Fuck this online shit. Swiping left or right and snapping this or that is not for me. I’m all about face-to-face chemistry and real-life chitchat. Weddings are perfect for a social cat like me as they’re usually brimming with single women in the mood for a man.
Pretty sure I’ve never met a wedding where I haven’t gotten laid, and I wouldn’t mind keeping up that streak tonight.
I leave my place and head to the limo waiting at the curb just outside on California Street. I slow to survey the sleek, black set of wheels and whistle in appreciation.
The driver—a slim, efficient man in a black suit—pops out to open the door for me. “Thank you very much,” I tell him. “And nice to meet you. I’m Harlan.”
The man gives a surprised smile. “Darien. Pleasure to meet you too,” he says.
I slide into the back seat to join my teammate Jones Beckett. “Damn, you look almost as good as I do,” I say, checking out my friend in his Tom Ford suit.
The team’s star receiver rolls his blue eyes. “Thanks. You look almost as rich as me.”
I laugh as I smooth my hand down my tie. “Thanks for giving me a new goal.”
Jones settles into the seat as the driver pulls onto Fillmore. “Thanks for being my”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“‘date’ tonight.”
“Of course. Anything for the cause of love, buddy.”
Jones sighs heavily and drags a hand down his face. “Fuck, man. I’ve got to figure this out and soon.”
“No argument here.”
My friend has it bad for the Renegades’ lead publicist. He tried to keep it a secret from me and everyone else, and I understand why, but I put two and two together. Jillian’s perfect for him—whip-smart and loyal. But Jones has been rehabbing his reputation, trying to shake off a checkered past, and he hasn’t figured out how to bring their forbidden romance into the light.
More power to the two of them for running the relationship obstacle course. But just the thought of all those hurdles is too much for me. I prefer my dalliances simple, mutually enjoyable, and free of angst.
The strategy has served me well—mostly, I should say—for the last several years. I like to date, I like to have fun, and I like to fuck. But with my career still on the upswing, anything more complicated than that is not part of my playbook.
“I don’t envy you, pal,” I tell Jones as the driver swings onto Steiner Street.
“I don’t envy me either. What am I supposed to do?”
“You could—just a thought—sort this shit out and have a relationship,” I offer with a smile. I’m encouraging like that. But seriously, sometimes you just have to man up and do the hard things in life.
“I’m working on it, Harlan. And I think I’ve got a plan for telling the team and my new sponsor. But it’ll have to wait until this weekend. Tonight, I just need a wingman so I can spend some time with Jillian.”
I tap my sternum. “One fantastic, grade-A, top-choice wingman at your service.” It’s not my place to pressure him to come clean. He knows what he needs to do, and he’s got to do it in his own damn time.
Plus, I know my role at this wedding.
I’m Jones’s cover, and that’s fine.
When the car stops on her block, Jones bounds up the steps and returns with Jillian a few minutes later. She greets me as they slide into the car, but mostly they makeI want to bang you backward, forward, and six ways to Sundayeyes at each other as she snuggles up against him.
“Would you like me to just get in the front seat with the driver?” I offer, gesturing to the partition. “You can have a wham-bam while I chat with Darien. He seemed chill.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jillian says, ducking her head as a smile plays across her face. “We’ll behave.”
I scoff. “No need to behave on my account. I’m happy to shoot the breeze with the guy.” I point to the speakers. “I’ve Got YouUnder My Skin” pipes through the limo. “He’s got good taste in music.”
Jones runs a hand along Jillian’s bare arm, and she shivers. “Can’t help myself,” Jones says, “Haven’t seen her in a while.”
“I can tell. The sexual tension between you two would fill an ice cream tub. I could scoop it up and serve it in a cone. Sexual Tension Swirl, I’d call it.”
Jones arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“What? I love sexual tension,” I say with a grin.
