Dammit.
The feisty brunette isn't sticking in my brain.
It isn't happening.
I smile at the redhead. "Can I level with you?"
She laughs. "Sure."
"It's not for you."
"It's not."
"It's for me." I down half my Jack and Coke. "But I need you to play along. I'm not man enough to admit I want a pink cocktail for myself."
Her smile spreads over her lips. "It takes a lot of guts, admitting that."
"Thanks. I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders."
"I'm Allison." She extends her hand.
"Dean." I shake with a firm grip. Watch her pupils dilate as she gives me a long once-over.
She sizes me up.
Deciding if I'm worth fucking.
Deciding I am.
Her hand goes to her hair. She twirls a strand around her finger. Arches her back, thrusting her chest toward me. Practically screams yes, I would like to come on your cock. "It's a house special."
"Do tell."
"Earl Greyhound."
"Sounds like a lousy bus service."
Her laugh makes her tits shake. "It's Early Grey vodka and grapefruit juice."
"Creative." It sounds amazing, actually. Mixing bergamot with grapefruit is genius.
I hail the bartender. "Two more of these."
The bartender smiles. "On your tab, I assume?"
"Of course." I turn back to Allison. "Since you were kind enough to hear my confession."
"You hang at a bar long enough, you hear a lot of men's confessions."
"Why is that?"
"I guess they feel like they have to be tough. That whole macho boys don't cry thing. Until they start drinking and the walls come down."
"You sound annoyed."
"I'm not a therapist."
"Shit, there goes my plans for the night."
She brushes a lock behind her ear. "There's a couch in the back if you want to lie down."
"That's my backup plan."
Her cheeks flush.
Her pupils dilate.
She's thinking about dragging me to that couch.
About fucking me.
This is a done deal.
It should excite me, but it doesn't.
When I close my eyes, I see Chloe's pink lips. Her tight tank top. Her fierce glare.
That makes me warm everywhere.
The shitty pop music and the dim lighting and the cheap vodka— Fuck, this is so done. I already know exactly how this night is gonna go. And I can't find any enthusiasm for it.
Two rounds of flavored vodka and grapefruit juice later, and Allison is pawing at my arm.
Hinting that her place is nearby.
She's hot. She's eager. She's sweet.
But I'm still apathetic.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I turn my Bluetooth speakers on. Pull out my phone to stream my favorite Sonic Youth album.
The powder blue couch is inviting—I'm fucking wiped—but it's nothing compared to the text on my cell.
Apparently, I'm your shadow tomorrow.
Chloe.
Something inside me stirs. It's not like with the girl at the bar. It's deeper. Achier.
She's an itch I'm desperate to scratch.
I tap a reply.
Dean: Who is this?
Chloe: Cute.
Dean: Is that Chloe with one e or two?
Chloe: Chloee isn't a name.
Dean: You sure?
Chloe: I think I'd know, Dick Face.
Dean: You remembered. Means the world to me.
Chloe: I figured.
Dean: You finally get why I consider that a compliment?
Chloe: I've seen better.
My chest warms.
Her hate fuels me. It feels good.
There must be something wrong with me, but I don't care.
I do a lot of shit to challenge myself—learn new styles, lift heavier weights, run farther distances—but none of it pushes me the way she does.
None of it makes me feel this alive.
Dean: Do tell.
Chloe: A lady doesn't kiss and tell.
Dean: What's that have to do with you?
Chloe: I don't want to bruise your ego.
Dean: It doesn't bruise that easily.
Chloe: I'm sure.
Dean: You just called your boss a dick face.
Chloe: You take it as a compliment.
Dean: True.
Chloe: Because you're operating under some delusion that it means your dick is beautiful.
Dean: If you're arguing otherwise…
Chloe: We're going in circles.
Dean: Are we supposed to be talking about something besides my dick?
Chloe: Yes.
Dean: Then how am I supposed to tell you about my Prince Albert.
Chloe: You do not have a pierced cock.
Dean: If that's some way of baiting me to send a pic, you should know it's working.
Chloe: Not interested.
Dean: Most of my ten p.m. texts head in this direction.
Chloe: Do you really think there's a snowball's chance in hell that I'm booty calling you?
Dean: You enjoyed it last time.
Chloe: You already warned me round two will be a disappointment.
Yeah, I did.
It wasn't that I didn't like Chloe—I did.
But I wasn't gonna let anybody into my heart.
And now…
Well that hasn't changed.
Dean: I've revised that.
Chloe: Have you?
Dean: Got a whole new way to blow your mind.
Chloe: Is this about the Prince Albert again?
Dean: I thought you didn't want to talk about my dick.
Chloe: Cute. Are you suggesting you blew my mind the first time?
Dean: Sunshine, I'm not suggesting shit. I know what it feels like when a woman comes on my cock.
The chat goes quiet.
When I close my eyes, I see her. In some tiny apartment, on a cheap black couch, staring at her cell, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving.
Fuck, I want to be in that space with her.
I want her pressed against the wall.
Against the round kitchen table.
Under my white sheets.
Chloe: Does Ryan know?
Dean: Know what?
Chloe: My middle name. What do you think?
Dean: He signed your new hire paperwork. I assume he knows your name is Chloe Grace Lee.
Chloe: Cute.
Dean: Thanks.
Chloe: Are you going to answer me?
Dean: Where's the fun in that?
Chloe: I'll take that as a no.
Dean: Take it how you want.
Chloe: It was a long time ago. I barely remember.
Bullshit.
It was her first time.
She remembers every second.
I know I do.
The nervous look in her dark eyes.
That long, black hair in my hands.
The way my name rolled off her lips.
It was the only time in three fucking years that she said it without disdain.
And, fuck, there is something wrong with me.
Because I'm not sure which I like better.
The ugh, Dean, you're the bane of my existence.
Or the fuck, Dean, you're the only thing I need.
Chapter Five
Chloe
There are a few facts of life in Los Angeles.
Seventy and sunny is a daily thing.
Strip malls are everywhere.
And traffic is a bitch.
The freeway is clogged. And nothing—not the blue skies, or the beige hills, or the grunge music flowing from my speakers—makes it bearable.
What is it about being stuck in a car that makes everything awful? I spend most nights sitting around, thinking, listening to music. But when I have to do it in my car, I start crawling out of my skin.
I find a spot. Jump out. Stretch on the sidewalk. I hate staying still. I did it for too long. I spent way too long thinking I'd never be able to move like this again.
Traffic is inevitable with the distance I'm driving, but I can temper it. Find a nearby gym. Leave early enough to zip along the freeway. Make up the time with bodyweight exercises and miles on the treadmill.
Strong body, strong mind.
Strong mind, strong body.
It's a cycle. And it works. At least, that's what I tell myself. My body and I aren't quite there yet. I haven't forgiven it for what happened. Or learned to trust it.
I stretch my legs on the five-block walk to the studio. This is a nice part of Venice Beach. Clean streets, fancy cars, palm trees lining the sidewalks.
They blow in the breeze, blue sky and ocean view behind them. Like a post card. Hello, from Paradise. Your nemesis is waiting.
He is.
He's sitting behind the counter, shaggy hair hanging in front of his blue eyes, attention on his sketchbook.
His expression is focused. Intense.
Some other Dean. One who takes shit seriously. Who finds pleasure in work and productivity and accomplishment.
Who doesn't live to taunt me.
He looks the same—white t-shirt hugging his shoulders, skinny jeans hugging his hips, gorgeous blue eyes on fire with something.