by Lex Martin
“Who says I don’t live dangerously?”
He nods agreeably. “Breaking and entering is absolutely bucket list material.”
“I know, right?”
In the comfortable silence that follows, my mind goes back to the cabin. To the cozy fireplace and the guy who kept me warm. Did Drew have anything to do with the charges being dropped? Maybe I don’t need to be raging at him. Maybe he’s a good guy after all.
Despite the hour-long lecture my sister gave me about hooking up with Drew—because of course she reads the gossip columns—I don’t want to be mad at him.
Like he’s reading my mind, Tristan’s eyebrows jiggle up and down. “So Drew Merritt, huh?”
I stiffen and then try to look casual. “What do you mean?” I haven’t told Tris everything about the holiday weekend. No need to overshare.
He points to my neck. “That hickey is just now fading.”
I gasp and wrap a hand around myself. “Are you serious?”
“Ha, sucka. Got ya!”
Reaching over my desk, I smack him on the shoulder. “Not a word about this. Not. A. Word.”
After his laughter dies and my blush fades, he clears his throat. “Just be careful with that guy, okay? If he hurts you, I’m not sure I can afford the caliber of attorney I’m gonna need for the ass-kicking I’ll lay on him.”
I’m wondering if my professional reputation can afford to spend more time with Drew anyway.
Maybe what happened between us is meant to stay on Mount Hood after all.
17
Drew
“Cyber Monday’s been bonkers so far,” Frankie announces as she struts into my office, shoves a printout in my hand, and taps it with a short black-polished nail. “Even better than Black Friday. Speaking of which, why were you completely MIA? I called you sixteen times.”
Her X-ray glare gives me the impression she knew I was naked, getting it on all weekend, although I haven’t told her a damned thing.
“Sorry,” I mutter, minimizing my browser and leaning back in my desk chair. “Shit happens.”
“I’m only glad whatever you were doing didn’t make the news. But look at this. Look at this!” She raps the paper in my hands again. “Sales are up four hundred percent over last year. And we’re trending on the front page of Instagram!”
Calling up apps on her iPad, she illustrates that, yes indeed, our hashtag pops up everywhere.
My eyes pass over the sheet she hands me without comprehending any of the numbers. I founded this little company to stick it to my old-school, department-store-founding relatives. I know shit about business, so I basically hire people and sign checks. They can figure out all the details.
While we’ve been stumbling along for a couple of years, in the past week we’ve sold a gazillion shirts, causing my workers at the screenprint stations to work overtime in the adjacent warehouse. I’m sure they could use the extra money this season along with their holiday bonuses. My entire manufacturing facility smells like ink and machines and fabric and excitement.
I should be ecstatic. I should be hitting refresh on my computer screen every five minutes to review the latest figures. I should be picturing all the kids who are going to get new, comfy clothes.
But instead of paying attention to our meteoric climb, I’m Googling, “How many texts can you send her before you’re officially declared a stalker and are arrested (again)?”
“If you go by her house and she’s not there, what is the maximum number of hours it’s okay to sit in your car staring at the front door?”
“Is it a good idea to go to her job with roses and/or a kitten if she might hate your guts?”
“Is it creepy to sniff your clothes that still smell like her?”
And similar queries.
Full disclosure: I may have forgotten to launder the T-shirt she slept in, and I may have taken a whiff of it. Once. Maybe twice. Don’t judge. She smelled fucking amazing.
I stare blankly at my hands.
Frankie waves her palm in front of my face, silver rings on every finger. “Hel-lo. Captain. What the hell? Where is Drew? Earth. To Drew.”
Every business has a person who runs the place for real. For me, that’s Francesca Delarosa, a five-ten, raven-haired, tattooed badass with an iPad in her hand and a can-do attitude. She’s passionate about making sure we’re environmentally friendly on every level as well as profitable and high-quality. In short, she makes Martha Stewart look like a slacker.
I hire well.
While Frankie has been known to order me lunch, organize my appointments, and—at least in the past—call an Uber when I show up to work drunk and/or high, I don’t tell her much about my private life. And I know next to nothing about hers. We don’t have that kind of closeness. That said, I’m sure she could chart my life on Gary the Gossip.
It’s weird. Frankie is my right hand at work, and yet I told Kendall more about my life in three days than I’ve told Frankie in three years.
I might have issues.
“Long weekend.” I lift my feet off the desk and put them on the floor. Shazam bats my shoelace. I glance up at Frankie. “That’s awesome, though,” I say lamely.
Her hand flies to her hip, and she gives me a stare that would make a prize Portland rose wither to the ground.
“That’s awesome,” she repeats, with the same nonexistent level of enthusiasm I displayed. “Awesome? Jeez, try to muster some emotion. Your lifestyle brand is everywhere. You got some of the hottest celebs wearing the T-shirt. And you’re making tons of money for charity. Why are you not jumping up and down?”
I open my mouth to think of an excuse, but the office door opens, letting in the buzz and clack of the screen printing machines. Josh stalks in, saving me from an inquisition I’m not ready for.
But apparently he has one of his own planned.
He shakes both his head and his finger at me. “Dude. Loser. What the hell?” Then he realizes Frankie is in the room, straightens, and turns to her, lifting his chin. “Hey.”
“Hey, Josh,” she says, then gives me a gesture like, You and I are going to talk. She swishes out in her ripped jeans and heavy belt to crack skulls or whatever she does to make this place run, closing the door behind her.
“Hey, man,” I say, and stand up from my messy desk to give Josh a man-hug. “Missed you last weekend.”
“Missed you last weekend?” Josh’s voice is so loud, I’m glad the warehouse is going at full volume to drown him out. “That’s all you can say?”
I cringe.
“I invite you to my cabin, and you don’t show up. No one’s seen or heard from you or Kendall in days. Evie freaked out thinking you guys ended up in a ditch. And then I get a call from your lawyer that you’ve been arrested.” I’m wondering if steam is going to erupt from his ears. “You’re lucky I didn’t send out the National Guard.”
I shiver and return to my seat, pointing to the open chair across from me. “Thank fuck. I’ve had enough of our men and women in uniform.” He doesn’t laugh. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to worry you guys. Just, you know, add this to my long list of fuck-ups.”
A sympathetic expression passes over his face as he sits down too. “What happened?”
Briefly, while I reach down and scratch behind the cat’s ears, I tell Josh the safe-for-public parts. How Kendall and I got lost. Got stuck. Couldn’t go anywhere. Broke in. Found out it was the wrong address. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
When I trail off, he says, “And…”
“And what?”
Now his eyes resemble Frankie’s, turning into X-rays. Unlike her, he knows every single damn thing about me. He lowers his voice. “You’re snowbound with a pretty girl you’ve secretly lusted after for years—”
“Have not—”
“And I know you never travel without at least six condoms.”
“Only four.”
He grins.
Putting Shazam on the desk to swat the detritus, I shove my hands in my jean pock
ets. “Shit.”
Josh’s Cheshire cat smile now stretches all the way across his face. “I’ll drive,” he offers. “You can buy me lunch. You’d better start singing your story.”
We end up at a fucking salad place, and after checking my sugars, I eat a fucking salad. As I lift a forkful of cucumber to my mouth, wishing it was a burrito, I say, “Yeah. Kendall. Who’d have thought?”
Setting down his roast beef sandwich, he starts counting on his fingers. “Uh, me. Evie. Your gran.”
I stare at him, blinking. “Seriously?”
He chuckles. “Seriously. You guys are like two cats in a confined space. You were either going to hiss at each other and spar with your claws out until one of you killed the other, or cuddle.”
A quick drink of water saves me from choking on a lettuce leaf. “Cuddle. Dude. No way.”
Pressing his lips together, he just looks at me.
With a sigh, I admit, “Okay, yeah. There was some cuddling. But what is happening to me?” My voice quiets down. “I haven’t talked to her since Saturday, and it’s driving me crazy. She won’t return my texts. I went by her apartment, and she wasn’t there. She’s not returning my phone calls. I’m turning into someone who scares me.”
“You’ve scared me for years, so what’s good for the goose is good for the gand—”
“Has Evie talked to Kendall?”
“No. Guess they’re playing phone tag. She managed to get in touch with Kendall’s parents, who said she got home safely, but they haven’t had a chance to catch up. Ken’s parents didn’t seem to know much beyond you guys getting stuck in the snow, though, so you’re in luck there. At least her dad doesn’t want to track you down with a shotgun.”
He chuckles, but this time I’m the one who can’t find humor in the joke.
I’m too fixated on the fact I haven’t seen this woman since she got thrown into the snow by the cops after a three-day fuckfest that rocked my world.
Kendall might not want to talk to me, but I’ll lose my mind if I don’t explain, face to face, what happened back on the mountain.
“I’m gonna swing by Kendall’s work later. I have to talk to her.” I finish off the last bite of my salad, wishing it clogged my arteries.
Josh wipes his fingers on a napkin. “Can I ask something?”
“You just did.”
He arches an eyebrow at my stupid joke. I make a gesture like, Go on. Leaning forward on the table, he asks, “Why do you care so much? Why don’t you wait for her to get back to you? What if she doesn’t want to talk to you for some reason, like, oh, you got her arrested?”
I consider my thoughts, which is new for me. “That’s more than one question.”
“So answer them all.”
Scuffing my feet on the linoleum floor, I mutter, “I like her. We had a really good time, and it surprised me. She was different than she’s been before. I got a glimpse of the cool girl who’s friends with Evie, not the… I don’t even want to use the word I used to call her anymore. Let’s just say she was cool.”
“She was cool,” Josh repeats. “That’s it?”
“No,” I admit. “I want to see more of her. And dude. Not sayin’ what happened. But it was hot.”
He smirks.
“But here’s the crappy part. She asked to keep what happened up there quiet. No one should ever know.” Twisting the salt and pepper shakers, I continue, “Well, I suppose you don’t count.”
“Thanks.”
“Frankly, it sucks to keep any of this—whatever is or was going on between us—a secret. I mean, I know I’m, well…” I wave my hands around, indicating all of the nonsense that has been my life up till now. “But I’m not crazy about her being ashamed to be with me in civilian life. And that’s what she said before she spent time in the pokey. We almost got this thing off the ground only to crash and burn. And it’s not like we even had a thing. It’s a friends-with-benefits thing. Not a relationship thing. As is obvious—”
Now I’m babbling.
And I shouldn’t be saying anything about this except I’m losing my shit and need to talk to someone.
Josh’s eyes brim with light, and he presses his right fist to his heart. “Fucking proud of you, D-man. I think if you don’t watch it, you’ll find yourself with a ring on your finger.”
My heart palpitations are audible. “Uh, no. Not ready for that.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. So friends with bennies?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not gonna get you in any trouble, I’m sure.” We pay the bill and go back to my office, where I play with the cat and continue Googling everything wrong with my life.
Five hours later I’m ensconced in my car across the street from the front door of Kendall’s office debating whether or not I should go in. It’s not like I can hide—my Maserati is bright red and cost a hundred thousand dollars. Even in the constant northwest drizzle, I stand out.
Shazam nestles on my lap, having insisted on coming with me. I pick up my phone for the umpteenth time to text Kendall, then set it back down.
I don’t want to bug her at work or make a scene, although I’m pretty good at that. Our agreement was to keep it on the DL when we got back to town. I’ll honor it.
But damn if I don’t want more.
Fiddling with my phone, I resist Googling the definition of “Friends who fuck.”
Friends who fuck, my ass.
Ha.
Well, it was her ass.
And now I’m thinking about last weekend, remembering all the sexy times. If I don’t watch it, I’ll be greeting her with a flagpole sticking out of my pants.
Finally, at seven thirty-eight p.m., after I have to pee, am hungry, and have a yowling cat, the door to Kendall’s office opens. I place my finger on my door handle, ready to spring into action, when I realize she’s not alone.
That guy at her office has his arm around her shoulders. Their heads are bent toward each other. And they’re ducking and laughing as they run to his car. Together.
My brain stumbles while I blink away the red haze heating my eyes. My thoughts resemble torn pieces of paper in the wind, fragments of ideas that don’t make sense.
They… she… him… she was just with me.
And now she’s with him?
No wonder she’s ignoring me.
I start my engine and burn rubber as I accelerate, hoping to drive faster than my thoughts.
Or the disappointment in my gut.
18
Kendall
With a swipe of my hand, I shove the cellophane wrapping and boxes into the trash and stare at my new pearly white iPhone, which arrived an hour ago by courier.
I’d hauled my tired ass to the Apple Store after work yesterday only to find it closed early due to a water main that burst.
I almost cried.
But that’s been my luck lately.
I’m still seething over losing my old one in the puddle last weekend. The replacement cost is a huge expense I hadn’t budgeted for, but I can’t go any longer without a cell. It’s only Tuesday afternoon, and being hamstrung like this makes me crazed.
Two hours later, I’m still messing with passwords and codes and trying to upload all of my apps while researching how to retrieve the files I need.
When Tristan swings by with a press release he wants me to proof, I drop my head on my desk.
“How goes the tech battle? Any luck getting your contacts loaded?”
I keep my forehead planted on the hard counter and tilt my head back and forth. “I’m the genius who didn’t back up to the cloud. I had an older-model phone that I could never sync up with my laptop for some reason.”
“Oh, shit.”
I’d wanted to get a new cell that worked properly but sank all of my money into our new firm. Into decent office furniture and a small kitchen so our staff had somewhere to eat. Small amenities so working long hours wouldn’t be a drudgery.
Sitting up, I shove my hair out of my face. “Even
better, there’s no way to retrieve the messages or texts I missed since my old phone broke. And I had to pay full price for this shiny marvel since the old phone was damaged, and I couldn’t trade it in for a discount.”
“Aww, boo.” He sinks into the chair across from me.
“I know, right?” I mock cry into my hands, but I really do feel like crying. But I’ve learned my lesson and everything now is synced and ready for the apocalypse.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think we’ve managed to keep the roof from blowing off this place even without the mighty Kendall Greer plugged in twenty-four seven to all of her clients and ten million social media accounts.”
“You joke now, but if there had been a major crisis, you wouldn’t be so damn cheery. And I’ll be sure to return the Little Miss Sunshine routine when this happens to you.”
“Forsooth.”
“Shut up, nerd.”
We chuckle, but my laughter fades when I return my attention to my phone. I run my finger over the glossy glass. “Can I ask you a question? I need a guy’s perspective.”
“Hmm. This sounds serious.” I glance behind him to the open door, and he reaches back and gives it a shove so it slams closed. He waves at himself. “Bring it. I’ll even put on my thinking cap.”
I snicker at my best bud, so appreciative to have this wonderful guy to work with every day, but when I consider what I need to ask, I groan. “I can’t retrieve my messages, so I have no way of knowing who might have called or texted me.” I give him a meaningful look because I’m obviously not talking about clients anymore.
“Are you sure you can’t upload that stuff?”
“Nope. You have to have the old phone to migrate everything. Trust me. I just spent the last hour Googling the problem and messing with my phone. It’s not happening.”
“So we have no way of knowing whether Alcatraz called.”
I laugh at Tristan’s nickname for Drew. “Right. And I don’t have his contact info to text him, so if I want to send a casual ‘Hey, I’m not locked up in the state pen, thanks for asking’ kind of message, I have to go through Evie to collect his digits.” Rubbing my forehead, I moan to myself, unable to shake off this tortured, twisted sensation in my chest. “Honestly, though, he’s probably the reason the charges were dropped, so I shouldn’t be so snarky.”