Chapter Four
Clutching my oversized tote bag to my chest, I look around as cold sweat beads on my back. There are too many people and I don’t have enough space.
I can’t breathe.
I want to crawl out of my skin.
This is a mistake.
I’m reminded of the Halloween party Mia dragged me to when we were seventeen—twins dressed in sexy bunny outfits—only to realize no one else was in costume. Mia laughed and wiggled her fluffy bunny tail at the gaping crowd. I wanted to melt into the ground and disappear.
The sense of déjà vu is strong as I come to a stop several feet from the makeshift stage. Everyone around me is halfway to drunk. What am I doing here? This isn’t me. I’m the responsible, boring, and safe twin who should be at home munching almond cookies and working right now.
Responsible. Safe. Boring. Is that what you really want for the rest of your life, Olive? Mia’s imaginary voice ghosts in my mind.
Shut up. You don’t get a say. You aren’t here anymore.
Suddenly, a sultry heat slithers over my body, and thoughts of escape flee my mind.
Because I make the mistake of looking up and I see him, the man who’s everything I’m not, and someone I should stay far away from.
With two beautiful women in his arms, Rex Anderson looks like a debauched fallen angel, his thick, almost-black hair disheveled in that sexy, just got out of the shower way.
His dark eyes are glazed, the perfect amount of scruff on his chiseled jaw that makes you wonder how it’ll feel against your skin.
He’s wearing his usual lazy smile I know melts the panties off most women, if the gossip rags could be trusted.
His crisp white shirt is fully unbuttoned, toned abs and rippling muscles lovingly caressed by the strobe lights sweeping over the club.
And the way he swivels his hips, it looks like he’s having sex on stage.
I swallow, my breaths quickening.
Despite being friends with his siblings, I don’t know him well.
It’s not that he’s unapproachable, because he obviously is.
I’ve seen the jokes he lobs at his serious brothers, dragging reluctant smiles from them like it’s his life’s purpose.
Then, there are the loving pranks he pulls on Lana, whom I’ve heard he was closest to growing up.
Grace and Taylor, the Andersons’ youngest half-siblings, once told me Rex immediately welcomed them into the fold when they discovered they shared the same dad a few years ago.
But the party prince makes it his purpose to avoid me on the rare occasions when we’re in the same room, as if I’m contagious with an incurable illness.
At first, it was the little things—him not looking me in the eye when I said hello.
I had tried small talk. I had tried soft insults to rile him up.
But nothing. He’d always look through me as if I were invisible.
It’s disconcerting—the warmth he shows others and the frigidness he directs toward me.
I can’t help but think something’s off about him. But no one in his family seems to notice.
So maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe the sharp gaze that occasionally snags on mine, but then will quickly swivel away when he catches me looking, is just dislike.
Or maybe it’s contempt.
And I’m trying, but failing, not to be offended.
I’m used to rejection and unease whenever people find out I’m a psychiatrist. They think I’ll see through their defenses and secretly judge them.
But those people usually need help the most. They have something to hide.
And secrets fester from the inside out. I should know that better than anyone.
The brunette with curves for days is now pawing his chest, and an uncomfortable tug prickles my gut. Indigestion probably. I should eat on time.
Rex laughs, the sound I can’t hear because of the booming music, but that wide, charming smile sends my heart into a fritz.
Normal physiological reactions from seeing a beautiful man. I’d be blind not to react.
Gritting my teeth, I watch him yank the two women closer, the three of them entangled in a half-naked, sultry dance under the spotlight. I can’t help but wonder how it feels not to care what the rest of the world thinks of you. To do whatever you want whenever it strikes you.
To be free.
One woman is now dropping kisses all over his abs.
The indigestion flares again.
I tear my gaze away. I should leave. Why the hell am I here? Just because someone said carpe diem?
Mia isn’t coming back. She’ll never come back.
It’s too late.
No matter what I do, how many lives I save, I’ll never bring her back.
My ribs tighten, strangling my lungs, and my stomach churns.
I clutch my tote tighter against my chest, trying to stave off the sudden wave of nausea when someone plows into me from the side.
Momentarily disoriented, I’m thankful for the sensible flats I have on or I’d have gone down like a bowling ball in the gutter. The blond, clearly drunk culprit barely spares me a glance before mouthing an apology.
Determined to end this temporary lapse of sanity, I take a step toward the exit when the same searing heat burns the back of my neck again.
My hackles rise and I swivel toward the stage, finding an intense pair of slate-gray eyes boring into me.
Rex, still arms full of women, isn’t smiling, even as his body sways to the music. He swirls an amber drink in his hand, the casualness of the gesture completely at odds with the blistering fire in his gaze.
My ears ring and my breath catches. Time distills into staccato fragments.
His gaze trails down my body, the sensation like a physical caress. His eyes darken, a pulse battering against his jawline as he stares at the tote in my arms before snapping his gaze to mine again.
The sexy duo rubs themselves on him, two feral cats gyrating their hips low toward the floor, using his body as a pole. But Rex doesn’t appear to notice when they hump him. I, however, can’t stop my lips from curling in disdain.
Ugh. Get a room.
His intense stare is riveted on me, and his lips part, like the beginnings of arousal have finally found him.
This split second change in his eyes—it’s like a switch flipping off the disdain in my mind.
Suddenly, I forget how to breathe. And all I can think of is how those lips will feel against mine.
Every cell in my body stands at attention. My skin sensitizes—feeling my linen dress brushing against my legs, the tightness of my no-frills bra against my suddenly swelling breasts, the desperate craving I have to be touched, caressed, and kissed. This raw magnetism is palpable.
I don’t remember ever feeling this way with anyone before, least of all him.
Air rushes out of my lungs. I should leave. He’s a mess, a hedonistic flirt who probably goes through women like toilet paper. I shouldn’t be attracted to him. It makes no sense.
His nostrils flare, like he can read my mind. His chest moves rapidly—up and down, up and down—each breath drawing attention to his perfectly sculpted body, glistening with a sheen of sweat.
My fingers twitch. The brunette says something and that fake smile of his reappears, but he doesn’t look away from me.
Then, his tongue dips out, and he slowly wets those perfectly carved lips.
He reaches into his drink and pulls out a cherry, his fingers playing with the stem before he brings the fruit to his lips.
Keeping his eyes on me, he slowly swirls his tongue around the base of the cherry, then flicks it hard before feathering light lashes on it.
Sharp pleasure zings between my legs, my clit answering his suggestive motions with a telltale pulse.
Is this what he looks like when he goes down on you?
My nipples harden, the abrasion from my bra is the most torturous foreplay.
Rex sucks the cherry into his mouth, the motion slow and sensual, his gray eyes now nearly obsidian.
Heat gathers in my core and I fight the urge to clench my thighs because I know he’ll see it. But something must have given me away because after he finishes eating the fruit, he licks his lips like he’s still famished.
Like he wants me.
Unbidden, I touch my tingling bottom lip, feeling his sexy swipe on my skin.
Those piercing eyes flash with darkness. Danger, Olivia. Run. He steps forward, only to be held back by his companions.
What am I doing? I’m better than this. I don’t make bad decisions like flirting with my best friends’ older brother, who clearly has problems. The man doesn’t even like me, right?
The thought slaps me awake from this strange trance. Why do I want to shake him and climb him at the same time?
And why does it look like he’ll let me?
It’s Rex. He’ll let anyone with a vagina use him. He’s a playboy. I know his type. He prefers to ignore his problems and bury his head in the proverbial sand by surrounding himself with pleasure.
He’s the definition of someone who doesn’t want to do the work.
This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.
I shake my head and straighten.
Whatever he sees on my face has him standing taller as well, the fire in his eyes replaced with ice.
The redhead grabs his face and plants her lips on his.
Acid roils in my gut, and I want to throw up. You’re disgusted, Olivia. That’s why you’re feeling this way.
Still staring at me, Rex hauls the redhead close, then kisses her back. But just as abruptly, he pulls away. A small smirk tips his lips, like he’s taunting me.
But then, the strangest thing happens.
His gaze softens, and he frowns.
Like something flashed through his mind, and now he’s in pain.
I stumble back and press a hand to my chest, an answering ache flaring there. It has to be a trick of the flashing lights.
Because I recognize this expression. Twisted anguish hidden behind fake charm and smiles. Cries for help in the form of boisterous laughter.
Carpe diem.
I didn’t notice the signs until it was too late.
Like a mirage, the hurt in his eyes disappears. Rex twists his lips into a cruel smirk and curls his arms around the women’s waists again. See what I have, Olivia? People fawning over me. I’m not alone like you.
I narrow my eyes, then cock my brow. I’m delusional. This is Rex Anderson, the man who takes nothing seriously. Stop conflating Mia with him.
Before I can stop myself, I flick him the middle finger.
Not today, bastard.
He grins, the devious smile sending my pulse racing again.
Then, out of nowhere, searing flashes blind the stage in white. Chaos. Yelling. Reporters hurling questions at the devil.
“Rex! Don’t you think your partying is getting out of hand?” someone shouts.
“Does your family know you’re stripping on stage?”
“Are you high? On drugs? Aren’t you worried about your upcoming cruise?”
I shrink back from the commotion, desperate to leave this hellhole. But when I take one last look at the perplexing man, I find him ignoring the press, his attention firmly on me.
Before I can analyze why butterflies are beating their wings in my stomach, I turn around and flee.
And I feel his stare the entire way out.