Did I say that? Probably.
I really do hate the city. More specifically: Broadway. Bars on both sides of the street blaring the same fucking songs by different bands dreaming of making it “big” someday. Playing for tips and cheap beer. Tourists in cowboy boots and sequins.
Talk about hell.
It’s worst in the summer. Not only is it busier, but it’s sweatier too. Because who doesn’t want to smell redneck BO and spilled whiskey for hours on end?
But tonight is New Year’s Eve and the fireworks in the city are fucking beautiful. Last New Year’s, I stayed at the bar and gota little too drunk after we closed. Then my thumbs thought it’d be a great idea to send a text to my ex.
You can imagine how well that went down.
I shrug and say, “I make an exception for fireworks.”
She shifts her weight from one heeled foot to the other, chewing on her lip. “Who else is going?”
“Just me and my cousin August. We’re meeting a few women he knows.” He called them a “good time.”
For some reason, the idea of fucking some stranger tonight doesn’t appeal to me.
“I don’t know.” She looks so conflicted, I can imagine her on an actual fence, swinging her long legs back and forth, glancing from one side to the other, unruly hair blowing in the breeze.
“Suit yourself.” If a woman doesn’t want to do something, I’ve learned not to pressure her because it almost always comes back to bite me in the ass.
The invitation has been extended. Short of throwing my neighbor over my shoulder and carrying her down to my truck, there’s not much more I can do. “If you ever make up your mind and want join us, we’re leaving at seven thirty.”
My hair falls into my eyes as I let the shower beat me clean. There’s no point rushing since August will be running late. He wouldn’t be on time if he were made of clocks.
When I step out of my apartment at exactly seven thirty, I consider knocking on Loren’s door one last time to see if she’s coming but ultimately decide against it.
If she wanted to tag along, she’d already be out here.
Something that feels a lot like disappointment fills my chest, but I shove that shit right down with every other unpleasant emotion and start for the stairs.
August waves up at me, looking ridiculous in a pink and black button down and a pair of black cowboy boots.
I love the guy, but his outfits are getting more absurd by the week. A couple days ago, he showed up to dinner in a pair of jean shorts and a tank top with one of those built-in bras.
Apparently, he lost some bet with his sister and now he has to wear whatever she picks out for him. Not sure how long that’s going to last. Hopefully not long—for both our sakes.
I’m about to take the first step when my name echoes through the hollow stairwell. Loren stands outside her door, a shimmery black skirt skimming her thighs and an unsure smile on her lips.
“Got room for one more?”
Damn, those legs of hers look even longer than they normally do. It really is too bad that she has a boyfriend. “We do, but you might want to change into flats.” As good as those heels look, I’ve been around enough women in my life to know what’s bound to happen in about an hour. “I feel like your granny shoes would be more practical.”
“Aren’t you hilarious? Lucky for me, these heels are just as comfortable.”
Women always say that, and yet ninety-nine percent of the time, I end up having to carry at least one of them on my back by the end of the night.
Still, it’s not my job to convince her, so I shrug and say, “Suit yourself.”
Surprisingly enough, she keeps pace with me on the way down the stairs.
The moment August sees Loren, his gaze drops straight to her legs encased in black hose with the thinnest black line running down the back.
He’ll want to put a stop to that before we get to the city. I’m not dealing with his disappointment at the end of the night when she doesn’t fall madly in love with him.
August has a very fragile ego.
