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“Hey, girl!” she calls out. “Get a table and I’ll be right with you.”
I sit in a booth at the window side of the restaurant. The vinyl is scarred by time and cracked by years of overfed asses sliding in and out, but this is my favorite booth. I can see everything from here. Inside and outside.
The bodyguard sits at another table next to me. I ignore him.
After a few minutes of fiddling with the silverware, Monroe comes sashaying over and slips into the booth with me.
Her lips are carefully pursed. She knows why I’m here—I’m holding an envelope with this week’s payment for the Bloodhound—but to anyone else, it looks like we’re just two friends catching up.
I plaster a fake grin on my face as I pass Monroe the envelope under the table. She takes it and slides it into her apron. “So, how have you been? Life’s good with the hockey god, I assume.”
I nod and shrug in one confused motion. I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her how confused I am, how Beck is worming his way into my life trying to fix everything that’s wrong and also everything that isn’t. But I can’t find words that don’t make me sound like an ungrateful bitch, so I don’t say anything at all.
“It’s fine.”
“And he’s still a god?”
“He certainly thinks so.” Sighing, I concede, “He’s not completely wrong.”
“And you’re enjoying the groupie life?” When I start to protest, she holds up her hands and smiles, her black-lipsticked mouth twisting to one side. “I’m teasing. At ease, tiger. You sound happy.”
I grimace. “I guess I am.”
“But…?” She knows me so well.
“Well—and before I even start, know that I’m aware how absurd I sound—it’s just… he’s… trying to do so much. It’s sweet and overbearing and kind and in my face and the nicest thing ever and it’s also driving me insane.”
Monroe rolls her eyes like only she can do. “Poor baby. Hockey god is a control freak.”
“The worst of them all.”
“I’m always on your side, hon. You know that. But this time… it’s hard to sympathize.” She folds her hands in front of her and leans closer. “You live in a mansion, Slo. With a guy who worships you, and you don’t have to do a damned thing to make him want you. Must be horrible. Meanwhile, I’m working twelve hours a day, dead tired, serving greasy slop to ungrateful assholes who think tipping five percent gives them the right to pinch my ass when I’m not looking.”
I wince. I’m a bitch. I should have never opened my stupid mouth.
“I don’t want to minimize your struggles. But you have to pick your spots to fight, babe. You have a lifetime of fighting with him coming up. You won’t win them all. You might not even win most. But guess what?You already won the one that counted.”
That steals the wind right out of my sails. Until this moment, I’ve always been expecting that this thing—whatever it is between Beck and me that shall not be named—is going to come to a swift and decisive end. But even if it does, even if we walk away hating each other, the kid connects us.
Forever.
So she’s right. And of course, he’s right, too. Everyone is right, except me.
I went and got involved with Beck and now, I’m never going to beuninvolved with him. The worst part? As scary as the thought is…
It doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should.
The car, the bodyguards, the clothes that continuously show up in my closet that I haven’t bought, all things he doesforme… Why am I fighting that?
The searing kisses, the midnight foreplay, the way he smirks when he sees me come home and the way he smells when he wraps his arms around me…Why am I fightingthat?
The “order up” bell in the kitchen dings. Monroe slips out of the booth and comes back a second later with a burger dripping with grilled onions and smothered in cheese. Grinning knowingly, she slides it across the table.
“You know the way to my heart,” I mumble gratefully.
As I take my first bite, she nods. “You know, in my experience, when you give in to a guy, you get double the rewards.”
“Yeah?” I can barely get a word out between bites. I’m ravenous. I have missed greasy diner cheeseburgers.
