Chapter Two Vivian
Chapter Two
Vivian
“He’s not so bad, you know.”
I turn my head, looking to where Murphy lies next to me, staring up at the ceiling.
“Who?”
“Memphis.”
I snort.
“I’m serious, V. I might have complained a lot about him and Dad, but ... I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I reply, kicking one leg out from underneath the sheet, trying to get comfortable. “It matters what you think.”
“I know, and I’m telling you, I think Memphis is actually pretty great. Most of the time, at least.”
“A rave review,” I reply, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Murphy laughs into a yawn, then turns on her side to face me. “I’m just saying ... If you see him or my dad around while you’re in town, feel free to tone down the guard dog in your soul. I appreciate it, but really, things are pretty good.”
“Okay so ... maybe I do have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Just a little.”
I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently.
“Just making sure your brother sees that you have someone in your corner.”
Murphy leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I never doubted it for a second.” Then she turns onto her other side, facing away from me. “Night, Viv.”
“Night, Murph.”
She’s softly snoring within a few minutes. I, unfortunately, am not so lucky. Instead, I stay awake, lost in my thoughts, my mind racing and unable to be quieted, no matter what I do.
I wasn’t honest with her about the real reason I’m here. The last thing I want is to rehash the past few days of my life. With anyone. Even with someone I trust as much as Murphy.
So I told her I’m here to write. That my manager sent me on a trip to work on the last few songs for my album. A little writing retreat to stoke the creative juices.
Technically, it will be true. Probably. I’m scheduled to go into the studio soon, and there is plenty that I need to work on between now and then to make sure I’m ready.
But in truth, Todd has no idea I’ve even left LA. He has no idea that my life has blown apart. I’m sure if he knew, he’d be upset for me on all counts, because that’s the kind of manager Todd is. The kind that actually cares about his talent for more reasons than just dollar signs.
He is my manager, though, and as much as I appreciate that he cares, I don’t want to talk to him about it, either. Because he’ll try to wax poetic about it and turn everything into a positive, at least where my music is concerned.
So, instead of facing what happened, instead of dealing with reality, I ran.
I had Theo’s things boxed up and removed from my condo. I changed the locks. I avoided his calls and texts.
I haven’t been ready to face it all.
My phone vibrates with a text message. The light pierces through the darkness of Murphy’s bedroom, casting everything in a cool glow. I let out a long, frustrated sigh. Then I grab my phone off the nightstand and finally read through the messages I’ve been ignoring all day.
Theo: I’ve tried calling you for two days, Vi. Two .
Theo: You’re absolutely overreacting. She means nothing to me.
Theo: This is ridiculous. I’m coming home after work. You can’t kick me out forever.
Theo: You seriously left town?
Theo: Where the hell is all my stuff?
And the one that just came through.
Theo: Come on, Vi. Are we ever going to talk this out?
Maybe for some women, his constant messages and calls are enough to at least respond once. Enough to warrant giving the man a chance to provide an explanation that’s as much truth as it is lies.
But I’m not “some women,” and honestly, it doesn’t matter what Theo has to say.
I am absolutely not overreacting, and there is nothing he can tell me that will get me to forgive him for cheating on me after three years together. Nothing.
What Theo did ... It robbed me of something important. Something that was sacred, and precious, and can never be replaced.
My trust.
When it lights up again, I power my phone down, not wanting to be bothered anymore tonight.
Not that shutting off my phone will allow me to get any sleep.
Eventually, I push myself out of bed and grab a sweater from my bag, then slip quietly from Murphy’s room. Making my way through the darkened house, I tiptoe across the cool terra-cotta tiles and out through the french doors that lead from the living room to the covered patio that faces the vineyard.
The moon is bright, lighting up the vines that stretch out before me as I take a seat on the stone steps. Pulling my sweater snug around my body, I tilt my head back and breathe in deeply, my eyes closed.
The air here smells so different. It’s damp and earthy and tinged with a little bit of sweetness.
And it’s quiet. So quiet. I can hear crickets chirping and the breeze rustling the trees that line the edge of the property.
I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just so different from the city I’ve known most of my life.
For me, nights are filled with the sound of crashing waves in the distance, the occasional sirens, and people out on the streets until early hours of the morning. The briny smell of the ocean mixes with warm concrete and the gardenia plant that my neighbor kept on her balcony.
Now that I’m here, experiencing how peaceful my friend’s home is, it makes sense why Murphy has always claimed she had a hard time falling asleep for the first year she lived in Santa Monica.
I laugh quietly to myself and shake my head.
Murphy hated growing up here, but the one positive thing she repeated over and over is how beautiful it is. And damn was she right.
Rosewood is a beautiful place. I enjoyed sitting out on the patio at the restaurant earlier, looking at the vines as the sun was setting, the rolling hills and trees stretching out in the distance in a way that’s so picturesque, it doesn’t feel entirely real.
She told me that if I ever wanted to plan a girls’ weekend trip or just get away, that this town was a great place to do it. So, in my moment of need, this is where I came.
And something tells me I made the right choice.
I sit for a few more minutes before pushing to my feet and heading back inside. I’d been hoping to go outside to distract myself from my thoughts, but it’s so quiet all I can hear are the very thoughts I’m trying to avoid.
Instead of returning to Murphy’s room for more of that riveting staring contest I’ve been having with the little stars all over her ceiling, I wander into the kitchen and tug open the freezer, thinking maybe some ice cream might be the cure for my mental funk.
A small carton of mint chocolate chip is sitting front and center, and I snatch it with glee, smiling when I peek inside and see that there are more than a few bites left.
Perfect.
After hunting down a spoon, I dig in, closing my eyes and moaning quietly when the cool mint explodes on my tongue.
There is nothing better than a sneaky ice cream in the middle of the night to take your mind off things.
“What are you doing?”
My eyes fly wide, my entire body jerking with surprise at the dark figure standing in the doorway, and I drop the carton and spoon on the floor.
Pressing my hand to my chest, I take a deep breath, trying to quiet my racing heart.
Then I pin Memphis with a glare, only staring at his shirtless chest for a brief second. “Sneaking ice cream, which would be a lot easier if you didn’t appear out of the darkness like a serial killer.”
Bending, I pick my mess up off the floor, then turn to rinse the spoon in the sink. Once I’m done, I spin back around and look Memphis right in the eye.
“What are you doing?” I take another bite. “Besides scaring the shit out of me.”
“I was planning to sneak some ice cream,” he replies, crossing the kitchen in my direction and tilting the carton in my hand. He glances inside, sighs, then lets it go. “But it looks like an unwanted houseguest stole my last bites.”
Part of me wants to slam the carton on the counter, storm from the room, and leave him to eat the final two or three scoops all by himself. But that might be a bit of an overreaction. And Murphy did say I should cool the guard dog in me a smidge.
So instead, I spoon a tiny bit and bring it to my mouth, looking him right in the eyes as I place it on my tongue. And then I moan around the cool metal, enjoying this bite even more knowing that Memphis had wanted it.
He narrows his eyes at me, irritation evident even in the darkness.
“What is your problem?” Memphis’s question is gritted out at me, filled with frustration.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take another spoonful and bring it to my mouth, moaning again.
“You know, I was having trouble falling asleep,” I eventually say, “but now that I’ve had this delicious ice cream, all to myself ... well, I should sleep like a baby.”
I’m being a little too caustic. I know that.
But I’ve been plotting his demise for the better part of ten years.
Okay, so maybe I wasn’t actually plotting his demise. And sure, I’ve never interacted with him before tonight, and that might make my feelings a little ... much.
Murphy shared a lot over the years about her struggles with her family. And even though most of her frustration has been directed at her father, feeling that her older brother seemed completely content without her in his life caused her a lot of hurt, too. I witnessed her tears plenty of times, and that was enough for me to add him to my shit list.
Which made it such a disappointment earlier tonight when Memphis introduced himself at the restaurant bar.
Theo and I haven’t had sex in months, which was mildly frustrating while we were dating, and I was horny and very unsatisfied but just assumed we were facing a lull in our sex life. But now that I know he’s been stepping out? That he’s been getting his dick wet with other women?
I’m infuriated. Infuriated and adamant that I find someone to sleep with so that I can officially move on from Theo and place him squarely in the past, where he belongs.
I thought I’d found the perfect opportunity with Mr. Bartender. By the way he’d been watching me as I teased him, I was almost positive we’d be closing down the bar together and heading ... somewhere.
And let’s be honest, I would have let a man who looks like Memphis take me anywhere .
It’s been a long time since I’ve been ravaged, and he seemed like he could be just the man for the job.
My eyes scan him up and down in the darkness of the kitchen, appreciating the firm cut of his jaw and the way his hair is a little bit too long, possibly tussled from a restless sleep. His broad shoulders and toned arms are crossed against his chest, and his basketball shorts hug his trim hips below that sexy-as-fuck pelvic muscle that I want to lick.
Memphis Hawthorne is a treat and a half.
If only he wasn’t my best friend’s older brother.
And a bossy asshat.
“I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that my sister went to LA and befriended a crazy lady. I hear that place is filled with lunatics.”
My nostrils flare at the jab.
“God, you are everything I assumed you would be,” I tell him, stabbing my spoon into a chunk of ice cream.
“Oh yeah? And what did you assume?”
“Judgmental, for one.”
“Me?” His voice rises, but then he lowers it again. “Says the woman who hung me on a cross when she doesn’t even know me.”
“Bossy.”
“That’s not a critique. That’s a fact, and one I don’t apologize for.”
I growl with irritation. “Ugh. And arrogant. Cocky. Certain you’re always right about everything. Men like you are infuriating. Especially when you look the way you do because you think you can do whatever and say whatever and never face any accountability for the damage you cause.”
Memphis’s head jerks back, and there’s a beat of silence. Suddenly I realize I’ve said too much. Half of that wasn’t even about Memphis, and a thread of embarrassment ripples through me at the knowledge that I’ve pushed too far.
Especially because ... maybe this brittle and irritated feeling is less about Memphis than I thought it was, and more about my own bullshit.
“I’m sorry, that was ...” I trail off, staring down at the last bite of ice cream at the bottom of the carton in my hand.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am crazy.
“Don’t apologize,” Memphis says. “Not when you meant what you said.”
Then he surprises me by plucking the carton out of my hand, and I watch with unblinking eyes as he grabs my spoon and scoops out the last bite to eat himself.
I let out a quiet chuckle and shake my head, all my bluster and bravado leaking out of me like a deflating balloon. “I might have meant what I said, but ... it definitely wasn’t all about you.”
He hums softly but doesn’t say anything else. Instead he just stands there, one arm crossed, the other holding the spoon in his mouth, watching me.
And even though it’s dark in the kitchen, the moonlight cascading through the windows is enough that I can see that his eyes are assessing me. Taking me in and trying to figure me out.
It’s not unfamiliar, having a man watch me.
Maybe it sounds bold, but I know what I look like. My red hair and curvy figure attract attention, mostly from men.
But what is unfamiliar is wanting to be watched.
From the moment our eyes connected at the bar, something in the back of my mind said that I wanted his gaze on me at all times.
Which is a bit infuriating considering how certainly I believed I would despise him.
“I’m sorry I ate the last of your ice cream,” I finally say, extending an olive branch. “That was rude of me.”
Memphis shrugs. “It would have been rude if it was the last of the ice cream.”
I blink, confused, and I watch as he walks to the fridge and opens the freezer door, digging around for a second before pulling out another carton.
My mouth drops open. “You knew that was in there this whole time?”
He grins, shrugs, and closes the door. “You’re not the only person in the world who eats ice cream in the middle of the night.”
I cross my arms as he tugs off the lid and peels off the protective seal. And when he takes a big bite, mischief clear on his face, my eyes narrow.
But there’s no real heat behind it.
No, the heat is in my belly as he scoops out another bite and puts it in his mouth, watching me the entire time. It’s almost sinful, and I can’t help the way I get distracted by his mouth. It happened earlier, at the bar too, and I’d found myself unable to look away as he spoke, as he licked his lips, as the edges tilted up with a smile.
It made me wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips.
Among other things.
We stand in silence as he takes a second bite. But then he jabs his spoon into the dairy confection and extends the carton my way.
I pause only briefly before accepting his offer.
“I’m surprised you’re willing to share this with me, considering the stink you made when I was eating it before,” I tease, scooping a small spoonful.
He shrugs a shoulder. “I figured if there’s a way to appease the crazy lady rummaging through my kitchen in the middle of the night, I better take advantage of it.”
I snort and roll my eyes, but I don’t address his “crazy lady” comment, just enjoy another bite before passing the carton back.
“You never told me any of those scandalizing stories from the nightclub.”
He’s kind to not mention why: because I had declared him the enemy the second he told me his name.
Nibbling on the inside of my cheek, I think it over, trying to decide what story to share.
“Well, there were the many times I caught people having sex in a bathroom stall,” I say, testing the waters with a story that could be any nightclub on any night.
Memphis scoffs. “Oh, come on, I thought you were going to scandalize me.” He sets the ice cream on the counter and leans back, crossing his arms. “Isn’t sex in a bathroom stall like ... an intro to what happens at a nightclub?”
I laugh at how directly he’d echoed my own thoughts. “All right, that’s fair.”
I reach out and grab the carton, digging in for another bite as I think back, trying to find a different story. A better one that might be more likely to shock him.
After taking another spoonful, I return the carton to the island counter.
“I only worked at the club for six months,” I start, bracing my hands behind me and lifting myself up so I’m seated on the edge. “Toward the end, I moved from the main bar to the private bar, which was in a room that overlooked the dance floor. And on my first night, this guy came in with a big entourage. We chatted for a little bit when he took a seat at the bar, but I left him alone when this girl came and sat in his lap.”
As the memory flits through my mind, I still can hardly believe it really happened.
“When I checked in a few minutes later to refill his drink, the girl was like ... gyrating against him. Which isn’t the craziest thing in the world. I figured she was grinding against him like people do at a club.”
Pinning Memphis with a look that says I was wrong, I finish the story.
“They were having sex. Right there at the bar. And by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Both of them were watching me as they finished.” I shake my head. “It was outrageous and wicked, and it totally freaked me out.”
It was also kind of hot, but I don’t say that part out loud. Because who thinks that?
I smile at Memphis’s shocked expression.
“So, Mr. Bartender ... Are you officially scandalized?”
He rubs his palm along the faint hint of stubble at his chin, his own mischievous smile creeping out. “Maybe.”
“If you want another dirty story,” I tease, “I might be able to find something else. In exchange for more ice cream, of course.”
He smirks. “Of course.”
Memphis steps forward and hands me the carton, but when I expect him to take a step back, he doesn’t. Instead, his hands brace the counter on either side of my hips, his face dipping toward mine as he steps between my legs.
It’s a flirtatious move. I know that. He knows that.
The only thing neither of us could possibly know is whether the flirtatious move will become something else entirely.
And as much as I’ve promised myself to despise him, my body doesn’t seem to be on the same page.
Not looking away, I scoop a tiny bit of ice cream from the carton and lift it between us, placing the spoon gently against his mouth. His eyes search mine for a second, but he parts his lips, and I feed him a bite.
“Oh, look.” I say, my voice quiet as I wipe away a bit of cream at the edge of his mouth. “You’ve got a little something ...”
But Memphis’s patience has disintegrated, and before I can continue with whatever little game I was considering, his lips are on mine.
Surprise blisters its way through my body, but so does lust, and I clumsily set the ice cream down beside me, not even caring when I hear a loud thunk as it falls onto the counter.
Then my arms are wrapping around his neck as I open my mouth against his, the taste of mint chocolate chip exploding on my tongue as we begin to explore each other. Memphis’s arms wrap around my waist, tugging me tightly against his body, pressing hard and hot between my legs.
My stomach swoops, and I think back to earlier tonight, when I asked him if he pictured me on my knees or on my back.
I need this. Desperately. Something raw and sordid, right here in the kitchen. Bent over the counter or laid out on the table.
I moan when he shifts against me, and then my head falls back as he kisses and licks at my neck.
The light in the kitchen turns on, and we both freeze at the sound of a throat clearing on the other side of the room.
Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, I turn my head, embarrassment splashing like a bucket of cold water all over my body when I see who I can only assume is Murphy and Memphis’s father standing in the archway between the kitchen and the hallway that leads to the front of the house.
“Thought I’d get myself a little late-night snack,” he starts, “but I can see someone else had the same idea.”
The joke surprises me, considering everything Murphy has ever told me about her father, but I can hardly concentrate on that when I’m too busy wishing I could fall through the floor and disappear forever.
Memphis clears his throat and releases me, though he doesn’t move away, and I can only assume it’s because he’s hard as a rock.
“Dad, I . . .”
“Don’t.” Mr. Hawthorne holds his hands up. “Just ... head back to your room, okay? Murphy’s friend is visiting, and I don’t want one of them to stumble upon”—he waves his hand in our direction—“this.”
Mortification begins to creep through my body at his assumption that I’m not Murphy’s friend—because Murphy’s friend could never be the horrible human hooking up with Memphis in the kitchen, obviously—and I’m thankful when he finally leaves the kitchen.
But he doesn’t flip the light back off, and in the harsh brightness of the fluorescent lights, I’m struggling to make sense of what happened.
Memphis finally backs off, and my eyes dip for a second, finding the hard length of him tenting his shorts and confirming my earlier suspicions.
I hop off the counter, then turn my back to him, giving myself a moment to collect my thoughts. I reach into the sink and pull out the slightly melty carton of ice cream.
“That was ... less than ideal,” Memphis says, and I can hear the mixture of amusement and embarrassment in his tone.
Licking my lips, I chuckle awkwardly. “Yeah. Can’t remember the last time I was walked in on by someone’s dad,” I reply, trying to push back my own mortification. “Maybe that’s the universe saying this isn’t a good idea.”
Memphis says nothing as I put the lid back on the ice cream and then slip the container into the freezer, and when I turn to look at him, I find him watching me with an easy expression.
“At least tonight,” I add, drinking him in where he stands, his body now on display to me in the brightness. “I mean, I don’t know what we were thinking ...”
“We weren’t,” he says, a contrite look on his face. “But thankfully, nothing happened.”
His voice sounds hollow, though, no true conviction behind what he’s said.
And I get it.
Because I’m not thankful nothing happened, even though I probably should be.
Sighing, I grab the spoon off the counter and place it in the sink.
“I’m gonna ...” I jerk a thumb in the direction of the hallway. “Head back to bed. I guess I’ll see you around?”
He nods.
“Hopefully things won’t be weird for the rest of my trip.”
His entire body seems to freeze in place. Except for his nostrils. They flare, which is plenty of indication that he’s displeased about something.
“I thought you were just staying one night.”
“I am. Here. But I’ll be in town for two weeks.”
His chin juts up and he shakes his head, barely.
“How inconvenient.”
His words fall from him in a grumble, and my lips part in shock. But before I can say anything else, he’s left the room.
I blink a few times, my eyes staring at the empty space he left behind for far longer than is warranted.
What the hell was that about?
I slap off the kitchen light and then return outside. I plant my butt on the cold tile of the porch, with my feet on the steps. Staring into the moonlight, I try to make sense of what happened. To reconcile Memphis’s quick shift from charming tomcat to irritable grouch.
The longer I sit in the cool, damp night air, though, the more exhausted I feel. The last thing I want to do is try to decipher what is going on in that brain of his when I have my own bullshit to figure out.
And as much as I wish having blistering chemistry and a little bit of fun was enough to take my mind off the drama I left behind in LA, clearly, it’s not.