Chapter 13
Present Day
The high of my sabotage mission has worn off by the time I arrive at Gentle Ben’s a few hours after West’s signing, the buzz in my veins giving way to apprehension.
All I managed to do was slightly annoy him and part with twenty-eight bucks—a percentage of which will go toward paying off his advance.
It’s not the first time I’ve spent money on a book of his that I’ll never read, but I don’t plan to make a habit of it.
“Here are your drink tickets.” The hostess hands me two paper tickets. With West’s warning hanging over my head and an author mixer in my immediate future, I have a feeling I’m going to need them. “You can order at the bar upstairs or down; rooftop access is that way.”
I follow her direction and take the stairs to the rooftop bar, where a gust of wind almost blows off my hat. I clamp my hand down on it and scan the crowd for Daphne’s red hair in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
I circle the rooftop three times, growing steadily more desperate with each loop.
I text Daphne and grab us the last empty table while I wait for her to arrive, one hand still glued to my stupid hat.
My nerves about this evening led to a wardrobe crisis in my hotel room, which led to this influencer-core wide-brim hat perched precariously on my head.
Despite packing more than enough outfits for the weekend, when I dumped it all on my hotel bed, I hated everything.
It was all too…bookish. Cardigans and funny T-shirts and jeans at least three years out of style.
The next time West sees me, I want to make him sweat.
Not because I care what he thinks of me but because making him uncomfortable is my current drug of choice.
After years of daydreaming about revenge, it starts here.
With this little vintage sundress that I purchased on Fourth.
The only flaw in my plan is the hat. Tucson’s hard water wreaks havoc on my hair, so when I saw a hat near the register, I made my second impulse purchase of the day. Between West’s novel and this hat, I’m collecting things I hate at a rapid pace. And now I’m committed to the bit.
My phone rings with a call from Daphne. “I saved us a table! Are you close?” I ask.
“I accidentally took a three-hour nap. The jet lag hit hard”—she yawns—“but I’m coming.” She’s been on the road doing events for three weeks; it’s no surprise that she’s exhausted.
“Where are you?” I glance at the street below the bar.
“In my room, but I’m coming, I promise.”
“Daph—”
“I’m putting my shoes on,” she mumbles in a sleepy voice.
I run a hand down my green dress and imagine how much easier it’d be to skip this evening than pretend I feel braver than I do. “Go back to bed.”
Tap water runs in the bathroom, and she makes a garbled sound. “Teeth brushed. Shoes on. What am I forgetting?”
“Go back to sleep, Daph. I’ll be fine.”
She hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“At this point, I’ll be mad if you show up,” I say, already planning my exit strategy. If I walk quickly, I can be watching Bravo from my hotel bed in thirteen minutes.
A sense of being watched tickles the back of my neck as I make my way from one side of the bar to the other.
I duck into the bathroom and check for toilet paper on my shoe or tags that I forgot to bite off my dress, but nothing about my outfit strikes me as embarrassing (other than this cursed hat).
I swish my dress around my legs one last time in the mirror, check the pockets for my phone and hotel room key, and step back onto the rooftop. A pair of eyes cuts away from me, and paranoia creeps into my lungs.
I make eye contact with Sabrina Lowe, an author who debuted the same year as I did. When I smile, she nods before elbowing the man next to her. He looks at me curiously before turning to whisper something to Sabrina.
I’m not imagining it, then. People are talking.
My knees feel like jelly as I approach the bar. “Two shots of whatever will make me forget this night.” I pass my tickets to the bartender.
I hear a scoff over my shoulder, and when I turn, West’s eyes are cold.
“The more things change, the more they stay the same, don’t they?
” He tips his beer in my direction, and I see the exact moment his gaze catches on my bare thighs.
He does a double take, his eyes tracing the line of my dress up to the low neckline that fits snugly against my chest. “Nice dress.”
He doesn’t sound insincere, but I shift under his heavy gaze, suspicious of the compliment. I cross my arms. “Get on with it.”
He pushes his tongue into his cheek, calculating his next move. “Not a day goes by that I regret leaving New York. I saw that there’s a freeze warning this weekend,” he says casually.
I narrow my eyes, waiting.
“Warm tonight, isn’t it?” he continues.
Not particularly. A chill has swept over me as the sun sets, and I’ve been regretting not bringing a jacket.
West must feel differently, because he shrugs his off, revealing the T-shirt he’s wearing underneath.
I pause, too stunned to react. He tilts his head, his eyes roving over my face like searchlights—hungry, eager for my reaction.
Finally, after several seconds in which I can only blink numbly at his chest, I snap out of shock and grab his forearm. I open my mouth to tell him off when I see the blank skin where his tattoo used to be. A second shock. I drop his arm like I’ve been burned.
“Take your shirt off,” I hiss, low and panicky.
“Now? You don’t want to go somewhere more private?
” He lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing a sliver of his flat stomach that nearly gives me vertigo.
Blazoned on West’s T-shirt is a picture of the actor who plays Fox in the Torched movies.
He’s wearing honest-to-god merch. The words Fox Caldwell Fae King are written across the shirt in bold type.
“Not here!” I grab his shirt and yank it down, mortified at my heady response to two inches of bare skin.
My knuckles brush against the hard planes of his stomach, a sensation that steals all my focus until a gust of wind carries my hat and the last of my sanity off the rooftop.
“You have to leave,” I demand as the bartender slides two shots my way.
I shudder as the cinnamon whiskey hits my tongue.
“Have you met my friends?” West gestures to a loud group occupying a table at the edge of the bar. “I’ll introduce you.” His hand presses on the small of my back, and if my stomach feels like hot coals have been dropped inside, it’s only because of the Fireball.
I lock my knees like a petulant teenager. “Everyone is looking.”
“We’re old news, Darling. No one gives a shit about us.”
“Then why did you wear that?”
His lips quirk. “Because I knew you would hate it.” My knees buckle as I let him steer me across the bar, and this time I know I’m not imagining the whispers or the stares that follow.
His hand presses firmly on my shoulder until I find myself on a bench seat.
My dress slides up my legs, revealing a distressing amount of skin, and he drops next to me and scoots close.
His thigh presses against mine, and when he leans back and stretches his arm out on the railing behind me, goose bumps scatter across my chest.
“Take this,” he says, offering his jacket. A familiar scent tickles my nose.
“No, thank you.”
His eyes dip—briefly—to my chest, and I remember that I’m not wearing a bra. He lays the jacket across his lap, and when a gust of wind reveals yet another inch of thigh, I snatch the jacket and spread it over my legs.
He smothers a laugh. “Everyone, this is Mars Darling. Mars, this is Bryan, Jo, Mario, Durfee, and Liza.”
Jo leans toward me, resting her chin in her hands. “I have to tell you that you’re the reason I’m a writer.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for an easy joke that gets a laugh every time.
“So, it’s brutal out there for everyone, not just me?” Mario asks as he looks around the table.
“Here we go.” Jo laughs.
“My publicist told me I should be posting five TikToks a week, as if I don’t already have a full-time job on top of writing,” Liza says, holding her glass up.
“I can’t even tell you how many agents claimed that the market for gay Latino romances is ‘too small,’ ” Mario says with an eye roll.
West points at him. “Fuck. Them.”
“Amen!”
“Let’s see.” Jo turns her glass in her hand. “I was tagged in a review that said my book made them want to gouge their eyeballs out, and I can’t afford health insurance.”
“Hear, hear!” Glasses clink again, and then all eyes shift to me. It’s my turn to join the horror story swap, and Lord knows I have a lot to choose from, one of which is pressed against my side, his eyes fixed on my face.
I lick my lips. If possible, West’s thigh presses harder into mine. “BuzzFeed once called me ‘everything that is wrong with YA fiction,’ ” I say at last. Jo pushes a pitcher of beer toward me. I pour myself a glass.
“Why do we do this again?” Bryan asks.
“Not writing isn’t an option, so I may as well get paid for it,” Jo says.
“Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I’m good at,” Mario says with a laugh.
I open my mouth to commiserate, but the words stick in my throat as West reaches across me to grab a bowl of pretzels from the other end of the table, his muscles flexing under his too-tight Fox merch.
The woodsy scent from earlier overwhelms me, and I feel an antsy, aching need and press my thighs together to make it stop.
When West settles back into his seat, his foot rests against mine under the table.
I kick him to let him know that I’m me, not a piece of furniture.
His neutral expression doesn’t waver as he quickly shifts away.
The table splits into several side conversations. I glance sideways as West pops a pretzel into his mouth and chews slowly. I watch him lick the salt and dust off his fingers. “Something to say, Darling?” he finally asks, turning to catch me staring at him.
A million things run through my head. I hate you. I hate your shirt. It looks terrible on you. I never even think about you anymore. I want to ruin your life.
With a heavy sigh, I tilt my face up to the darkening sky. “Daphne told me not to let you get in my head.” I’m quickly inching my way into tipsy. I wouldn’t have let that slip otherwise.
“And? How’s that working out for you?” he asks on a quiet breath.
“Not great so far, but I never lose the capacity for hope.”
West barely manages to conceal his amusement. Annoyed with both him and myself, I lean back until my shoulder blades brush his arm, and I realize immediately that I’ve made a capital-M Mistake. I bolt upright. “Sorry! I didn’t—I wouldn’t—that was an accident!”
“You’re fine.” Twin flickers of surprise and confusion replace his previous delight.
I pour myself another drink.
Even when I hate West, I can’t help but react to his touch.
It’s been imprinted on my DNA since the very first night we kissed, and not even a decade and a World War III–size grudge can make me forget.
Of all the things he’s ever done, making me fall in love with him when I was nineteen might have been the worst.
West’s eyes search my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s an open mic downstairs!” Jo drains what’s left in her glass and stands. “Prepare yourselves for some slam poetry.”
I nudge West off the bench and step out of his orbit. Now that I don’t have to smell him or touch him or even look directly at him, my brain sharpens. “Congratulations, et cetera. You won this round, but I’ll beat you next time.”
“A bit of a cliché, don’t you think?”
“I’m serious.”
He motions to his shirt. “We each got a shot in, and now we can drop it. We’re even.”
“Nice try, but it’s not even close.”
Downstairs, a crowd of mostly drunk writers gathers in front of a small stage. West leans against a wall in the back and quietly fumes. I’m sure I’d be able to ignore him if not for that infuriating shirt. My eyes are drawn to it every twenty seconds, my heart tripping over itself.
Jo performs a poetry slam that both is technically good and gives me secondhand embarrassment. When another author gets onstage to recite a (mercifully non-slammable) passage from his book, a perfect idea drops fully formed into my half-drunk lap.
I take my place at center stage and reach for the microphone.
“This one is for Fox Caldwell’s number one fan.
” The audience hoots and hollers, plastered but supportive.
I’m surprised. I spare a quick glance at the statue formerly known as West. His stare is heavy and blatant.
It feels like hot water down my spine, and my fingers tremble slightly as I flip West’s book open to a random page.
I clear my throat. “I’ll be reading a passage from West Emerson’s new novel, Drought. ”
West and I haven’t been close in years, not in any way that really matters, but the part of me that’s always been connected to him pulls tight across my ribs.
Anger radiates off him in nuclear waves, and I feel it blistering in my veins.
There’s nothing West finds more excruciating than listening to his own writing, and now he has to do it in a packed house full of colleagues.
I don’t want to look at West again, but I can’t stop myself. His face is half in shadows, but his expression is undeniable.
Don’t.
Please.
His eyes beg me not to, but I forced myself to stop caring about what West Emerson wants a long time ago.
My throat tightens. I thought this moment would feel like winning, but instead it feels like holding a match to something precious.
Well, that’s stupid. I shake off the thought and clear my throat again, buying myself a few extra seconds before doing the thing I swore I never would—reading a West Emerson novel.
It goes like this:
The main character’s car breaks down as he’s trying to leave Arizona in the middle of a scorching heat wave. West’s writing paints a vivid picture, as always. The character gets lost in the desert. Dehydrated and desperate, he stumbles onto a fairy garden.
I pause—something about the scene feels familiar.
My eyes track back over the last few sentences. It’s unclear whether the man is hallucinating; it’s left ambiguous by design. Someone in the audience coughs. Voices murmur. I look up just in time to see the door swing shut behind West’s retreating figure, which can only mean one thing.
I won this round.
The victory doesn’t feel quite like I thought it would.