“I’m telling you Jax, thinking is the root of all evil. In the gym, in business, in the bar,” I say, spinning around to face the crowd of people gathered around the stage, where various musical acts have been performing all night, “thinking just holds you back. Keeps you from doing things. Think too much, and all you’ll end up with is a beer gut and a dating profile, bro.”
Jax smirks and chuckles the way I’ve seen him do a million times. In the city of LA, where you don’t see the sharks for the suits, and where everyone knows how to play a role, you need two things: A friend you can trust, and a rival to keep you on your toes.
Jax is both.
“I know I’ve been drinking with you for way too long,” he says, as he raises his whiskey glass from the bar top, “because I’m beginning to agree with you.”
“You leaving?”
“Lizzie should be getting back around now. I told her we’d watch a movie together.”
Correction: Jax was both. Now that he’s done the one thing nobody expected him to— settled down— he’s no longer a rival; just a friend.
“The tiger has been tamed,” I say, shaking my head as I raise my beer bottle level with his glass. “Here’s to your legacy.”
“I’m sure you’ll pick up the slack,” he smiles.
When I bring my beer bottle into contact with his glass, I move my whole body toward him, shoulder-barging him backwards. He knocks into the person behind him as he steps out of the way of spilt whiskey.
“Brando! What the—”
I see his face relax into an expression of humorous understanding when he turns around to apologize and finds two gorgeous brunettes, fantastically balanced on their high heels by ample asses and firm tits.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shifting past Jax and in between them like a boxer setting his feet, “my friend’s a real klutz.”
Their expressions settle into coy smiles as they check us out. Jax shrugs and smiles like he’s been caught with his hands in the candy jar. He might not be available anymore, but he still knows how to play the wingman.
“Come on, Jax!” I say, mockingly. “Get these dancers another drink.”
“Dancers?” says the one with the lips that look like they’re about to burst they’re so juicy. “We’re not dancers.”
“No?” I say, putting a little growl into my voice. “You fooled me with those incredible bodies.”
It’s a blunt line, direct and true. I’ve never had a good poker face, I like things out in the open, cards on the table. And why not? I’ve been dealt a good hand. I’m six feet of gym-sculpted muscle, a strong jawline courtesy of Italian ancestry (via Brooklyn, New York), and I’ve got my dream job of being an A&R man at one of LA’s hippest labels. I’ve come a hell of a long way, and there’s a hell of a lot to forget before I start taking it for granted.
The girls giggle as they roll their eyes at each other, but the pout on their lips and the way they shift their shoulders toward me tells me it’s on.
I throw out a laugh as I remember Jax is heading back to his girl and consider how the two beautiful creatures in front of me would look silhouetted against the moonlight in my loft apartment, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn to face Jax.
“Maybe we’ll make a movie while you’re watching one,” I smile, before I see the sharp lines of his face arranged way too severely. He nods, and I follow his eye line to the entrance of the bar.
I know it’s her before I even set eyes on the skin-tight pvc dress – always performing, even off-stage. I can sense her presence, the glow she gives off, the magnetism that compels everyone in the area to direct their attention her way. It’s magic, unreal, the same spellcraft that compels millions to adore her through TV screens and magazines. The perfect pop idol. A modern goddess that the world learned to worship.
There are guys in deep Amazonian tribes who have probably jerked off thinking about her. Eskimo teenage girls who wish they had her red, wavy hair. They call her fans ‘Lexians,’ a goofy tribute to the sexual exploration she pushes in her music videos, composed of split-second odes to the perfection of her body. A flash of tender thigh, delicious ass, quivering tits. To the world, she’s a symbol of freedom, feminine power, independence, fantasy, sex, a symbol of everything wrong with America, of everything anyone could ever want. To me, she’s a sucker punch, a thorn I’ve never been able to remove, a pain in the emptiness of my chest, a phantom limb where my heart should be.
Lexi Dark.
And standing right beside her, his hand on the small of her back, is the man who took her away from me: Davis Crawford.
The crowd starts to roar, drowning out the gently-strummed guitar chords of the poor rocker girl on stage, who can’t hold a candle to Lexi’s flame. Lexi raises her arms, making herself as big as can be, as if drawing power from the sycophants in the room. Even the two girls standing in front of us leave, phones in hand, to get a better look and probably take some selfies.
“Come on, bro,” Jax says, as he takes the beer bottle from my loose grip, almost as if he realizes I’m about to drop it. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll get you a slice of pizza.”
I let Jax gently guide me along the bar like the saddest patient on the ward, my head spinning, and then I hear it.