Chapter Eighteen
Rocky
This was a fucking mistake. And I don’t cop to making them that easily, but as I weave through the half-drunken party that’s already body-to-body in the boathouse, I realize how quickly I’ve lost Phoebe.
“Can’t we take this up to the house?” someone whines. “It’s so hot in here.”
The house is the mansion at the top of the grassy hill. The boathouse is detached and basically serves as an in-laws’ suite: two bed, one bath, wine cellar, high-tech kitchen, and wood-paneled living room that’s accommodating a hundred people at minimum right now. Last I checked, the rooftop is holding half as many, and Phoebe wasn’t there.
Where the fuck is she?
I shouldn’t be searching for her. I should be seducing and flirting. Two words that dump a heap of salt in my brain. To flirt and seduce are cheap tricks everyone uses to get what they want.
Even me.
“No, no one is leaving the boathouse,” a girl says loudly and clearly over the thumping bass of today’s Top Hits. “My dad doesn’t care about this place, but if you trash the main house, I’ll be written out of the will.”
A guy laughs.
“I’m not kidding, Karl!”
Reaching a sliding glass door, I stick my head outside. Is she here? The upper deck faces the bay, and a gust of salty air and cigar smoke hits me. A couple men up-nod. The one wearing a Ralph Lauren polo and loafers gives me a suggestive once-over. “Do we know you?”
You wish.
“Not today.” I slip back into the masses and check my watch.
It’s been ten minutes.
What the fucking fuck.
Why can’t I find her?
Why am I still looking for her?
She’s probably in some back room getting dicked down. I comb a rough hand through my hair. No. I’m not letting those unwanted, puke-inducing thoughts raid my brain.
I pass more bodies, the age range about twenties to early thirties. A mixture of locals, college students (haven’t warmed up to calling them caufers yet), and skunks.
Then there’s me. I’m something else. A snake that’s found a crack in the foundation, slithering my way inside.
No one hired a bartender, but the booze is flowing. It’s an informal party, held by the girl with blonde waves and a perpetual wince. “Really, Karl?” she keeps saying. “Were you raised in a barn?”
Her friend oinks, and laughter follows.
Hilarious.
I shift further through the house and overhear a couple girls chatting by a large Murano glass vase. “Jake was supposed to be here tonight, but he got a call from his mom.”
His name sends obnoxious smoke signals to my head. He’s the last person I want to think about right now, and I’m about to walk away when I hear, “I’m surprised he doesn’t loathe her. She treats him like her errand boy compared to his other brothers—”
The host of the party suddenly rounds this way with extreme worry. “Get away from the vase.” Her eyes pinpoint to the fragile Murano glass near the girls.
I take my cue to leave this area.
As I make my way around the house, I gather her father loves Italy. He’s either traveled there frequently, is Italian, or just has an admiration for the country. Or maybe it’s all three. Most of the artworks on the walls are Italian painters. I recognize Caravaggio’s realism and dramatic contrast of light and dark. And instead of hanging family pictures, the boathouse owner framed landscapes of Venice. I walk past photos of the canals and the Bridge of Sighs.
Houses say a lot about people.
Yet, the more information I’m collecting, the more a grating sensation rubs me raw. She’s fucking someone right now.
Yeah, I am a thousand percent distracted. Not only from learning more about the people in this town but from getting laid, too. Can’t even be shocked that Phoebe is a mental disruption. She’s been a jackhammer carving out a chunk inside me since we were kids, and I couldn’t excise her.
Mostly because I never wanted to.
Why would I evict the one person who I trust more than anyone else in this dog-eat-dog world? I never need to put on a false pretense with Phoebe, and where most people probably couldn’t stomach who I really am, she always could.
I weave and slip around college students. One drunker guy in a Caufield Lacrosse tee tries to fill his glass with an empty bottle of Absolut. He rattles the bottle like more will magically appear.
The liquor cabinet is nearby, and I pluck a full bottle of Grey Goose from the half-empty shelf. I hand it over. “Here.”
He sees and immediately grins. “Thanks, man.” He pats my shoulder and pours the liquor.
“Hey, we’re about to run out of beer,” I tell him. “I’m collecting some funds to grab some more.”
“Yeahyeah. No problem.” He sets down his glass and takes out his wallet. I watch him fish out a couple hundreds and absentmindedly give them to me.
“Thanks, bro.” I pat his arm like he did me and slip back into the crowd. It feels as easy as breathing. Asking for money. Having people give it to me.
Sliding the cash into my back pocket, I decide to return to the rooftop. To look for Phoebe. I’m not deluding myself. I know that’s what I’m fucking doing.
Chatter disturbs any semblance of quiet up here, and then a high-pitched scream pierces the night: “Collin!”
Collin Falcone backflips off the rooftop and splashes into the bay. His friends strip buck naked and join him. Others start goading women to do the same. Bras fly, then panties.
Under the moonlight, more people begin skinny-dipping.
A blonde girl slinks into my line of sight. She tries to steal my attention as her fingers toy with the strap of her deep red bra.
Sidney Burke.
Nineteen-year-old Caufield student majoring in Economics.
Daughter of Weston Burke, a widower and prominent member of Victoria Country Club. Also known as the fucking prick who acts like Phoebe is his on-call escort.
And oh yeah, we hate each other. Publicly.
Gossip is currency in small towns, and my stock shot down after pissing off Weston. Not that I care. As long as I’m not banned from the club and these social circles, I’d rather make an enemy out of him. I’ve walked more dangerous lines.
“I heard about you,” Sidney says, trying to draw me back. “I’m Sidney.”
I know.
Being a pawn between a father and a daughter—that’s not my idea of a good time. So if she’s looking for me to fuck her to stick it to her rich daddy, she’ll have to use someone else.
And I know better than to stoke a war with someone who already recognizes my trigger is Phoebe.
“You’re Grey, right?” Sidney asks and drops her bra at her feet.
My head is leveled and unmoving, and my gaze is trained in precision on her face. Her lips form an uncertain O as I let her see malice cross me.
She’s trying to seduce me when I’m supposed to be seducing any living, breathing body. People make this shit too easy, and I’ve bypassed multiple chances to win the deal I made with Phoebe.
I’m actively losing at this point.
“I’m not good for you,” I tell her darkly.
I’m immoral, unethical, and deceitful.
Sidney teases the hem of her panties, not deterred yet. “Maybe I’m not good for you.”
Not only is my dick limp, but my brain is so far out to sea. Irritation pinches my brows, and I harden my gaze so I don’t roll my eyes halfway across the ocean.
“You’re single?” she wonders.
“Divorced.” I cut my eyes to the water and try to see if Phoebe joined the other skinny-dippers. She could be on the dock already, below the house where the boats are stored.
I haven’t checked there yet.
“I heard about that, too,” Sidney says.
“You came,” someone says behind me. The new voice pulls me away from my search and from Sidney.
“Val,” I greet, grateful for the easy escape. “Thanks for the invite.” I sense Sidney picking up her bra and laughing at a comment her friend makes, brushing off our exchange as she joins a huddle of girls.
“Anytime.” Val cups a mixed drink. Her face lights up more, glad to be remembered. “How are you liking it so far?”
I could play it up with the cliché, Better now that you’re here. Flirt.
Seduce.
Things that’ll take me a step closer to learning about Carlsbad, but I’m already half-assing this by scowling.
I stare out at the water. “Skinny-dipping, expensive liquor, and shitty music. My favorite.” I don’t conceal my normal dry tone.
She frowns but then plays it off. “Yeah, the music sucks. Alexa can’t pick songs for shit.”
Where’s Phoebe? A sadness weighs on me, and I stuff my fists in my leather jacket.
Val notices my empty hands. “Want a drink?”
“I could use a whiskey.” I find myself back at the liquor cabinet and wet bar. This time with Val, and while I pour amber liquid in a glass, she’s trying to convince me to attend the town’s clambake.
“It’s hit or miss on who attends, but the food is always amazing. You really should come, and I... uh,” Val begins to stammer.
I look up from the whiskey, capping the bottle. Phoebe. My pulse skips, and I steel my jaw.
She’s stuck in the short hallway, trying to push through the crowds to reach either the bathroom or the bedrooms. She’s not alone.
A taller, lean-built man has his hands on her shoulders. Directing her forward, even in the traffic jam. Glasses frame his angular face, and a bad taste fills my mouth.
Archer Fitzpatrick.
Twenty-eight-year-old English professor at Caufield.
Son of Stella Fitzpatrick, who’s the best friend of Claudia Koning Waterford (owner of the Victoria Country Club).
I’m short-circuiting—caught between pushing toward Phoebe and cementing in place. But before I decide which route to take, Phoebe sees me.
With Valentina.
We’re staring one another down. Blood courses through my veins, and my feelings aren’t jumbled. They aren’t confusing or enlightening.
Jealousy is ripe inside me. It’s aged into a heady richness over so many twisted years.
Seeing as how she’s en route to a bedroom and she hasn’t sent a post-fuck text, I’m catching her before the final act.
“I think that’s your ex,” Val says, as if Phoebe and I aren’t currently glaring at one another across the living room. “Oh, I think she’s coming over here.”
Phoebe leaves Archer after a few quick words, and she beelines for us at the wet bar. Her dark blue hair is tied in a messy pony, and her thick brows are crinkled with hot purpose.
She’s not sleeping with him. She’s coming toward me. The alleviating thought is squashed fast. Because Archer is waiting for her in the hallway. His arms cross with slight impatience.
“Hey. Valentina, right?” Phoebe asks, trying to be polite, but her lips are pinched in an angry pout. A smile is lost inside of me. Getting under Phoebe’s skin is an enjoyment, but her hot-blooded entrance and that fucking ponytail are burying a need in me.
Why her?
I’m pissed that I can’t get rid of her. I’m pissed that being around her makes me want to hold her and do bad things to her, and I’m pissed that when she’s gone I only want to find her.
“Yeah, Valentina,” Val answers hesitantly, still not offering her nickname to Phoebe. She studies me, then my ex.
I take a swig of sharp whiskey. It burns going down. “Can I help you, Phoebe?” I hear the coarse grit in my voice.
“No.” She glares. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Valentina. Just want to give you some advice about this one.” She jabs a thumb at me.
Val looks more curious. “Ohhkay. What about Grey?”
Phoebe steals the whiskey out of my hand. “He has a massive penis.”
Val nearly chokes on her mixed drink. “Oh my God.” Her eyes widen up to me.
I stare unblinkingly at Phoebe. She has seen my dick before (not an unfortunate fact, but one I should regret), and if this is her attempt at cockblocking me, she’s swerving into a wall.
“Classy as fuck,” I tell Phoebe.
“Again, not talking to you.” Phoebe is on a mission.
I shake my head, and I try to shadow a smile that twitches. I steal my whiskey back before she takes a sip, and I swallow more.
“Massive penis,” Phoebe repeats, “but—”
“Always a but,” I jump in.
Phoebe is annoyed, and I’m loving pissing her off as much as she’s been aggravating me. “But,” she emphasizes, “you know what they say. Size doesn’t always matter. Not when you don’t know how to use it.”
I lift my whiskey to my mouth. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“It was a you problem,” she lies.
We’ve never had sex.
She wants to fabricate a sex life we’ve never had? Fine. I can play this game better. “See, that’s not what you told our marriage counselor. You said, and I quote, ‘The sex was never the problem.’?”
Her cheeks turn rosy, but she continues to acknowledge Val. “I just want you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You never could handle me in bed,” I tell Phoebe, and instantly, I regret the lie.
Her gaze snaps to me in hurt. Real hurt. “You never gave me the chance.” Her voice is stinging.
I couldn’t.
We can’t.
I push a hot hand through my hair.
Val shifts her weight, noticeably uncomfortable and confused. What Phoebe said to me makes no sense in our fake marriage. “I should let you two talk this out.” She waits for me to say, No, stay.
But I don’t.
I let Val go, and once she’s out of earshot, I swallow more whiskey. “Putting on a master class in bitchery?”
“Bitchery. Assholery.” She steals the whiskey out of my hand again. “I’ve learned from the best.” She downs the last drop.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I say dryly.
“Phoebe!” Archer calls out to her, and as she whirls around to follow the voice, I leave the bar and match her stride.