by Kennedy Ryan
“He did not laugh.” A muscle bunches along his jaw. “He felt like an ass about that night, and we didn’t speak for years. I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t join The Pride.”
“I’m not revisiting this,” I snap. “Stick to business.”
“You’re the one willing to compromise business because you can’t let go of what you think happened a decade ago.”
“What I think . . .” I swallow my anger and the words that would only extend my time in his presence. “Whatever. When and where?”
“I’ll pick you up around eleven.”
“I can meet you. That won’t be necessary.”
“It’ll be easier,” he says before I can protest more. “He’s sending his helicopter for us. We’re having lunch with him on Catalina Island.”
“Isn’t that a bit extra?” I frown and reach up to tighten the slipping knot of my hair. The motion of raising my arms lifts my dress, exposing a few more inches of my thighs. Jared scrolls a leisurely glance over the length of my legs, landing and lingering on my toes. I keep my face expressionless though it’s burning with a blush.
“Not for the people we deal with,” he says. “Kobe Bryant took the helicopter to every home game his last few seasons with the Lakers to avoid traffic. It’s only a fifteen-minute ride, and it’s either water or air since Catalina regulates cars so strictly.”
“Alright, then.” I blow out a resigned breath. “I could still meet you. I don’t want anyone from my office seeing you pick me up.”
I pause for effect.
“They abhor you,” I say with deliberate glee.
To my dismay, he barks out a laugh, looking pleased with himself.
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.” He turns to leave. “We are rivals after all, right?”
“Very right.” I follow him to the door, eager to shut it behind him.
At the last second, he turns before he reaches the door, and barely an inch separates us.
“You know,” he breathes the words. “Tonight it’s easy to forget we’re supposed to be enemies when you look like my friend from college. The one I used to study with in the laundromat.”
It’s one thing for him to bring up Bent, for us to argue about what he did or did not intend to happen that night. I’m not sure I’ll ever really know. It’s another thing for him to bring up our friendship. What I believed to be our friendship. That’s not fair.
“Goodbye, Jared,” I say, my tone sharpened to a fine point, eyes on my bare feet.
“You look the same,” he continues. I feel his eyes on my face but refuse to look up.
“I hope not.” I cross one foot over the other. “That dumpy girl had no clue.”
I laugh, some of my old self-consciousness rushing back, and glance up at him. I’m not prepared for the intensity on his face. It’s watchful. It’s frustrated. It’s something I can’t translate and in a language I don’t speak.
“I liked her,” he says, his voice a heated rasp. “She was smart and funny and honest and principled. She was . . . you were . . . one of the few people on that campus I could tolerate for more than an hour without wanting to saw my arm off.”
Then why?
The question rips through my defenses. Yes, it hurt to think he set me up with The Pride, that he would sleep with me as part of some prank or rite of passage I never understood. What hurt most was the uncertainty of what had been true, what had been real. If I’d misjudged every moment of our friendship. And if I hadn’t, then how could he do that to me?
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say woodenly.
“Ban, if you would just—”
“Eleven you said?” I cut in and school my face to look at him.
He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting it into a silky mess I remember too well. The way the strands clung to my fingers.
“We will have this out one day, Banner,” he says, his voice rough and impatient.
“Not today we won’t,” I lob back at him. “I don’t need a walk down memory lane, Jared. We have a job to do, and we’ll do it. No need to talk about the past. It’s dead and gone.”
“The past isn’t all gone,” he says, his voice suddenly softer. I’m unprepared for him to eliminate the protective space between us, for him to touch my face. He runs a finger over my nose. I jerk back, startled. “You still have the freckles.”
“What?” I rub my nose, wiping away his touch.
“You had seven freckles on your nose then,” he says, one side of his mouth canted up. “You still do.”
That’s the last mystifying thing he says before turning and walking up my short drive to the convertible sports car at the curb. I lean against the closed door for a minute, maybe more, reassembling my splintered composure. I don’t know what’s happening between us. My greatest defense against Jared has been my anger and bitterness over his treatment that night. When he denies it, when he makes me think it could have been real . . . that the fiery connection, the perfect give and take of our bodies, the closeness we shared before the sex and even more so after may have been real, my defenses flag. I can’t allow that to happen. If my armor slips, if I’m exposed. I don’t want to think of all the ways Jared could ruin my life.
14
Banner
The thing about flying in a helicopter is I’ve never flown in one. I was so preoccupied with Jared’s unexpected visit and all the ways I could maintain some distance, I forgot that I would probably be scared to death. I’m faced with that reality once we approach the helicopter, a giant bug-eyed insect with rapidly rotating wings. The helipad sits on top of a thirty-story building downtown, overlooking LA’s flat-topped Lego-like skyline. The Staples Center lies in one direction, the Sheraton in another. Those are the only buildings I distinguish. The rest are just a blur of glass and stone as I drag my feet toward the bullseye where the helicopter waits.
“Are those shoes slowing you down?” Jared yells over the noise of the spinning propellers.
“No,” I yell back, speeding up my steps in the black Balenciaga pumps I splurged on last year. “I’m fine.”
“Agreed,” Jared says, giving my appearance an appreciative quick scan.
I chose the paper-thin leather jacket and form-fitting black pencil dress carefully, knowing Kip Carter, Bent’s dad, is a big deal. I may be thicker than a lot of the girls in the circles I move in, but I know this dress highlights the toned curves I’ve literally worked my ass off for. Some of my hair is pulled into a half-up top knot and the rest spills in loose waves down my back. For better or worse, image is a lot in this town, and I want to put my best foot forward meeting such an influential man.
Even if his son is an asshole I hope to never see again. Fingers crossed Bent won’t be around at all. Last I heard, he lived in Boston, tearing his way through a string of women unfortunate enough to be fooled by his gorgeous face.
My heart pounds harder the closer we get to the helicopter with Carter emblazoned on the side. I’m not short of breath trying to keep pace with Jared’s long-legged stride. I’m short of breath because I may hyperventilate before this is all over.
“You’ve been in one of these before, yeah?” Jared asks offhandedly.
“Uh, no. I haven’t actually.”
“What’d you say?” Jared yells, stopping at the two steps leading up into the helicopter.
“No!” I scream, less for volume sake and more because of my rising hysteria.
“Oh.” He searches my face, and I’m sure he doesn’t miss the signs of strain. “Sorry. Come on.”
Hand at the small of my back, he helps me up into the helicopter. The red leather seat wraps around my body and gives me a reassuring squeeze. Jared greets the pilot with familiarity and takes two headsets from him, offering one to me. I slip mine on and buckle up, mimicking Jared’s actions. I jump when his voice comes in my ear.
“We can talk using this.” He taps the headset microphone at his mouth. “It’s only about fifteen minutes to the house.”
My stomach roils when we lift off and I grip the armrests tightly. Riding in a helicopter is nothing like flying on an airplane. That’s probably self-evident. It’s not a smooth gradual ascent, but a more immediate lift. More exhilarating, rawer, without the insulation of thick steel separating you from the air and the ground growing smaller below you. It’s loud, and the machine sounds like it’s working hard to overcome the laws that would chain us to the ground. I’m more conscious of what a miracle flight is, more aware that we are defying gravity with every mile we travel and every foot we rise.
“You okay?” Jared asks, pulling me from my thoughts and my senses absorbing the experience.
“Getting there,” I say wryly.
“Well we have a little time to review your changes to the proposal I sent. You have it, right?”
“Yeah.”
We both pull out our iPads to discuss the proposal he drew up.
I knew Jared must be thorough to have accomplished all that he has, but I haven’t seen this side of him. Haven’t actually done business with him. The proposal came over just before midnight. Zo had gone to bed, exhausted from off-season demands with sponsors, charities, and probably just post-season weariness. I stayed up and made notes and suggestions, which I sent over before I went to sleep.
I tap my screen, identifying the areas I had questions about. When I look up, Jared wears black-rimmed glasses and frowns down at his screen.
“So you finally did it,” I say into the headset microphone.
“Did what?” He glances up, one brow raised. It’s all very sexy professor.
“You got glasses.” I laugh lightly, disguising how yet another memory from that night penetrates the protective bubble I’ve encased myself in. “I told you so.”
His deep-throated chuckle reaches through the headset and strokes my skin. Thankfully the leather jacket hides the gooseflesh sprouting on my arms.
“Only for reading.” He takes them off and hands them to me.
I hold them up, looking through the lenses, and he’s right. There doesn’t seem to be much medicine. I slip them onto the bridge of my nose, peering at him over the rims.
“Believe it or not, I used to want glasses so badly I asked Mama to get them for me.”
“Why?” he asks with a narrow smile.
“I wanted to look smart.”
He snorts and shakes his head.
“Well how do I look?” I lift my nose in the air and touch the corners of the frames. “Smart?”
He relaxes into the supple leather like a king considering his consort, scouring me from the pointed tips of my pumps, up the length of my legs, where the fitted dress interrupts the bare skin at my knees. His eyes trace the curve of my hips and waist, caress my breasts, lingering so long my nipples tighten under the stretchy fabric. I pull my leather jacket closer around me, hiding the effect of his sensual perusal.
“How do you look?” he finally repeats. “Sexy as fuck.”
What the hell?
Not addressing his comment or that hungry look, I hastily hand his glasses back, making sure our fingers don’t touch.
“Um . . . I had a question on page three.” I drag my finger down the screen until I reach the spot. “Can we talk about the incentives for sponsors again at the platinum level?”
When I glance up, he holds my stare for a second longer, suspending the tension between us. Finally he laughs and I redirect the conversation back to the proposal.
“We’re almost there,” he says a few minutes later, turning toward the window overlooking the jeweled Pacific coastline, a shimmering sheet of emerald and sapphire butted against semiprecious sand.
From here, it appears infinite, stretching as far as my eyes can see in any direction. The hills rising up from the coastline are studded with Terracotta-topped houses dangled precipitously over the almost painfully vibrant water. It’s breathtaking. I’ve survived my first helicopter ride. After the initial rush of fear, Jared and I had been so consumed preparing for the meeting that my fears fell to the side.
“Thanks for distracting me,” I say, realizing that’s exactly what he did and why he did it.
“I threw up my first time flying out here to see Kip,” he confides with a wry smile. “So don’t feel bad about a few jitters.”
“Careful, or I’ll stop believing you’re the asshole everyone thinks you are,” I tease.
“Oh, I’m an asshole.” He tips his head back to rest against the seat and watches me, eyes heavy-lidded. “Just not to you.”
Jared admitting weakness, alleviating my fears, singling me out for kindness, feels strange. This whole sequence of events feels strange, like beneath the surface and in the air something is changing. Invisible, but affecting our every interaction. I have to keep reminding myself I don’t like him because the very fabric of our relationship is morphing so quickly I’m no longer sure what we’re made of.
Kip Carter’s helicopter lands on a carpet of lush grass in front of a Mediterranean-style mansion. He personally greets us at the front door. I’m taken aback by the warmth between him and Jared. Not the cool handshake of a business acquaintance, but an extended hug, inside jokes, and the kind of familiarity usually reserved for family.
Managing millionaires has earned me my own millions, and I’ve grown accustomed to decadence and luxury I never imagined growing up in our modest San Diego neighborhood. This Oceanside estate is beyond anything I’ve personally experienced. With its high ceilings, cool marble floors, and priceless art tucked into alcoves everywhere you turn, the house smacks of opulence, just like its owners.
Kip and Karen Carter are exactly what you would expect from an LA couple with more money than they know what to do with. His clothes are tailored. There’s an ascot at his neck and a wildly expensive boat moored in his backyard. Her face is lightly Botoxed, and the years are marked by sparkles on her fingers and throat. All the trappings of a celluloid life leap out at you, but the truth may lie in the subtle details. The way they hold hands and touch every chance they get. The kindness and genuine affection between them and the staff who keep their mammoth home running smoothly. The wistfulness in their voices when they speak over a chilled lunch of their grown children. It’s a Hollywood life, yes, but it’s real. Somehow for them, it’s still real.
“Gracias, Luciana,” Karen murmurs when a dark-haired young woman clears the delicious salads and fruit we had for lunch from the table. I noticed she speaks fluent Spanish with her staff, a point for her in my book.
“You have a lovely home, Karen,” I say, taking in the spectacular view of the Pacific from the terrace where we’re eating. I sip the spring water I’d requested. I don’t drink my calories when I don’t have to.
“Thank you.” She touches the beautifully casual stones at her throat. “Should we leave the men to talk business and I could show you more? The west terrace offers the best view of the ocean.”
“I’m afraid she needs to stay for the business,” Jared says before I have to explain. “She’s an agent like I am, Karen. Sorry. I thought I mentioned that.”
“Oh.” Surprise registers on Karen’s still-pretty face. “I thought you two were . . . you know. Together.”
“Oh, no.” I laugh lightly. “Just business. I’m not his type.”
“Well if Jared doesn’t like smart, beautiful women,” Karen replies, offering me a wink, “then he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m missing,” Jared says, taking a sip of Perrier and studying me over the rim of his glass. “I miss it more every day.”
Kip and Karen chuckle into the pool of awkward silence rippling around us, but neither Jared or I laugh. We don’t smile. We stare at each other, assessing, plotting our next move. Mine is to withdraw. By the determined set of Jared’s lips and the hard gleam in his eyes, I’m afraid his next move will be to charge. I’m just not sure when.
“This looks good,” Kip says, considering the proposal once Karen has excused
herself. He may have greeted Jared like a son, but he grilled him like a stranger. He’s a shrewd businessman, and Jared’s assertion that the deal was “all but done” may have overstated the matter. Kip might have intended to sponsor the tournament from the beginning, but he made me believe he needed to be convinced. And if there’s one thing I learned from Professor Albright’s debate class, it’s how to persuade, so I add my input every chance I get.
“This will be great,” Kip says, flipping to the last page of the proposal. “The homeless situation in San Diego and in LA is abominable.”
“My client, Kenan, and Jared’s client, August . . . we have the same concerns,” I say. “We couldn’t stay on the sidelines, so to speak.”
“I’m hoping you have some friends who will be as concerned as you are, Kip.” Jared’s expression is expectant and assured.
“I do, of course,” Kip replies, smiling. “Could the two of you make it up to the house in Santa Barbara next weekend? We’re having a little barbecue, and many of my concerned friends will be there, wallets open.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I reply, returning Kip’s warm smile.
“This one’s sharp,” he tells Jared, his eyes resting on my face with what appears to be respect. “Since you’re not smart enough to snap her up, maybe Bent would be.”
“Matchmaking again, Dad?”
The deep voice comes from behind me, but I know it right away, though I haven’t heard it in almost a decade. I look around to find Bent Carter at the entryway to the terrace. He was always the flipside of Jared’s coin. Lighthearted while Jared was intense. Dark where Jared was fair. Entitled when Jared was ambitious. But that awful night, I saw no difference between the two of them. They were the same as Prescott and his pride of hyenas laughing at all my chubby, naked, and exposed flesh. Fresh humiliation chokes me with the visual reminder of Bent standing there, an all-too-familiar smile on his face. The smile dies when his eyes meet mine.
“Banner.” He sobers, his surprise fading. “Mom said Jared had a woman with him, and I just had to see for myself.”