I need to figure out how to stop seeing him as the latter. And I have a feeling that climbing into bed with him isn’t going to help with that.
Eight
Chase
“What’s good, brother?” Leo Sterling smacks my shoulder as Whit and I step out of the elevator and onto the rooftop bar.
The Atlantic is pretty much the go-to private club for professional athletes and bougie people in South Florida. I used to bring Whitney a lot after I first got drafted to the Riders and she moved here because of a job offer at some amazing hospital. But once she and Troy turned into the world’s most boring couple, she stopped coming out with me. It’s damn good to have her back by my side.
“You remember Whitney, right?” I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Hell yeah! Kennedy’s best friend.” Leo, smiling like a kid as usual, wraps Whitney in a bear hug, which she happily accepts. “You’ve met my wife, Frankie, right?” He points toward our usual table, right along the edge of the rooftop. “She’s over there with everyone else.”
“Yeah,” she says through an easy laugh, waving at Frankie and Jessica and quickly starting toward them. “I’m gonna go say hi. Grab me a beer?” She glances over her shoulder, sending her shiny brown hair flipping around in what looks like slow motion. “Bud Light,” she clarifies with a nod.
There’s a spark in her eyes I haven’t seen in a long while. That little Whitney Cooper energy is finally showing again, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.
“You know they have, like, good beer here, right, dumbass?” I call to her as she walks away.
She turns around and holds her hand dramatically to her chest. “Chase Kennedy, I’m hurt. Bud Light is the holy grail of beers. We agreed on this, like, ten years ago. If you turn into a beer snob, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
I shake my head and walk with Leo to the bar.
“You haven’t brought Whitney out in forever, dude. I didn’t know you two were still close.” Leo leans against the shiny wood of the bar and turns toward me.
The perky bartender sees us and doesn’t even have to ask what we want. She starts pouring two glasses of Blackthorne Gold, with her gaze staying fixed on me.
I jut my chin toward her, fully aware of the effect that I have on women. “Grab me a Bud Light, too.” I turn back to Leo. “Yeah, I know. We’ve always stayed close, but she and her stick-up-the-ass boyfriend finally broke up, so she can be fun again.”
He draws back and raises his brows, sliding a glass of whiskey toward me. “Whitney’s single? Fuck, dude. She’s been with that guy since the first time I met her the season you got drafted, right?”
I sip my drink and nod slowly.
Leo frowns at me and smiles at the same time, looking like he has some kind of big fucking question.
I set my glass down. “What, asshole?”
“Are you trying to lay the pipe with your best friend?” He lowers his voice and looks over at the table.
Whitney is laughing with Elliot’s fiancée, Jessica, making animated hand gestures and no doubt telling them all some incredibly embarrassing story about how I cried during naptime in kindergarten or something. Which isn’t even true. I had something in my eye.
I scratch the back of my neck, and Leo and I start walking toward the table. “I wouldn’t say I’m trying to. But I mean—”
“It fucking kills you that you have a straight-up dime for a best friend, and you’ve never railed her?” Leo finishes matter-of-factly with a swig of whiskey.
“You’re a cocky son of a bitch, you know that?” I chuckle and swirl my drink.
He shrugs. “Look who the hell is talking. I’m not an idiot, Chase. It fucking keeps you up at night that you’ve never hooked up with Whitney. You can’t stand when women don’t instantly drop like flies under your quarterback spell.”
I pause and stop Leo, making sure we aren’t in earshot of Whit and everyone at the table yet. “First of all, the only thing that keeps me up at night are the smokeshow models in my bed. Plural.”
Leo laughs and rolls his eyes.
“Second,” I continue, “Whitney isn’t just some chick I’m trying to get with. She’s Whit. She’s a homie. She’s the homie. I can’t mess with that.”
He smacks my back, and we keep walking toward the table. “Wow, Kennedy. I think you might be growing up a little bit.”
“Shut it, Sterling.” We pull up barstools to join a few other Riders teammates at our table.
“Where the hell have you been? I want my beer,” Whitney whines. She’s sitting between Frankie and Jessica, and the three have that one specific look on their faces that women get when they’re together. Discussing dick sizes or whatever the fuck women talk about.
I narrow my eyes at her and hand her the Bud Light.
“He was probably fucking a waitress in the bathroom,” Dylan chimes in. “Am I wrong, Kennedy?”
I lean back and sip my whiskey, glancing at Whitney, wondering if Dylan’s joke pisses her off or even gets to her. If it does, she’s not showing it at all.
I start thinking about our little arrangement again.
She leans over the table, exposing some perfect cleavage in a tight black tank top, and my dick wakes up a little bit. My mind races with images of sleeping with Whitney. My Whitney. I mean, she’s not mine. But…in a way, she is.
I can’t remember the last time I didn’t wanna drink booze and shoot the shit at the Atlantic with my boys, but right now I kinda just want to get home and start our little…lessons.
Shit. Maybe Leo is right. Maybe I have been subconsciously thinking about how much I’ve wanted to bang her for the past fucking decade. And now I’m going to, because of an agreement. In all of my plethora of sexual experiences, I don’t think I’ve ever had an agreement before.
But Whitney is Whitney, and as usual, she doesn’t do things like anyone else I’ve ever met.
“Yo.”
I jump out of my weird, thinky state to find Dylan standing next to me with an empty beer bottle. “What’s good?”
“What’s good with you, man? You’re all, like, quiet.”
“Just thinking about that game,” I say quickly, grateful the response comes to mind before my dumb ass blurts out, Thinking about why I’ve never banged my superhot best friend who’s sitting right there, and also now we are gonna bang, and is it gonna be weird?
Dylan nods toward the bar. “Come get a drink with me.”
I get the vibe he wants to talk to me about something, so I knock back the rest of my drink and stand up. “All right.”
“So…” Dylan lowers his voice and angles his head toward me as we walk across the rooftop to the bar. “Whitney.”
“Yeah, bro. You remember her, right? She’s been my best friend for my whole life.”
“Other than me.”
I snort. Dylan’s not wrong. We got drafted the same year and instantly hit it off. He’s really quiet and stoic and pretty laidback, a nice counterpart to my insanely outgoing personality. He’s the kicker for the Riders, which basically means he gets endless shit from the rest of us about not being a real football player. But he takes it well, and he probably is my best bro on the team.
“What about her?” I ask as we nod at the bartender, who gets us another round without a word. Not without extended eye-fucking, though.
“She mentioned she’s single now,” Dylan says slowly, leaning against the bar and placing a cash tip on it. “I know you two are, like, basically brother and sister or whatever, so I figured I’d check if it’s chill with you that I ask her out.”
The phrase brother and sister almost makes me gag, considering our upcoming sex plans. My chest is weirdly tight. “Uh, I mean she’s, like, really newly single. You know, vulnerable and all that shit. I don’t know if anyone should really be trying to get in her pants right now.”
Except me. But I don’t count.
“I said ask her out, dude,” Dylan clarifies as he sip
s his drink. “You know I’m not really one for casual bangs. I’ve always wanted something serious. You know, ‘the one.’” He makes self-deprecating air quotes. “That type of crap. I’m not like you.”
I swirl my whiskey and laugh. “No one’s like me.”
“King of the old rail and bail. Didn’t you have ‘Trust the name. Trust the pipe’ written on your business cards? You know women have feelings, right, Kennedy?” He jabs me jokingly.
“Ah, yes, Dylan Rivera—the expert on women’s feelings. I know, I know. Your parents had some kind of epic lifelong The Notebook kinda love story, and you think you have to wait to find some magical connection with someone. But, dude. You barely ever even talk about chicks. I mean, shit, you barely ever even talk at all,” I tease.
He doesn’t deny anything I just said. “That’s because I see them as more than just something to chase after, stick my dick in, and never speak to again.”
“C’mon.” I look out at the blanket of stars decorating the night sky. “I’m not that bad.”
Am I?
I glance over my shoulder toward the table. Whitney catches my eye and gives me a tiny wave with her pinkie finger.
I lift my pinkie from the glass in my hand and wiggle it back at her. Looking back at Dylan, I’m pretty damn surprised by how protective I feel about Whit. I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s Dylan Rivera. Aside from Daddy Elliot, he’s probably the nicest and least asshole-y guy on the Riders.
But…fuck. I don’t want him asking her out. She’s my best friend, and I care about her. I don’t want her getting hurt. That’s the only reason.
“Nah, bro.” I shake my head and pat Dylan’s arm. “Her breakup is too fresh. Trust me, I know her. Just give it some time.”
He shrugs as we start walking back to the table. “All right, man. Whatever you say.”
“Yo…” Elliot drapes his arm around Jessica and sips his drink. “The new rookie QB… What’s his name?
Dylan raises his brows. “Matt McKenzie? Kid’s hungry. He’s only, like, twenty-three and hasn’t been on the NFL field yet, but shit…he’s eager to get his ass out there.”
“Oh, McKenzie. Yeah, I heard about him,” Frankie chimes in, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “He’s such a little nugget. Not to mention, he was one of the top draft picks from Michigan, had, like, over thirty-five hundred passing yards his senior year.”
“A nugget?” Dylan chuckles. “Yeah, he’s a damn good quarterback.” He glances at me. His eyes flicker slightly, as if he’s silently calling me out on my uncharacteristic quietness. “Backup quarterback, that is.”
It’s not that I feel threatened by this little Matthew kid. Because I don’t. I’m me. But if I keep playing like complete ass, Coach is gonna give him a shot on the field. And he’s chomping at the bit for that chance. I’m sure as hell not giving up my spot to some snot-nosed college star.
“Eh. He’s all right,” I add. “We’ll see if he can gel with us.”
“Shut up, Kennedy.” Jessica laughs and flips around some blond curls, leaning into Elliot’s massive shoulder. “You’re just scared of someone stealing your precious prima donna spotlight.”
“Jessica Randall. Never afraid to call me on my shit.” I nod toward Elliot. “You picked a good one, Danes. But no, it’s not about my spotlight. C’mon. I’m just saying we shouldn’t get, like, dumb-hyped about some fresh little rookie.”
Leo snorts. “Don’t worry, Kennedy.” He makes a fake sympathetic face at me. “You’re still everyone’s favorite asshole.”
I roll my eyes. “McKenzie’s small,” I joke, hoping to divert some of the weirdly serious energy from me.
Leo nods and gestures toward Dylan. “Matt McKenzie could probably break you like a toothpick, Rivera. You’re not even a football player.”
“Okay, bro. Ha-ha, Dylan’s only six foot. Dylan played soccer in high school. Get your laughs out.” He stifles a classic grumpy smile and flips Leo a bird.
Whitney’s eyes widen. “You played soccer in high school? And you’re in the NFL? Is that, like, common?”
Leo, Elliot, and I look at each other and laugh heartily.
Dylan lets out a sigh. “It’s actually not that weird. Most of the best kickers in the league started in soccer. But these dickheads like to act like I did ballet or something.”
Whitney taps her nail on her empty beer bottle and smiles at Dylan. “I think it’s kinda cool. You’re a professional in a sport that you didn’t even play until college. Not many people can say that.”
Is she hitting on him? No, she’s just friendly. It’s Whitney. She could make lively conversation with a block of concrete.
Right?
I clench my jaw, wrestling with something in my gut that feels wildly unfamiliar. Why did I get so butthurt about Rivera wanting to ask her out? Why can I not fucking stand the idea of her flirting with him? Or anyone?
I know why. It’s because she’s my best friend. Because no one will ever be good enough for her. Especially not me. I mean, shit, I’m the worst of them all.
I sit back down on the barstool and watch her fiddle with her beer bottle. The million lights of the skyline reflect in her eyes and make them spark every time she moves. Her body curves and slopes in a hundred soft and delicious places. I’ve never looked at her this way. I mean, not since we were, like, sixteen, and I was so horny I couldn’t think straight.
But for the next four weeks, she’s all mine. And I get to do things with her that I didn’t even know I wanted to until now.
Nine
Whitney
As I stand in the elevator and soar up to Chase’s penthouse, I look down at my black cotton leggings that were nine dollars at Old Navy and pick at a piece of fuzz. It’s barely evening now, but my eyes burn with exhaustion. I’m coming off a twelve-hour shift at the ER, and a particularly busy one at that.
Any other time like this, I’d be sound asleep right now with my blackout curtains covering the window. But today is lesson one with my alleged sex god of a best friend, and I’m pretty eager to get my little education started.
Only because I want to get good at all this stuff as fast as I can. Getting physical with Chase and, in turn, silencing the tiny voice of curiosity that’s been whispering in my head for the last decade…is just a nice little side benefit.
I don’t even bother knocking this time. I’ve been at Chase’s so much in the past week or so, I’m getting pretty used to just barging right in. “Hey, Six.” I practically sing the nickname.
“Nit Whit. Get your ass over here.” Chase stretches his arms wide. He’s standing in the kitchen with no shirt—shocker—chugging a glass of water. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he smells fresh and musky.
The Floridian sunset is pouring in through the giant panes of glass that surround Chase’s living room, painting the room in an orange and pink glow.
Chase eyes me, and something in his expression makes me feel like my clothes are already off. He’s never given me his token panty-dropping look before, but we’ve also never been about to do…this before.
I shift my gaze to the setting sun and walk over to the couch, flopping onto the plush cushions, feeling the weight of my work shift pressing my body down.
“Someone had a long night.” Chase settles in next to me.
He has a certain energy that seems to follow him around. It’s explosive and loud and wild. Even when he’s just sitting on the couch, I feel it. He’s magnetic. He has been since we were three years old.
Without thinking about it, I lay my head on his rock of a shoulder. “It was a long shift. But I’m here!” I feign overexaggerated excitement.
He laughs, his broad chest shaking softly underneath my cheek. “How bad was it? Anything crazy? Ax through the head?”
I roll my eyes and look up to meet his gaze. “No axes through any heads. Just a demanding day. Minimal blood and guts,” I tease.
Chase wrinkles his nose. “I seriously don’t know how
you deal with that shit. I’d pass the fuck out, honestly.”
I snort. “Well, maybe you’re just a pussy.”
He drops his jaw and looks at me, his deep-brown eyes bursting with his expressive Chase-ness. “Sorry, I don’t have a weird affinity for injury and disease.”
I flick his forehead playfully, noticing how we’re inching closer and closer to each other, but not resisting it. “I have an affinity for saving lives, thank you very much.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“When you think about it, Whit…” Chase gently glides his thumb across my bottom lip, and I feel the burning-hot space between us getting even smaller. “Our salaries should really be switched.”
I feel myself smiling, my gaze still locked with his. “That’s an awfully humble thing for you to say, Kennedy. Maybe you’re not as cocky as I’ve always thought you were.”
He half smiles, sliding his hand across my jaw and behind my head, tangling his fingers in my hair. “I just act that way to get chicks. But you…” He pulls me closer.
I feel my heart rate increasing and my legs turning to puddles. We haven’t even spoken a word about why I’m here. We both just know, and Chase seems to go from zero to a hundred completely effortlessly.
“I don’t have to act any way for you,” he whispers, his voice huskier than I can ever remember it being.
Suddenly, I get it. I’ve spent my life laughing and rolling my eyes at the gaggles of girls who follow Chase around and practically beg to get in bed with him. I’ve always chalked it up to his fame, his money, and his starting-quarterback NFL status.
But now, I’m sitting here with a pool in my panties before our lips even touch, and I realize that he doesn’t need any of that. Chase Kennedy is the human embodiment of sex appeal. I’ve just never experienced it for myself until now.
I’ve been missing out.
“So…” I say softly, not sure what I even plan on saying next. I’m not used to getting tripped up by Chase. I mean, Jesus, it’s Chase Kennedy!
But then again…it’s Chase Kennedy.
Easy Ride (South Florida Riders Book 3) Page 5