The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  She was never supposed to mean this much to me.

  “You want to go back inside?” she asks, yawning as she turns to me. Ayla threads her fingers into mine.

  There’s a knock at the door, presumably room service, and she shuffles to the bathroom, still wrapped in that bedsheet.

  We inhale our snack, draw the curtains, and turn out the lights. Ayla lies in my arms, her cheek pressed against my heart and her hand resting on my stomach. When she blinks, I feel the trace of her lashes against my skin.

  I want this.

  I want her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ayla

  Rhett’s in the hotel shower when a call from Coach Harris lights up my screen. Nothing like a good, hard dose of reality to really get a girl going in the morning.

  I’d almost forgotten.

  “Shit,” I whisper, holding the phone in my hand like it’s a bomb about to detonate. I panic and freeze, and eventually the call goes to voicemail. Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes with his message.

  I make sure Rhett’s still in the shower before listening.

  “Ayla, this is Coach Harris,” the voicemail says. “Just calling because we have that proceeds check for Bryce’s foundation from the skate-a-thon. We’d like to present it to you in our next team meeting. It’d be next Friday, ten o’clock in the morning. See you then.”

  The bathroom door opens, and Rhett emerges in a cloud of steam, a white towel wrapped low around his waist and his rippled abs gleaming. I realize now that I’m staring, and that I’m not breathing.

  I want to remember this moment. I want to remember how it felt when he looked at me like I hung the moon. I want to remember what it felt like when his taste still lingered on my tongue, when my body was consumed with a kind of magnificent soreness only he could inflict.

  I thought we had more time to get to know each other—to maybe even fall in love—before I told him. My hope was that he would get to know me, and that he would know my intentions were true.

  Eight days.

  That’s all we have.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rhett

  There’s a girl I’ve never seen before sitting at my kitchen island when I get home from the hotel. She’s eating cereal from one of my bowls and my brother is nowhere to be found.

  “Hi.” My voice is flat, unamused. I pull my key from the lock and shut the door.

  “Oh, hi!” She climbs off the bar stool, coming at me with open arms and a huge grin. “You must be Locke’s older brother. He told me so much about you.”

  She smells like cereal and milk, faded perfume, and day-old alcohol breath, and she’s wearing last night’s dress in a shade of nightclub teal. When she climbs back onto the bar stool, the hem rises up her thighs. I don’t think she’s wearing panties.

  “Locke,” I yell his name. A second later, he comes strutting down the hall, his hair wet from the shower as he straightens his tie. He better not have fucked her on my bed. I’ll kill him.

  “What’s up?” He wears the smile of a recently laid man, and he takes a seat beside her.

  “You play hockey, right?” the girl asks.

  I nod.

  “So, like, how long have you played?” she asks.

  “Long as I can remember,” I say, starting up the coffee maker.

  “Do you know Trent Merritt?” she asks. “He plays for the Portland Eagles.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I dated him last year,” she says, sticking her chest out like she’s proud. I don’t tell her he’s the biggest womanizer in the NHL. “Things didn’t work out, which was too bad because he was so much fun. But I guess everything happens for a reason. Never would’ve swiped up on this guy if I were still with Trent!”

  She reaches for my brother’s face, cupping his chin in her hands.

  “You guys met on Date Snap?” I ask.

  The woman nods. “Yes! Can you believe it? Who’d have thought I’d be swiping up on the inventor of the dating app? It’s crazy. I guess it was meant to be.”

  As soon as she looks away, my brother sticks his tongue out like he’s disgusted, and he rolls his eyes. I vaguely recall him bragging recently about how Date Snap is mostly used for “vexting,” which is video sex messaging, and that people mostly use it to find hookups, not dates.

  This girl was clearly shopping for her own prince charming. Guess she didn’t get the memo.

  Locke slips his hand around her waist, gently coaxing her off the seat and toward the door. “Thanks for last night, babe. I’ve got an early meeting. Call you later?”

  She smiles and giggles, sliding her hand up his shoulder before rising on her toes and giving him a kiss.

  “Bye, babe,” she says as he gets the door. “Nice meeting you, Locke’s brother!”

  I don’t have a chance to respond before my brother shuts the door and deadbolts it.

  “God, I thought she was never going to leave,” he says in one exhaled, jumbled breath.

  “All this money you have and you still insist on bringing girls back to my place.” I shake my head. “This city is full of hotels. Next time, fucking get one.”

  “Dude, calm down.” Locke laughs, swiping an apple from a bowl on the counter. “It was just a one-time thing.”

  “A one-time thing that you do all the time with various other women.”

  Locke’s hands fly into the air. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t hate on me just because I’ve got it figured out.”

  “Got what figured out?”

  “The secret to happiness,” he says, leaning on his elbows. He chomps into a bite of apple, letting the juice drip down his chin before catching it. “That girl? I don’t even know her name. Couldn’t tell you. But those tits? I’ll never forget those tits as long as I live.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Am I supposed to be jealous of you?”

  “Yeah. You are. Because I’ve got it all down to a science, brother,” he says. “This is the life. I’ll settle down when I’m fifty and I can find some hot chick half my age who doesn’t mind saggy balls if they’re attached to a multi-millionaire. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to find girls like that.”

  “Guess everyone needs ambitions.” I shake my head.

  “Only a schmuck would spend the best years of his life tying himself down to some girl when there’s a goddamned smorgasbord right outside his door.” Locke takes another bite. “This city is ripe, Rhett. Ripe.”

  “Whatever.”

  “One of these days, you’re going to realize I was right. You’re going to see that girls our age? They want marriage and babies—and if they tell you they don’t, they’re full of shit. Girls our age will tie you down, cut off your balls before you have a chance to say, ‘I do,’ and you’ll wake up ten, fifteen years from now, wondering why you let yourself go and why no one wants to fuck you anymore.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You’re right, Locke. How’d you get so wise?” I pour myself a coffee and let him yammer on, my sarcasm clearly going straight over his head. He just hasn’t been in love yet. He’s twenty-five and he thinks he knows everything about everything. “You forget there are other alternatives to just fucking everything that walks.”

  “Like what?” he huffs.

  “Fuck buddies.”

  “Nobody does that anymore.” Locke rolls his eyes.

  “It’s safer,” I say. “And less disgusting. Anyway, I’m done with this conversation, and you sound like Dad, talking out of your ass like you know shit.”

  Locke shuts up, his jaw slack. “Take that back.”

  “Nope.”

  “I do not sound like Dad.”

  We used to make fun of our father growing up because he had a way of talking so people would listen, and sounding like he knew what he was talking about on top of that. And that’s why he was the best used Hyundai salesmen in all of Toledo.

  “Anyway, this girl you’re fucking,” Locke says.

  “She
’s not some girl I’m fucking,” I cut him off. “And before you open your mouth again, you better make damn sure you’re not about to say something that’s going to make me want to sock you in the jaw, because I will.”

  Locke stares, swallows the rest of his bite, and then tosses the core in the trash before heading to the door. “I’ll be in meetings all day. Trying to sell another one of my apps to some Chinese developer. Wish me luck. Not that I need it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ayla

  “Hi, Ayla, you have a minute?” My agent, Rosalie, sounds chipper this morning, which makes me nervous. Every time she’s ever delivered bad news, she’s begun the call with an overly upbeat tone.

  “Yeah. What’s up?” I shut the lid of my laptop. It’s time for a break anyway. I just sat here and cranked out five thousand words like it was nothing. Guess I’m feeling inspired today…

  “I heard back from Cutler and Bagby, and they want to make an offer!” She’s all but squealing on the other end.

  “Oh, my god.”

  “I know,” she says. Cutler and Bagby are one of the biggest publishing houses in the world, and everyone knows they’re star makers. “Okay, so they want two books. They’re offering a low six-figure advance, but we can negotiate that if you want. So they want Hard Hearted, and then they want you to do a standalone spin off based on a secondary character. I highly suggest you get started on that second book immediately.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll email you their offer and you can tell me what you think. We’ll counter. They’re notorious for making lowball offers and negotiating higher.”

  “Awesome, yeah. Let’s go for it.” I swear there’s sunshine radiating from the top of my head right now, and I’m smiling so big it hurts.

  “Congrats, sweetie. You deserve this,” she says. “I’ve got to head into a meeting, but I’ll have my assistant email you in a few.”

  Rosalie ends the call, and I sit in stunned silence, letting it sink in. I’ve been rejected dozens upon dozens of times before, and I certainly expected a “no” from one of the most prolific publishing houses ever to exist.

  My body is electric, energy humming from every extremity. I send a mass text to everyone… Rhett, Viv, Bostyn, my mom, and a few other writerly friends, and within seconds, I’m flooded with congratulatory messages.

  I let myself gloat and revel, unable to wipe the smile on my face, and after an hour or so, I force myself to sit down and work. This second book isn’t going to write itself. Closing out of my current project, I open up a blank Word document. I have no idea where to start or what I’m going to write about.

  The best friend in Hard Hearted was loosely based on myself, and now I’m tasked with making her fall in love and giving her a happily ever after.

  The irony isn’t lost on me.

  I’m staring at a blank screen for God knows how long when my phone buzzes with a text.

  Rhett: WANNA CELEBRATE?

  Me: NO TIME TO CELEBRATE. GOT TO WRITE BOOK TWO!

  Rhett: LOCKE IS OUT FOR THE DAY. COME OVER.

  Me: WORKING…

  Rhett: WHY DO YOU FIGHT ME? YOU KNOW I’M GOING TO WIN. ALWAYS DO.

  Me: COCKY MUCH?

  Rhett: CAN YOU SPARE ME THE SMART ASS TEXTS AND JUST COME THE FUCK OVER IMMEDIATELY SO YOU CAN SIT ON MY FACE? YOU KNOW YOU NEED A CELEBRATORY ORGASM.

  Me: POETIC.

  Rhett: CUM OVER. NOW.

  Me: I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE.

  Rhett: ENOUGH WITH THE CUTE SHIT. SHUT DOWN YOUR COMPUTER AND COME OVER. WE’VE GOT THE PLACE TO OURSELVES FOR AT LEAST THREE HOURS. I’M CONFIDENT I CAN GIVE YOU AT LEAST FIVE CELEBRATORY ORGASMS IN THAT AMOUNT OF TIME.

  Me: FIVE? THAT’S RATHER AMBITIOUS, DON’T YOU THINK?

  He doesn’t respond. Maybe I’ve frustrated him. I’m not intentionally playing hard to get, it’s just that I need to start this novel. And now his silence is concerning. He’s probably using some kind of reverse psychology on me where the chaser becomes the chasee, and it’s kind of working.

  I love it when he wants me so badly he begs and tries to bribe me with orgasms.

  And I know an hour from now I’m going to be sitting here with wet panties and a throbbing core desperate for the featherlike, feverish strokes of his brilliantly talented tongue.

  I call him, and he answers immediately.

  “You win,” I say.

  “Always do,” he says. “See you in an hour.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rhett

  “Where are you from?” Ayla sits up in bed, propped on her elbow as she studies me.

  I can’t stop touching her, and I can’t imagine ever getting sick of seeing her naked in my bed.

  “Grew up in Toledo, Ohio,” I say. “You?”

  “Grew up all over the place,” she says. “Mom settled in southern California when I was in high school. You have a big family?”

  “Just a younger brother,” I say. “Mom and Dad are still married. Dad’s a retired used car salesman. Mom stayed at home. Grew up in a modest little ranch house with a one car garage and a tree fort in the backyard.”

  “Idealistic childhood?”

  “Hardly.” I place my hand on the bend of her hip, where minutes ago I gripped her flesh as she came on my cock. “My parents were weird.”

  “How so?”

  “Controlling, never let us have friends over, wouldn’t let us stay go anywhere without them…” I say. “Want me to go on?”

  Ayla wrinkles her nose. “Why were they like that?”

  “They were just paranoid that something bad was going to happen, I guess?” I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s how they were. I don’t even think they knew why they were like that half the time.”

  “So you were sheltered?” she asks.

  I bite my lip. “Yeah, I guess. Only time I left the house was for school or hockey. Only took up hockey so I had an excuse to be around other kids. Turned out I was really fucking good at it.”

  She smiles, laughing through her nose. “So it all worked out.”

  I nod. “Yeah. What about you?”

  “It was always just Mom and me,” she says. “We moved a lot. My mom is the most free-spirited person you’ll ever meet.”

  “I bet that was rough, moving so much?” I pull her into my arms, letting her body heat meld with mine.

  She nuzzles against my shoulder. “Yeah. I was always the new kid. Didn’t help that I was extremely nerdy and all I wanted was for people to like me, so I let them walk all over me. Made me an easy target. Kids can be such little shits sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She blows a breath past her lips. “I’m over it. Now. It got better once we settled outside of LA and stopped moving around so much. I had some nicer friends in high school. Even got me a boyfriend.” She nudges me, teasing. “It worked out.”

  “I’d have dated you in high school. I’d have dated the shit out of you.” I kiss her forehead. “But my parents would’ve probably chaperoned.”

  She laughs.

  The door to my apartment slams, followed by the sound of Locke calling for me.

  I groan, and Ayla sinks back into the bed, releasing a frustrated breath. I thought we had all afternoon.

  “Rhett,” Locke calls out again, his voice growing closer. He must be on the other side of the door.

  “One sec,” I call out, slipping my clothes on.

  He’s pounding on the door, ignoring my request for patience. “Rhett, I got the deal. They’re buying my app. Five million, baby! Let’s go celebrate. Drinks. Right now. On me.”

  I zip my fly, fasten the button, and yank the door open, keeping it closed enough so he can’t see Ayla.

  “You have someone over?” he asks.

  I give him a look that says, “No shit.”

  “That girl?” he asks. “The one from the other day?”

  I nod.

  “Come
on Rhett’s girlfriend, let’s go grab some drinks. I just made five million bucks,” Locke says, trying to press his face through the opening in the door.

  “Fucking weirdo, get out of here,” I say, shoving him back.

  “You guys coming or what?” he asks from the now-closed door.

  I turn to Ayla and she shrugs, trying not to laugh. “Sure.”

  “Yeah,” I call out. “We’re coming.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ayla

  “So what is it you do again?” Locke squints across the table at Bostyn, whom I invited on the way over here because I didn’t want to be the third wheel and also because she coincidentally had offered to take me out for drinks tonight after getting my text earlier today.

  “I write a dating and relationship advice column for Beauty Mark magazine,” she says, sipping her cocktail. The defensiveness in her tone is palpable.

  “You’re doing the Lord’s work,” Locke mocks her, placing his hand gently over hers until she yanks it out from under him.

  Bostyn rolls her eyes. These two just met, but they’ve been going at it all night. It didn’t help that within five minutes of sitting down, Bostyn had made fun of his Date Snap app and laid out all the reasons why dating apps are what’s wrong with society today.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?” Bostyn shoots him a death stare.

  “Women like you are the reason guys like me use dating apps,” Locke says, mouth holding a smug smile. “And FYI, dating is just a twenty-first century word for hooking up. Nobody fucking dates anymore. People who use dating apps to find dates are using them wrong.”

  “So every single man who uses a dating app is just looking for a quick lay?” she asks.