running on my flatscreen TV. How long has that been on repeat?

  A cardboard pizza box is on the floor with more than half a pizza inside, and an empty bottle of Jameson sits on the coffee table. The half-empty bottle I’m working on now is beside it. How much time has passed?

  Pulling the door open I see Tara smiling, laptop in hand. I know she’s here to see the work I did at The Conch. I told her I had a package to show the network. It’s my dream, and everything about it has to be perfect. I need this gig. I need my time in South Carolina to mean something—besides breaking Ashton’s heart.

  Her eyes flare. “Holy cow. What happened to you? You look like shit.”

  Ashton happened.

  “I went to bed late, I guess.” I open the door wider as she breezes past.

  “You look like you just woke up.” Her gaze goes from my untucked dress shirt to my wrinkled slacks then back to my unshaven face. “Have you showered?”

  I shrug. “Yes.”

  She waves toward my disheveled hair. “Are you sure?”

  I push a wayward strand out of my face. “Scout’s honor.”

  That gets me a wry smile. “You’re no Boy Scout. Why aren’t you all spiffed up and ready to head out for a night of womanizing?”
/>
  My lips curl downward. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

  “It doesn’t?” Tara’s eyes bounce from the TV to me. “Are you watching Against All Odds?”

  “Fuck no. It came on Skinamax. I’m waiting for the tits and ass.” It’s a lie. I’ve been wallowing in pizza, whiskey, and Phil Collins. God help me. “I think I have a virus.”

  Tara’s eyes narrow as she steps closer and catches my scruff in her hand. “What kind of virus?”

  Tara’s in her late forties, a whiz at public relations, and my go-to for negotiating sponsor deals for the show. She also acts like my surrogate big sister—as if I need another Bernice.

  “Stomach bug or something.”

  At that she releases me and quickly wipes her hand on her pants. “Well, keep it to yourself.”

  I follow her into the office area I have set up off the kitchen, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror. Shit, I do look like hell. My face is haggard, my eyes roadmaps from another sleepless night—and probably a bit too much liquor. It’s the only way I can sleep since I got home. I can’t stop thinking about those traces of tears on Ashton’s cheeks. Hell, I even miss Mrs. C and Rufus.

  When will this fucking feeling go away?

  My teeth clench. I have to push these emotions aside and move on. I’m a heel, an asshole, a liar—not a hero, as Ashton properly noted. I pinch the bridge of my nose. If only I’d told her the whole story from the beginning…

  Tara has settled into a chair across from my desk, an expectant look on her face. Right, she’s here to go over the show—on a Friday—and I know she has places to be.

  “Thanks for coming over,” I say.

  She shrugs. “No problem. Robert is making dinner for the kids, and I know you want to get this squared away as quickly as possible.” She stops, a wrinkle appearing on her forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I give her a terse nod. “Yes.”

  I will be… eventually.

  Twisting my laptop around, I show her the edits I made. “Start here. Ashton was painting the molding and a seagull flew in. She threw a paintbrush at it.”

  Fuck, remembering it hurts. Tendrils of sadness curl through my chest.

  Tara watches the segment, replaying it several times.

  I’m not watching it. I can’t look at it again, but I know what she’s seeing. Ashton is wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and a bright yellow tank top as she stands on the ladder. Rufus is perched on the roof watching us, and Mrs. C is lurking in the window, her beady eyes not missing a thing.

  Ashton explains to the camera the little touches her Granny made to the house, including painting mermaids everywhere, sometimes in secret locations. She’s just found a small one she’s never seen before. It’s about the size of her hand on the trim around the ceiling. Her excitement is palpable as she paints around it, being careful to preserve the artwork.

  Then the seagull swoops in and Ash squeals, throwing her paintbrush at it. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her fist at the offending bird, belting out a few curses—which will have to be bleeped.

  I recall how she looked back at me and started giggling. “Did you see that crazy bird? I wonder if it was the same one that chased Jean Claude into the ocean.”

  It was an incredible moment, a one-of-a-kind shot. The sun was behind her, touching the tips of her hair with golden light.

  Tara is smiling. “That’s a money shot. How on Earth did you keep from laughing?”

  My hand involuntarily rubs my aching stomach. “It was hard, but I know a quality scene when I see it.”

  She nods, clearly excited as she speeds through me hammering boards on the porch. “I love it—all of it. It’s like sassy Pioneer Woman meets the long-lost, blond Property Brother.”

  Her eyes dart across the screen, and I wait as she watches the package I spent most of the night editing together. For the life of me, I don’t want to see it right now.

  “Just wow. Celia is going to snatch this up. All of it is perfect for their Thursday night lineup, and you know they’ve been searching for something to replace Fixer Upper. I can see you doing an entire season on beach houses alone. The East Coast is covered in them!” Her lips purse as she thinks. “No one is doing that right now.”

  “I know.” Everything she says is what I need to hear, but bitterness still eats at me.

  She glances down at the laptop. “She’s beautiful. The camera loves her.”

  “Yeah.” My voice is flat.

  The dreaded L-word.

  Her eyes fly up to meet mine, as if something in my tone alerted her. “Did you tap that?”

  I sigh as I stand to look out the window, drink in hand. I step over a pile of dirty clothes along the way. Fuck, this place is a mess, and I don’t even care.

  “Jax?” Her voice is concerned.

  I toss a look at her. “What?”

  “You can barely muster up any excitement about what I’m saying. What’s going on with you?”

  “I fucked everything up—with her.”

  “Come on. You’re just out of sorts from being in Charleston. You always get this way when you visit home. Once we get this to Celia, everything will change—”

  “You don’t get it, Tara.” Now I’m snapping at her when she hasn’t done a damn thing. Grabbing the reins, I lower my drink and adjust my tone. “I’m sorry. You should go. I’m sure your family is waiting on you.”

  She studies me, eyes squinted. “What happened between you and this girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.” She pauses. “Did you fall for her?”

  My body freezes. No.

  Fuck, if she’s right, I hate it. It hurts and makes me want to yell at the top of my lungs.

  “I’ll get over it,” I mutter as the music grows louder from my television. It’s the sound of Phil Collins over the credits of the movie.

  She marches over to the intrusive device and switches it off. “Tell me the truth. That’s an order.”

  I rake both hands through my hair. Where to begin? “I told her why I left Charleston. I told her about my parents and fucking boarding school. I told her things I’ve never told anyone—not even you.”

  “Are you saying she’s the only one who really knew you at all?” The tease in her tone snaps my eyes to hers.

  Her lips fight a smile, and I feel simultaneously angry and foolish. I’m an idiot, and I decide to play along. “I just let her walk away from me.”

  “Oh my God. Shut the fuck up and go take a shower. We’re sitting on a gold mine here, and you’re wallowing like a lovesick teenager.”

  “I have a stomach bug.”

  “You’re depressed. You’re pining after this… really pretty girl.” Tara’s brow lifts as she nods toward my laptop, where the final shot of Ashton is frozen on the screen like an instrument of torture, a red-hot poker jammed in my aching chest. “She looks really sweet.”

  My voice is husky, broken. “She is.” Again, I rub the pain in my midsection.

  “You’re in love with her.”

  “No.” My answer is fast, sharp.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, her expression morphs into disapproving parent. “Get your ass in that shower then get back to Palmetto and talk to her.”

  “She threw me out.” Shaking my head, I can’t believe I smile. “Literally. She threw my shit out the window.”

  “Sounds like she’s in love with you, too.”

  With that, she’s up and on the phone. Seconds later, I hear her ordering takeout from my favorite Italian place down the street.

  She ends the call and gives me a serious look. “I’ve got your dinner handled. I want you to eat it and go to bed and get some real sleep.” Her eyes go to the tumbler. “No more drinking.”

  “Okay,” I sigh, rubbing my chest. I have no idea why I agree to what she’s saying, but it just comes out.

  She nods. “I’ll handle everything with Celia. You are to get o
n a plane first thing in the morning and go back to Palmetto.”

  “I told you—”

  She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Go to that house and grovel.”

  “I already tried that.” I walk over to sit on the couch. “She wasn’t having it.”

  She walks over and pats me on the back. “Just go there. The plan will come.”

  “What is this, Field of Dreams?”

  “It’s better than the pussy-assed shit you’ve been listening to here. That song is about waiting for her to come back to you, and from what you’ve told me, it ain’t happening.”

  Exhaling a laugh, I don’t even try arguing. “You’re saying it’s ‘Against All Odds’? What would you recommend instead?”

  “The Finn Brothers.” She pauses at the door and gives me a wink. “‘Anything Can Happen.’”

  Twenty-Seven

  Ashton

  Lying in my bed, the sun shines across my ceiling, and I stretch my arms over my head, remembering last night at the Smoky Siren. It all comes flooding back in a wave of triumph, and I cover my mouth as a satisfied smile lifts my cheeks.

  Am I actually smiling? How long has it been since that happened? More importantly, how did this happen?

  Well, I’ll tell you…

  We’d walked into that bar looking fierce, if I do say so myself. (I refuse to believe it’s the prosecco remembering.) Even Mrs. C was bringing her A-game.

  “The first thing we need to do is get the karaoke book,” Mrs. C says, holding the door as I follow Lulu into the semi-crowded bar. “I read if you tip the DJ, they’ll call your name faster.”

  “I’m not singing karaoke.” Lulu slides a smooth lock of red hair behind her shoulder. “No amount of alcohol would make me sing in front of who knows who’s listening.”

  “Oh, what are you worried about?” I grumble. “Ben’s keeping the bed warm for you back at his place.”

  My best friend’s jaw drops, but I shake my head. “Don’t even bother—Mrs. C called it a week ago. She knows.”