One Night Stand-In

by Blakely, Lauren

A voice cuts in. “Thank you so much for waiting. What can I do for you?”

  The pink-haired woman flashes a happy-to-help grin, and I wish the other customer had taken all night. Because I was actually enjoying that moment of truth with Lucas. It felt like old times, when we spoke to each other from our hearts and souls.

  But I have to set that moment aside, because I’m here for one reason, and it’s not to tease Lucas, or to glean intel. Nor is it to get to know him all over again.

  “We’re here because we’re looking for a stash of acoustic guitars,” I begin, then dive into the story. When I finish, I add, “I know it sounds crazy, and I feel a little crazy asking. But I’m sure my sister and Rowan met here, so I figured this must be where the landlord left the guitars as part of his caper. Any chance you have a couple guitar cases from Harrison Bates?” I ask hopefully. Hell, I practically bat my lashes.

  “I wish,” she says.

  That response doesn’t compute. “You wish?”

  She sighs in longing. “My God, that sounds like a fantastic way to spend a Friday night. To be enlisted in a scavenger hunt. That’s like an awesome Sunday Funday activity, only it’s Friday. It’s a sign that this is going to be a great weekend.”

  Enlisted. That’s an interesting way of putting it. I imagine Harrison lining up his troops, prepping them for his grand payback adventure.

  I try again, hoping to jog her memory, while my pseudo ex leans against the wall like he’s waiting, just waiting to say I told you so.

  That’s the reminder I need of who he is. He’s not the man who doles out earnest praise. He’s the man who wants me to be wrong. The man who didn’t apologize.

  I snap my gaze to the woman in pink. “And you’re positive, Eloise?” I ask, reading her name tag. “My sister has told me about your store. She’s obsessed with buttons.” I implore her because the guitars must be here. “And she bought the—”

  “The red-and-gray plaid ones,” Eloise chirps. “She showed me her costume when she finished it. She was the most adorable—”

  “Schoolgirl,” supplies Lucas in a sexy rumble. “She went as a schoolgirl. Like I said, they met at the comic book shop. He was working on his costume. The store is a few blocks away.”

  My shoulders tighten, and I swear I’m clutching the edge of a windowsill of a tall brick building, clinging white-knuckled, rather than climbing in and admitting I’m wrong. “Fine. Let’s go to the comic shop.” I turn to Eloise. “Thank you though. You were so helpful.”

  “Anytime! And if you ever need buttons, I’m your girl.” She waves as we head to the door. “And tell Baxter I said hi.”

  I stop, swivel around. “Who’s Baxter?”

  “He runs the comic book store. He’s a sweetie pie. Everyone loves him.”

  “Thanks, Eloise,” Lucas says. “I’ll say hi to Baxter for you.”

  After we leave, I brace myself for Lucas to slice, dice, and I-told-you-so me to ribbons. It’s coming, and it’s going to suck.

  7

  Lola

  But as we hit the sidewalk, maintaining a rapid clip, he only smiles and waits.

  “Fine,” I blurt out after two blocks like that, frustration bubbling over in me. “Fine, they met at the comic shop. You’re right. You’re so right. What do you want on your sandwich?”

  “Everything.” Each syllable drips with sex and self-satisfaction.

  This man has turned into such a cocky bastard.

  Except, wait.

  Wait a freaking minute.

  Something doesn’t add up with his comic shop logic. “Hold on,” I say, slamming my arm against his chest—his solid-as-a-plank chest. Were his muscles this firm in college? Actually, they were. A college athlete, the man knew how to treat his body like a temple.

  “Ouch,” he teases, adopting an over-the-top wince.

  “Stop it. It didn’t hurt. You’re built of concrete.”

  He wiggles a brow. “Thanks. Lacrosse helps.”

  I grit my teeth. Like I want a reminder of that sport. “Of course you still play.”

  “It wasn’t the sport’s fault, Lola.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I say coolly, then I draw a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t matter what happened that weekend in college. Doesn’t matter how he ditched me after kissing me passionately—and more—and asking me out.

  Doesn’t matter that I’d waited in my dorm for our first date, all dressed up, ready to go with him to a department dinner, or that I’d gone alone instead.

  When he didn’t show up that night or the next, I was so hurt, then so mad, then so certain he’d thought our night together had been a mistake.

  I was only twenty-one, fueled by dreams, ambitions, and desires. I wanted it all. I wanted him.

  And then I didn’t have him.

  And it hurt like hell.

  When he finally appeared at my door and rattled off the events of that weekend, detail by painstaking detail—the guys came by, blindfolded us, took us camping; it was fun, but still—I’d wound myself up too far to simply let down my guard and say, Hey, it happens. Come on in and kiss me like crazy.

  Besides, I needed him to apologize first, and when he didn’t lead with that, my walls went up again, brick by brick.

  It was for the best, I told myself.

  We were better off as friends.

  I wasn’t interested in jocks anyway.

  I told myself the universe had saved me from giving my heart to someone who didn’t deserve it.

  If he couldn’t lead with I’m sorry, couldn’t weave that into the opening notes of his I’m back song, how could I let him know how much he meant to me?

  Friendship was the only way out. The only path that didn’t lead to my becoming a fool in love like my mom and dad. I’d seen exactly where that kind of starry-eyed, us-against-the-world mentality led—to them ignoring their own children.

  And he’d affirmed my decision when he made that callous comment—It was just one night anyway.

  Exactly.

  That was all it was.

  And that’s all tonight is. One stupid night to get through.

  And I’m here for Luna.

  I’m about to tell him why I don’t believe Luna went to the comic shop when he continues about lacrosse.

  “And yes, I still play,” he says. “I joined a league, and we play in Central Park on weekends, and nobody kidnaps me and takes my phone away.” There’s a note of contrition in that last bit, but it’s ten years too late.

  “Glad to hear your phone is in your control.” I clip my reply and return to the task at hand. “My point is this—Luna is not a comic book fan. She doesn’t go to comic shops. She would never have been there on her own. Even if Rowan was doing research for his costume, and even if Luna went to a party as a schoolgirl, that doesn’t mean she was in the shop at the same time as he was. We don’t know for sure they met there.”

  “No, we don’t. But it’s likely. She went to the button shop, then to the comic shop, because even if she’s not a fan of comic books, I bet she knows Baxter. He’s a fixture around here. She probably went there to say hi to him.”

  I groan inside. Who the hell is this Baxter guy? “She’s friends with Baxter and went there to say hi to him? Doubtful.”

  “Actually, it’s not doubtful at all. It’s perfectly logical. You know, logic,” he says slowly. “That thing that helps rational people make sense of events that have transpired? Like, say, when a guy can’t reasonably return in time from a trip?”

  Forget burning. I am a volcano. I am about to spew red-hot lava that will eat him alive. “Yes. I am familiar with rational thought. Something I’ve been practicing for years, like a religion. But, by all means, please illuminate your rationale. Be my guest.”

  I sweep out my arm and let the jackass take the lead, and as I do, I offer up ten million prayers to all the gods and goddesses, all saying . . .

  Let him be wrong.

  I don’t care where the freaking guitars are r
ight now. I want this man to be wrong more than I want a sandwich, and I am famished.

  When we enter the comic shop, the burly man behind the counter welcomes us with a jovial Santa Clausesque “Heya! Welcome to Baxter’s Comic Book Haven.”

  Lucas heads to the counter. “Hey, Bax. How the hell are you?”

  “Good to see you again, my man.” They do some guy-type fist bumping. What the hell? Lucas knows Baxter too?

  “Been a while,” Lucas says. “How’s it going? How’s Annie? Is she still on the mend?”

  The bearded man beams. “She’s great. Kicked that stage-two bitch like the badass she is. One full year in remission.”

  Ohhhhh.

  I get it now.

  I understand his logic completely.

  The comic shop is a real possibility now. Luna loves people. Loves the neighborhood. Luna wouldn’t have come in here for comics, but she definitely would have come in to check on this man and his wife. That’s my sweetheart of a sister.

  Lucas’s smile is magnetic. “Awesome. Nothing better than that.”

  “That’s fantastic. So wonderful,” I chime in, because the news this man is sharing is the kind that any human would be happy to hear.

  “Thank you. Appreciate you saying that.” Baxter swings his eyes to Lucas. “And we appreciate you making that donation to research. Means the world to us.”

  Okay, I am officially living in an alternate world. One where Lucas is kind and thoughtful and giving.

  “Least I can do,” Lucas says with a deferential nod.

  Baxter rubs his palms together. “Now, what can I do for you? Did you decide to finally get into Superman? Or did you want to buy the newest Star Wars collection for Ro’s birthday?”

  “Definitely the new Star Wars. Why don’t you set it aside for him?” Lucas says, then fishes into his wallet and slaps down a credit card. “He will lose his mind with happiness. But I’m also here because I’m hoping you can help us out with something.”

  “I’m always happy to give you a hand, and you know that, but”—Baxter tips his forehead to me and clears his throat exaggeratedly—“maybe first, you finally want to introduce me to your kind lady friend?”

  “Ah, yes. Baxter, this is Lola. Lola, meet Baxter,” Lucas says, and I extend a hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Likewise. And it’s about time,” Baxter says, his eyes drifting to Lucas. “I’ve heard so much about you from him.”

  I flinch. I must be hearing things. Must be the hunger causing aural hallucinations. “All fabulous stuff, I’m sure,” I joke, since I’m sure it was nothing of the sort.

  “Definitely all good,” Baxter says, dead serious.

  And I’m thoroughly confused. Lucas appears flummoxed too. Except is that a hint of red coursing over his carved cheeks?

  I do believe Lucas is blushing.

  I rein in a smile. I shouldn’t feel so delighted over this little discovery, yet I do. Because maybe, just maybe, he didn’t entirely mean it when he said, It was only one night. Maybe I’ve haunted his dreams since then. I like that possibility, for more reasons than I care to unpack right now.

  “Baxter, my man. Let’s not let the lady know all my secrets,” Lucas says, like he’s desperately trying to sweep something under the rug.

  Baxter chuckles, then brings a finger to his lips. “Then I won’t tell her you thought she looked stunning in all black at that party a year ago. The same one that Rowan worked on the costume for.”

  A gong clangs.

  A bell rings.

  And Lucas and I both look at each other. I suspect my expression mirrors his. Eureka.

  “They went to that party? The same one we went to?” I ask, shock racing through me as I picture the new bowling alley in Chelsea, the retro-style place that’s all the rage now. “The one at Pin-Up Lanes?”

  Lucas scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw. “I never saw him there. That’s why I didn’t think they met at that party. But they must have.”

  My smile widens. “Definitely. Maybe just for a few seconds. I invited Luna to go with me, but I didn’t think she ever showed up. Which is typical for her.” I bounce on my heels, ready to hitch a flying carpet to Manhattan to get the damn guitars.

  “And I invited Rowan to go with me. But I didn’t think he showed up. Which is also typical for him.”

  “Or maybe you were too busy checking out the cat,” Baxter says in a stage whisper. “Oops.”

  I grin wickedly, like a sexy black cat, because that little nugget makes me purr. Maybe I’m vain, or maybe I’m simply human. But for the longest time, I’ve been sure that Lucas had never been into me the same way I was into him. That he’d rejected the possibility of more with me and his parting comment that weekend was his sole truth.

  Perhaps it wasn’t.

  “It was a good costume,” Lucas says, owning it.

  “Glad you enjoyed my fierce feline look,” I say, a little flirty, and it feels like I’ve slipped back in time to that night we were tangled up together, kissing deeply, holding tightly.

  “It was the fiercest.” His voice dips to an appreciative rumble.

  Sparks shimmy over my skin, but I ignore them. “And what were you that night? If memory serves, there was shirtlessness involved.”

  “A fireman,” he says, a little smoky.

  An image flashes before my eyes. Lucas, in turnouts, suspenders, and no shirt. No wonder I don’t remember if my sister was at the party.

  But today I’m operating with blinders on, because I’m here for a reason.

  For Luna.

  The person I love. The person I look out for. She’s my little bird, and she needs help, even if she made this mess.

  I turn to Baxter, needing to make sure we’re following the right clues. “This means you don’t have the guitars? The ones the landlord left?”

  Baxter shakes his head. “No guitars here.”

  We thank Baxter and catch a cab to Pin-Up Lanes. As soon as I click my seat belt in, my phone dings with a text message. The Charlie’s Angels’ theme music tells me it’s my group chat with Amy and Peyton.

  Amy: Dear Diary, it is nearly nine and we have not heard from Lola. We fear she is trapped in a sexy-ex vortex. We will continue to hold out hope for her.

  Lola: There is no vortex, I assure you.

  Peyton: She’s alive! But how do we know this is truly you? Prove it. What does Lola have tattooed on her ass?

  Amy: Wait. Lucas might know that. Ask something else.

  Peyton: You’re right. The confidentiality of ass tattoos is too easily compromised. How about this? What did Lola recommend I keep an open mind about when I was in the midst of the Project Sexy Scenes research last fall with Tristan?

  Lola: Lube! Also, I do not have an ass tattoo. Or any tattoos for that matter!

  Peyton: You passed!

  Amy: It’s you! You’re safe! Hallelujah!

  Lola: Yes, you devils. It’s me. I’m fine, and everything is fine, and we are making progress.

  Amy: Define “progress.” Are you: A) Fighting with him? B) Rolling your eyes at him? C) Wondering what he looks like naked?

  Lola: All of the above, but I’m not acting on C. We’re going to Pin-Up Lanes for guitars.

  Peyton: Get the rosemary fries there. They are delish.

  Lola: I know! I don’t ever resist rosemary fries from Pin-Up Lanes.

  Amy: Words to live by. But before the great French fry consumption begins, what is the status of your efforts to tango horizontally with the one who got away?

  Lola: I never said he was the one who got away.

  Amy: You don’t have to. That’s what we call him on your behalf. When we aren’t hating him for you.

  Peyton: Do you need a sexy new bra-and-panty set first? Because I can messenger one from my store to your place stat.

  Lola: No bra-and-panty set is necessary for fry-eating because there will be no removal of clothes. We are on our way to a freaking bowling alley. />
  Amy: You’re going to get naked with him there? Like, at the ball return? In the restroom? Or will you do it on the scoring table? Also, does this mean the hating is over?

  Peyton: Nudity at a bowling alley ought to make for an interesting Friday night.

  Before I can tap out another response, we pass a cheese shop.

  “Stop!” Lucas shouts.

  The cab squeals to the curb.

  “What the hell?” I ask.

  “The Star Wars shirts,” he says, a smile lighting up his face. “The note said: Because your Star Wars T-shirts are where you argued over where you first met! Hint: there was cheese involved, you little hipsters.”

  And my expression matches his. “Yes! She loves going there.”

  The sign on The Grater Good says it closes at eight, so we rush in with three minutes to spare. This feels like how we were. This was us back in college before everything went belly-up—having fun, playing games, exploring the city together.

  Lucas marches over to the bearded man in a leather apron who’s arranging handwritten signs in front of the cheese display. “Friday night cheese craving? I can solve that,” the man says with a smile.

  “Excellent. I’ll take some Gouda and whatever the lady wants if you tell me you’ve got a bag of Star Wars T-shirts with our name on them?”

  The man smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  And we leave a minute later, with Star Wars T-shirts, a wedge of Gouda for him, and some Manchego for me.

  And cheesy grins on our faces too.

  * * *