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Tariq chuckles because he knows how it is. Guys like Whip and Tariq have an energy that can only be burned off by creating beats. Tariq raps and Whip plays the drums, but they’ll both go out some nights and DJ at a venue for a couple of hours just to recharge their creative wells.
Right now, I get all the highs I need from Kill John. If I want to refill the well, I get it by producing on the side, helping others find the right sound and smoothing out rough tracks. Tonight, however, I’m Whip’s wingman.
The door opens, and the club manager pops his head in. “Whip, Rye, how you been?”
“Jay.” I give him a wave.
Whip greets him. “My set all right, man?”
Whip likes to do things old school, which means he spins using vinyl. It’s an unwieldy process hauling crates of records around then setting everything up. He’d come to the club earlier today to arrange things.
“Good to go.” Jay glances at Tariq. “Need a word. You got a minute?”
“I’ll be out in a second.” Tariq turns to us. “You good to go in thirty?”
“Yep.”
When Tariq leaves, I stand and wander around the room. I’m restless in a way that no amount of performing will settle. It’s her. She’s in my blood now. When I’m with her, it’s like nothing else. No better high. When I’m not with her?
I am lost.
I’m lost, and she’s in LA—thinking about moving there.
Shit.
What the hell am I doing with her?
I stop at a vintage arcade Donkey Kong that’s in the far corner. The big screen is bright with its glaring, simplistic ‘80s graphics. “You ever played this?” I ask Whip.
He gets up and ambles over. “Nah. To tell you the truth, these old games freak me out.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “What?”
Whip grimaces. “It’s ridiculous, right? But there’s something about the twitchy-ass way the characters move that makes my stomach clench.”
I can’t help it; I laugh again. “Sorry,” I say after a moment. “It’s just so…”
“Whack?” he supplies with a self-deprecating smile.
“Random. It’s random as fuck.”
“Yeah, well…” He glances at the game. The intro is playing and Donkey Kong paces—in an admittedly twitchy fashion. Whip scowls and looks away. “Nope. Still drives me bug fuck.”
Grinning, I push away from the machine and start pacing again.
“You nervous?” Whip sounds a little surprised. As he should be; we never get stage fright. That’s Jax and Libby’s specialty.
“No.” I’m not. I’m…I don’t want to think about it anymore.
But Whip watches me with those ice-blue eyes of his that see far too much. He leans against the couch back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We ever going to talk about this?”
About her. The one person I’m trying to forget for the moment.
I kept it secret. But, fucking hell, Scottie knows, Jax knows. Why can’t I talk about this with my closest friend?
With a sigh, I find an armchair—some ultramodern piece made out of metal and leather straps—and flop down. The damn chair groans in an ominous fashion. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“But I guessed it,” Whip fills in. “So you’re not really breaking her secret.”
A snort escapes. “That’s a thin-ass excuse, and we both know it.”
“But it’s the defense we’ll go with if asked.”
“Sometimes I forget your mom is a lawyer.”
“Try growing up with her. I couldn’t get away with shit.”
“That’s why you’re cagey as fuck now.” I rub a hand over my face. “All right. I’ll talk. Mainly because I’m…Well, shit. I don’t know what the hell I am anymore.”
In the halting tones of the reluctant and confused, I explain what happened, starting on the night I eavesdropped on her conversation with Jules. I leave out the personal bits and give him the bare bones of the situation.
“Problem is,” I say when I finally get to the present situation with her going off to LA and me sitting here twiddling my thumbs, “I can’t think straight anymore. I miss her when she’s not around. A lot. I hate hiding what we’re doing, but I understand why she wants to. At least that’s what I tell myself. But in here?” I thump a fist to my chest. “It feels like bullshit, keeping quiet and pretending we are the same as we were before. Because we’re not. We’re…Shit. That’s the other problem. I don’t know what the hell we are.”
When I finish, Whip sighs. “What made you think getting physical with Brenna without the possibility of any kind of real relationship in the cards was a good idea?”
I stare blankly at him. “My dick?”
He chuffs. “Yeah, I just bet your dick was doing all the thinking.”
“To be clear, I’m not regretting the decision, and neither is my dick, because the sex is off-the-charts fantastic—shit, I didn’t say that! You did not hear me say that.”
