My one and only ex. The charming boy I’d thought was different. And boy was the right term because where I thought I’d dated a man, I had been completely and utterly wrong. A silly boy with a silly agenda. Disgusting.
London pressed her lips together, that same flicker of anger and understanding swirling in her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder again, quickly glancing at Hendrix and then back to me.
"Why him?" London asked.
I gaped at her. "Well, I'm certainly not going to choose one of our delightful collegiate peers," I said with all the sarcasm I could muster.
London rolled her eyes at me in an obviously sort of way. "I'm not saying going for an NFL player is a bad idea," London said. "I mean, we've all been around perfect bodies and competent attitudes for years now," she continued. "But there are at least fifty-two other players on the Raptors roster that might be more suitable than the most renowned playboy on the team." She shook her head, that beehive wig threatening to come off again. She fixed it and continued, "Hell, I might even go for a hockey player. I know a few, remember? I can get you their numbers."
It was my turn to roll my eyes at her. "I know Hendrix," I said. "I know who he is. His playboy status isn’t hard to miss."
"Exactly," London said. As if that explained everything. "He'll break your heart."
"My heart isn’t on the line. It's not part of this play. Only my body is." My tongue darted out to wet my lips as my breath caught. "And I sure as hell trust him with that."
London tilted her head back and forth as if she were trying to find an argument with that logic and was having a hard time. So I forged ahead.
"Plus, he'd keep it a secret," I said. "That, I’m absolutely sure of. What with my father's completely off-limits clause in his locker room speeches. And honestly, who better to have your first time with than Hendrix Malone?"
London parted her pink lips, then shut them. Her eyes met mine. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
I grinned at my friend, my heart racing with exhilaration. I honestly didn't have a fucking clue what I was doing. But I threw back the rest of my vodka soda, drinking down the liquid courage. There was this rush of relief at the idea of finally ridding myself of this title that had left me vulnerable to the pain Trevor inflicted.
“I’m taking ownership of my V-card. And who I give it to."
London sipped from her pink drink. "Well, you know I am an expert on that," she said, a little hint of sarcasm coating her sweet voice. "You know, since I've had sex all of once before." She shook her head, that old frustration popping behind her eyes. She was almost as notorious as I was, but that was a whole other bag of worms to unpack. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
And I loved her for that. Honestly, she was the best friend a girl could ask for. But right now, I needed her to see the brilliance in this plan. This sporadic, brilliant, totally fucking mad plan. "You can't harm what you can't have," I said, shrugging. "Like I said, my heart's not at play, just this stupid little title. And once that's done?" I slid my palms together as if I were tapping out of an argument. "I won’t have that cloud hanging over me. Then people like Trevor and his buddies will have no power over me. No bets left to make."
Anger and sadness swirled in her eyes, but she nodded. She stepped out of my line of sight, leaning against the marble bar once again. And we both looked to where Hendrix was finishing up chatting with Roman.
London let out a little giggle that was ninety percent sugar and ten percent sour.
"What is funny?" I asked.
London took another long sip of her drink, barely containing her laughter. "Oh, I just simply can't wait to hear if the rumors about Hendrix Malone are true."
A warm shiver danced down my spine, my breath catching with anticipation. Just imagining Hendrix’s lips on my skin did things to my body. We’d had an innocent dance only minutes ago, and I couldn't shake his touch even now. Even after the vodka soda. And I couldn't deny the one singular need crashing through my mind, my soul.
I wanted him.
I wanted him so badly I could almost taste him.
So I smoothed my hands over my butterfly gown and winked at my friend. "Stay tuned."
My heels once again clicked along the marble as I followed Hendrix, who had just turned down a long corridor, leaving Roman and his buddies behind.
And with each step closer, my heart pounded a little harder, each beat crying out for the same thing —
Hendrix, Hendrix, Hendrix.
3
Hendrix
"Somehow, you've managed to slip into an even fouler mood," Roman noted as I glared into the crowd of dancers from our table.
"I'm fine," I assured him, even though it was a lie. What else was I supposed to say? I’d just spent the better part of twenty minutes telling my best friend that I was done with anonymous sex, only to now be annoyed that I couldn't find the woman from the dance floor? I was a hypocrite.
"Well, you don't look fine." He raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I am." Great. Now it sounded like every argument I'd ever gotten into with a girlfriend. I was my own girlfriend.
"Right." He drew out the word slowly but looked away.
"You know, I think I'm going to grab some air." I slammed back the last of my champagne and set the glass on the table.
"Okay. Don't get lost."
I headed away from the driving beat of the music, slipping down the hallway of the gallery toward the back entrance. Maybe it was the sound of music, with a lingering scent of the machine smoke in the air, but I swore I could still taste that almost kiss. I'd never been driven that completely wild by not-a-kiss my entire life.
The farther I got from the music, the more silent my surroundings became until I could hear my individual footsteps on the shiny marble floor.
I passed one of the smaller galleries on my right and peeked in on the darkened, private space. Only the pieces were illuminated, and though I'd never truly been a fan of modern art, the painting on the far end caught my eye. It was a riot of colors, the paint coming together in a loose interpretation of wings.
"I like that one," a voice–her voice–said from behind me.
"Do you now?” I asked softly, not bothering to turn. She'd run off the last time, and though I'd searched, the place was packed. And I’d never been the guy to chase after a girl. I wasn't about to start now, no matter how good she tasted.
"It feels like a kindred spirit," she said, coming up next to me. Her head tilted slightly as she studied the painting, the pose so achingly familiar that I almost did a double take.
Damn, I shouldn't have had those drinks. I was usually more careful, but it was the off-season. I couldn't help but feel that I would've recognized her sober.
"You mean because of the wings?" I asked, motioning toward the painting.
She nodded. "It's kind of sad, really," she mused. "They're trapped there inside all that color. They'll never get to fly."
"Maybe they are flying," I said quietly, turning my gaze to her mask-obscured profile. "Maybe we’re the ones trapped by our own assumption that the sky is always blue."