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That bitch!
What do I care, I ask myself as I stride through the glass room. I don’t want Brennan. He’s a douchebag. I want more than Brennan. And if there’s nothing more than Brennan, I want no one.
I take three stairs up to the glossy, mahogany bar/band stand area of La Femme and text Steph to meet me in the bathroom. I’m leaning against the sinks when she bustles through the door, lipsticked, earringed, and wearing a black skirt-shirt set with stylish boots. I give her a low whistle. She throws her arms around me.
“Thank you, honey.”
I sniff her blonde curls. “Are you drunk, Steph?”
She pulls back and grins. “Am I?” Her eyes trail down my face. She licks her lips, still beaming like a fool.
I laugh. “Hell yes, you are—Miss Twelve Hours.” Steph is only taking twelve class hours this semester (so, four classes, all of which are easy) and I love teasing her about it.
She slaps my cheek lightly. “You’re bust—” She giggles. “You’re just bitter, Cleo. Bitter...” She waves the birth control packet. “But you got my lady stuff. I’m happy.”
I help Steph take one of the little pills with sink water, and then I point her in the direction where I think her date is waiting.
“Laters, baby,” I call out behind her.
She rolls her head around at me. She grins, wide and glassy-eyed, as she saunters off. Steph is a major Fifty Shades of Grey fan. She even got me a signed paperback to share the love.
I came in through the back entrance of the restaurant, but because of Neda and Brennan making googly eyes in the atrium, I decide I’ll leave via the front doors. I stifle a yawn with my palm over my mouth and make my way through the crowd swarming the bar. La Femme is a high-end restaurant, but we’re still in a college town—so the bar will never be anything but a college hangout. Especially on a Thursday night.
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I make it past a thick plague of Kappa Alphas, sipping whiskey and chugging Bud Lite, and talking about the rodeo next weekend. Someone’s stray hand brushes my ass, but I’m too tired to care. Too wrapped up in analyzing how I feel about seeing Neda and Brennan on a date. I’m lost in thought, wondering if I never settle on another boyfriend, can I be a goldfish lady instead of a cat lady—when I pass the reservations podium.
And there he is: fucking Kellan. Perfect Kellan, with his stubble-shadowed jaw, his stunning eyes, his luscious lips. And that hair. I mean, Jesus, is it blond enough? Soft enough? What is he, a Ken doll? He’s wearing a navy blazer over a white dress shirt, with straight-front khakis, a leather belt, and expensive-looking low-top leather boots.
The blazer must have been tailored for his big shoulders, because it makes him look Red Carpet-ready. The khakis look designer, too—wrinkle-proof and perfectly fitted. My gaze lingers on his powerful-looking thighs before I jerk it back up to his face. He’s leaning over the podium now, looking at the schedule book, clearly overstepping his bounds. No waiter is manning the podium. Who crowned Kellan Walsh king?
The sight of him here, dressed like the deity of some minor kingdom, sniffing around the podium like he owns La Femme, sends my heartbeat kicking up into my sinuses.
Maybe he can hear it, because at that moment, he lifts his eyes to mine. They burn through me, damning, even as his lips pull into a tight smile. But it’s not a smile—at all. It’s an un-smile, every bit as condemning as his gemstone eyes.
And for a second, I feel shame.
As soon as it rises, it collapses. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, at least not anything he can peg me with. Irritation turns to anger, which, like always, makes me brave.
I smile back, a big, shit-eating grin. “Hi, Walsh,” I chirp as I brush past him.
“Whatley.”
Even his smooth, crisp, California voice is flawless, I think as I cut through the wait line and push out the doors. I stand on the porch for a moment, searching the parking lot for his Sexcalade. Almost immediately, I tell myself I don’t care how he got here.
I skirt the building, choosing a trek that takes me right past the dumpster, where I narrowly avoid stepping on a stray eggshell. I cut between two palm trees, find the worn grass path to the outer parking lot, and race through the grove of big oak trees along the river’s shore.
The image of the candlelight on Brennan’s face and the curve of Kellan Walsh’s lips must sear themselves into my synapses, because I see them both in my dreams after I go home, eat nearly an entire re-heated chicken pizza, and fall into a cheese coma.
I run through my stash Friday morning, due in no small part to Kellan Asshole Walsh. I call Kennard again, and in addition to telling me ‘no’, he now seems annoyed.
Out of desperation, I call someone Lora recommends. His name is Matt, and he’s a junior in finance. His magic power: He’s a dealer who occasionally sells large amounts to other dealers.
On the phone, Matt sounds nice. He has a New Orleans accent and the kind of relaxed bass voice that makes me think he’s going to be fat. We agree to meet midafternoon Friday in the parking lot of the local industrial park. I’m so nervous, I consider asking Milasy for one of her anxiety pills before leaving. Since I never take anything anymore, I probably couldn’t drive, though, so in the end, I hop into my car and drive the four miles to the industrial park blaring the free U2 album that popped up on my iPhone some months back.
I find Matt’s hunter green Four Runner where he said I would, in front of a biotech headquarters. I park beside him and unlock my doors. Then I watch with my breath held as a lanky, brown-haired guy in Wranglers, a ripped t-shirt, and work boots climbs into my passenger seat.
Matt is soft-spoken and relaxed, and he seems perfectly non-threatening. He’s happy to take the wad of cash I have on hand and give me two ounces, triple Ziplocked. The only problem is, he won’t sell me more until we meet up at one of his safe houses.
