“Same,” Amber pipes in. “I drove.”
I haven’t had a drink since yesterday afternoon, and frankly, a beer sounds good, but Kendall’s refraining, so I say, “Make it three.”
“Water? Seriously? Did I interrupt an AA meeting?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Matt says. “Domestic.”
“He’ll have a Heineken,” Dylan tells the server, and then orders a seven and seven for himself.
Amber asks how we know each other. Matt and Dylan begin tag-teaming their way through the story any one of us could tell in our sleep.
“So Mastermind here”—Matt jerks a thumb at Dylan—“decides we ought to make a break during nap time because the ice cream truck stops at the park across the street every day and we need to get in on that. We can be gone and back before anybody notices.”
“Nobody’s going to notice you have ice cream?” Amber asks.
“We were four. We didn’t think it through,” Dylan acknowledges. “I had five bucks burning a hole in my pocket, and I knew the gate code. That’s as far as I’d gotten. The teachers were chatting, so we snuck out to the play yard and climbed the slope to the back fence.”
“Vaughn was the smallest of us, back then, so he was supposed to squeeze through the fence and then come around to the gate, punch in the code, and spring us,” Matt explains.
“A perfect plan,” Dylan adds.
“Yeah, except I couldn’t squeeze through the fence.”
“You mostly could, after you took my advice and streamlined your wardrobe. I solved 90 percent of that problem.”
“Yeah, a 90 percent solution that left me stuck in a fence, naked.”
“Oh, no…” Amber’s show of sympathy doesn’t quite hide her amusement. Kendall doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.
“You weren’t naked,” Dylan corrects. “You had your Spiderman underwear on. And how is it my fault you lodged that big coconut you call a head between the slats?”
“What happened?” Kendall asks.
“He started to freak, so we tried to work him free,” Matt continues. “I grabbed his arm. Dylan pulled his head, and—”
“And this ungrateful little punk pushes me down the hill,” Dylan supplies, eyes on me.
“You were breaking my neck, motherfucker. I told you to stop.”
“Anyway, Dylan rolls down the hill and ‘passes out.’” Matt makes air quotes around the words.
“I had a concussion.”
“You had a bruise, Humpty. Meanwhile, I’m the last one standing, so I have to man up and get help. A trend that continues to this day, since Mastermind likes to snooze through any accountability whatsoever, and Pretty Boy usually ends up in his underwear with a bunch of ladies fussing over him.”
“You’re the hero.” Amber smiles up at him.
“Always.” He grins back at her.
“Could I trouble you for an act of heroism and ask you to point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?” she asks.
He slides out of the seat. “I’ll show you.”
“Hey, if it weren’t for me, you two losers would never have any fun,” Dylan says as Matt leads Amber away. Then he mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and practically vaults over the table. “Back in a sec,” he says before he cuts through the crowd to a pair of girls making their way toward our cabana. I didn’t even notice them, but very little of what happens at The Cabana escapes Dylan’s notice. For sure not the arrival of two of Becca’s girlfriends who side-hustle as a walking pharmacy. He can’t have them dealing shit in here. Not unless he wants to spend the foreseeable future with vice cops and DEA crawling up his ass. But he’s also smooth as ice, which is why they’re all now standing together laughing. Rather than blocking their path, it looks like he’s just really excited to greet them. The guy can muster up some convincing acting skills when he needs to.
“You know, you don’t have to hang out here with me…”
Very convincing acting skills, apparently. I turn to Kendall. “I’m exactly where I want to be. They’re Dylan’s friends.” I throw him under the bus without hesitation.
The tall brunette beckons me over with a smile and a wave.
“You sure? Looks like they’re your friends, too. I can fend for myself until Amber gets back.”
She sounds indifferent, but her expression doesn’t quite match her tone. The casual smile tries to tell me she’s cool either way, but her eyes? Her gaze clings to me like she’s hoping I don’t leave.
I’m not going anywhere. I rest my arm along the seat back and prop my ankle on my knee. “I’m not Dylan’s wingman. He knows why I came here tonight. Matt knows. I’d venture a guess even Amber knows. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to know, so I’m going to spell it out for you.”
She holds up her hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations—”
“Kendall”—I take her hand and thread our fingers together—“I came here tonight to be with you.”
Those guileless blue eyes narrow. “Why?”
The one-word question sounds like a challenge, and I’m more than up for it. “Because I like you. Because we’re neighbors. Because members of the Speed Racer Live Action Movie Fan Club need to stick together. There aren’t very many of us.”
“True.”
“And because you bake the shit out of oatmeal raisin cookies, and now I’m driven to see if this thing between us could lead to…you know…”
Golden eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline.
“…chocolate chip cookies.”
A smile accompanied by a little laugh tells me I’ve passed her test. “I guess that might be arranged.”
I know an advantage when I hold one, so I keep talking. “Besides, fate brought us together. Who are we to question the magic?”
She laughs again. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t believe in fate. My aunt’s invitation to house-sit brought us together.”
“And you were available. That’s fate.”
Her smile fades and gives way to a frown. She sighs and pushes a hand through her hair. “Not exactly. More like a chance to—” Her voice cuts off, like she caught herself before she shared something she didn’t mean to.
“A chance to what?” I gently prod. She can’t leave me hanging.
“Think.”
Five little letters can carry some serious weight. Every ounce of it lands in the center of my chest.
“Kendall…”
She pulls her hand free and drops it to her lap. “Sorry. It’s not really as deep and dark at it sounds.”
“Explain it to me.” I may come off like a guy who has no worries, but I know a thing or two about deep, dark thoughts.
“I’d rather—”
“Don’t say ‘not’ because I’m not letting you off the hook,” I interrupt. Somehow we took a left turn into a minefield. This conversation stresses her out, but I want to fix it. I pick up her hand, interlock our fingers again, and hope that simple gesture of support removes some of the pressure. The house lights dim a notch, as if to help me out. No such thing as fate, huh?
“I wanted to be here instead of home for the summer before I start law school,” she says, devoid of emotion.
Ahh. It’s a parental thing. I get that, too. “Say no more.” I squeeze her hand. “And good call. Spending the summer in the city of dreams is the perfect way to blow off steam before buckling down for three years of cutthroat paper-chase.”
She looks at me for a long time, and my gut tenses. I don’t know why, but before I can figure it out her gaze shifts. The server appears with our drinks. Matt’s close behind. When she sets them on the table he drops a twenty on her tray as a tip and slides into his seat. “Where’s our host?”
I glance back to where Dylan stood a couple minutes ago, but the girls are gone and so is he. “Duty called.”
“Duty done,” Dylan says, and bounces up the steps. “Scoot in, bitch. Where’s Amber?”
Matt scoots a couple stingy inches and takes a s
ip of his beer. “I left her at the head of the line for the ladies’ room.”
“Well, damn. Hopefully she’s back soon. Dixie’s up.”
Sure enough, a smattering of applause breaks out as the spotlight follows a solitary figure to the center of the stage. She sits on the single stool, settles her guitar in her lap, and adjusts the microphone. Then she dips her chin and looks out at the crowd. The light catches her blue eyes. “Oh fuck,” she says with a smile. “Not another girl with a guitar.” The room quiets fractionally and a few people laugh. So far she’s funnier than the comedian.
Dylan whistles loudly and yells, “Go Dix!”
She glances right and then left. “At this moment we’re all tortured by the same questions. Can she sing? Can she play?” The observation earns her a few more laughs. “Let’s put those to bed right now.”
She props the guitar a little higher in her lap and launches into the opening chords of something rhythmic and bluesy. Two quick strums followed by the reverberation of a longer, lower chord, and then a repeat. It’s nice. She can play. A hum of conversation resumes as people comment or try to name the tune. Then a voice ambushes the guitar, and six simple strings can’t contain the rage of longing, lust, and despair Dixie unleashes as she laments the love on her brain. Conversation—hell, everything in the room—stops. All eyes fix on the stage. Her voice is amazing, the kind that raises the tiny hairs on my arms. The kind that could win America Rocks. Her gaze moves downward as she adds quiet, subtle notes from the guitar and proves she’s got talent there, too. Beside me, Kendall whispers, “She’s even better than I remember.”
“She’s great,” I whisper back. Dixie owns the shit out of the song and the room. A few people break the quiet of a pause with whistles and claps, but quickly quiet so we can hear everything she’s got. Her fingers dance over the guitar strings and motivate some couples to do the same.
Kendall gently sways in her seat. My mouth finds her ear. “Dance with me.”
She shakes her head before she stammers. “That’s okay.”
“Okay?” I gesture to myself. “Five years of dance lessons, Kendall. Hip-hop, ballroom, and for reasons I’ll never understand, tap. Trust me, it’s way better than okay.”
Her teeth press into her bottom lip, a second passes, then another, before she nods. She’s still reluctant, but I’ll do my best to take care of her. I pull us to our feet, lead her down the stairs, and wrap my arms around her waist. With no good alternative, she props her arms on my shoulders and clasps her hands at the back of my neck. She’s a little stiff at first, but I find the beat and move us to the slow tempo. She falls into rhythm with me after a few seconds, and her body relaxes against mine. The heels put her at an ideal height. Our hips line up. Her breasts rest against my chest. I press her a little closer, because I can’t resist, and she doesn’t resist, either. She stares at my throat for a while but finally tips her head back and looks at me.
The song flows around us, and the room disappears.
“Hey,” I whisper as I run my hand over the bare expanse of her shoulders.
She shivers. “Hi.”
“Want to know a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Last year I helped set the record for the longest Conga line. I was in Miami for a shoot and nearly 12,000 people Conga-ed.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “How fun, but not very secretive.”
“It’s a secret from Dylan and Matt. If they found out, they’d give me shit forever.”
She chuckles. “I’ve never been in a Conga line, but I am pretty good at the moonwalk.”
I grin. “I’m going to need proof.”
“Maybe someday.”
“I’m adding it to my Summer Adventures with Kendall list. Chocolate chip cookies and verification of moonwalk skills.” This girl brings out the easy, unworried side of me, and I like it.
She lets out a breath. “I actually haven’t danced since high school.”
Before I can ask her why, the last notes fade, the lights come up, and the room erupts in applause. Dixie smiles, says “Thanks” into the mic, and strides off the stage.
Kendall pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts and bites her lip as she reads the screen. “Amber wants me to meet her outside. I better see what’s up.” She sends me the beginnings of a see-you-around smile.
“I’ll go with you.” I make the proposal over the noise of the standing ovation—like everyone in the place is endorsing my suggestion—and take her hand to lead her through the press of bodies. Amber will need a minute to work her way through the crowd, and I’ll get some time alone with Kendall. Maybe enough time to convince her to let me drive her home? And maybe, once she’s in my car, I can convince her to let me do more? I’m getting way ahead of myself, I know, but my chest still tingles from the weight of her breasts, her fingers feel right threaded through mine, and the sway of her hips as she walks the darkened hallway to the exit makes me imagine her walking into my bedroom. She turns and gives me a shy smile over her shoulder, and I wonder if she overheard my thoughts.
Or maybe she’s having thoughts of her own? I’d love to know what’s going on in her mind. I want her, but it’s more than a knee-jerk physical reaction to long legs in short shorts, or blond hair streaming over bare shoulders. I want her. The girl who brags about moonwalking but hasn’t danced in a while, who can make a split-second decision to rescue a neighbor, but needs the entire summer to think. The girl who’s off to law school in the fall.
But she’s here for now, and if she put me at the top of her Summer Adventure list, I’d happily dedicate the next few months to making her very glad she did.
Will she let me? Her eyes find mine as I hold the door open and she steps out into the warm Hollywood night. I think she might. Not because I’m the guy on the Times Square billboard. She saw past the illusion of picture-perfect Vaughn Shaughnessy about five seconds after tackling me, and for some reason she’s still looking. As we move toward the sidewalk, she slips her hands into her pockets and brings her shoulders up toward her ears in body language that says, So…here we are. I want to talk about where we could go.
We move to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid blocking the door, but it’s not quite ten p.m. on a Sunday night, so the sidewalk is pretty much ours. A young guy in a red vest loiters by the valet stand, staring at his phone. His eyes drift up to check Kendall out.
I don’t blame him. She’s fucking luminous. Gold from the streetlight rains down on her hair and gilds her skin. Yet another unfamiliar territorial impulse takes root in my gut. I want to punch this jerk just for looking at her.
Instead I give in to an admittedly unevolved urge to stake a claim. I close in, crowding her until she’s backed up against a parking meter, and I’m blocking her from his view.
Something winks at me from just above the tempting line where flesh disappears beneath lace, and my focus drops to the diamond in the center of her pendant. I trace my fingertip along the chain, touching the smooth skin of her chest at the same time, sending any bystanders a clear, if not strictly truthful message: this is mine.
Kendall shivers as my finger draws closer to the pendant nestled in the vulnerable little dip demarking the start of her cleavage, and I know without glancing at her that we’re both watching my progress. I’m sure she’s got something on beneath the silky top with its delicate lace edge, but whatever it is doesn’t hide much, because her nipples rise against the fabric. Her breath comes out in an unsteady rush. My throat tightens as I fantasize about scraping my tongue over one of those stiff little peaks. Imagine the sensation of her nails scouring my scalp. Savor the vibration of her soft, appreciative moan.
I cup her jaw and tip her face to mine. Her eyes stay lowered and locked on my mouth. Her hands come up to wrap around my wrists.
“Kendall?”
“I…I can’t.” She closes her eyes and turns her face away. “I’m sorry.”
I rest my forehead against her temple for a second
and let the disappointment subside to acceptance. Then I take a step back and put my hands in my pockets. “Sorry wasn’t what I was going for, but, since you are, the apology should probably be my line. Did I misread—?”
“No.” She meets my stare squarely. “It’s not you. It’s…me.” As soon as the cliché leaves her mouth, she groans. “Oh, God. Erase. Rewind. Delete. I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Said what?”
We both give a small smile.
“It really is me. I… It’s complicated, but you didn’t do anything wrong, and you definitely don’t owe me an apology. I had fun tonight. More fun than I expected, thanks to you. I guess I got a little swept off my feet.”
“Then we’re even,” I joke. “You swept me off my feet before we even said hello.” Immediately I wonder why I opened my big mouth and mentioned the fucked-up first impression I made.
“It’s not often I get to show off my superhuman strength.”
I appreciate her returning the joke, but beneath all the banter, I’m confused. What makes the attraction between us complicated? Because the way she was looking at me and responding to my touch? Nothing about that felt complicated. I’m trying to find the right way to ask without coming off like some douche who can’t take no for an answer when the club door swings open with a whisper, followed by the unsteady clomp of boots on concrete.
“Hey. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I turn to see Amber searching through her tiny purse for her valet ticket. Her face is pale and coated with a sheen of sweat that’s left the hair at her temples damp and her mascara smudged.
Kendall moves around me, all thoughts about our moment seemingly gone. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Amber lets out a breath and hands her ticket to the valet. “I’m okay. Just got overheated in there and”—her eyes dart away—“a little queasy. This is what I get for eating day-old pizza for lunch.”
“I’m sorry,” Kendall says.
She waves away her sister’s concern. “I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you I’m heading home. There’s no reason to cut your night short, though, if you’ve got another way home.” Her gaze jumps to me.
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