10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
“ T his?” Gigi asks about a black, skin-tight dress that perfectly accentuates the curve of her hips.
“This one?” she asks about a red long-sleeve, still skin tight but with—disappointingly—no cleavage.
“Okay,” she calls as I wait, eyes squeezed shut, on her bed. “You can open your eyes. I like this one, but it’s not—”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I tell her quietly, shaking my head as I look over the magenta dress she’s now got on. It’s short, with a v-neck that dips almost to her belly button. The back, I notice as she twirls, is just as deliciously low, stopping right at her tailbone.
“Yeah, that’s…” Too hot. Too much. Too good. So good that if she wears that, she won’t be coming home with me tonight.
“Black,” I tell her, my voice thick. “The black one is good.”
“You’re just saying that because of the cleavage , ” she says.
I shrug. “Do you want my help or not?”
“I’ll wear the black one,” she decides, turning to survey the dress splayed out on her bed. “Yeah. Black is the one, I think.”
“Because I said it was?” I ask. “Or because you want to wear the black one?”
Gigi rolls her eyes, grinning. “Can you leave me to finish getting ready?”
“I don’t know,” I challenge. “Do I have to leave before you take off that dress?”
She gives me a look. “Have I mentioned yet today how thankful I am that I’m not trying to impress you, Cade?”
She may not be trying , but she’s still managing to do it. Gigi in a dress—or any outfit, I’ve realized over the past few days—puts me and my usual T-shirt and ripped jeans to shame. I’m starting to think I should have picked something better to wear out tonight.
I obey, leaving Gigi to her own devices to finish getting ready and making my way down the stairs to her living room.
I’m so excited. Not just to see her in the dress she picked, but to see her in an element I haven’t yet. People act differently, sometimes more themselves, after a drink or two.
Sue me for wanting to see Gigi with her guard down, if only for one night.
“I’m so happy she’s making friends,” Belinda says to me from the kitchen. She emerges with a nearly overflowing glass of white wine. “Can I get you a drink before you go?”
“No thanks,” I say. “Best if I start at the bar.”
“Not only did I not expect her to make friends,” Gigi’s mother continues, “but I didn’t expect her to attract the interest of a man so…” She eyes me. “Out of her league, if you will. I love my daughter, but you’re—”
“Gigi and I are just friends,” I tell her mother. I shift my weight, scratching uncomfortably at the back of my neck. “She’s a great girl.”
“Between you and me,” Belinda says quietly, “you can do much better. But you know that, I’m sure. Such a charitable man taking my Gigi on a date.”
“Just friends,” I say again, ignoring the tick in my jaw at the way she speaks about Gigi.
I hear a door open. “Sorry,” Gigi says as she takes the steps two at a time, holding a pair of black heels in one hand. “I decided on a different outfit last minute.”
I survey the tan dress she’s wearing, the keyhole opening at her chest, the perfect line of cleavage. “I like it,” I say, my mouth going dry. “Good choice.”
I’m fighting a war with what’s under my zipper the whole drive to the bar. I’m not going to lie—Gigi is hot. She’s spunky. She’s a firecracker, and despite seeming guarded, I feel like she’s different with me, looser. I find myself feeling lighter in her presence, like I’m not under scrutiny. Like whatever knot that is ever-present in my stomach loses its tension, allowing me to relax, to breathe. She doesn’t expect a thing from me because she’s not trying to impress me, and she doesn’t expect me to impress her. She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met.
And that’s mostly because she has no interest in sleeping with me.
That doesn’t stop me from imagining she’ll give in one day. I know better, though. I know she won’t. It’s better that way. I want to help her find a fling, sure. But Gigi’s the girl who will change her feelings in an instant, and I’d hate to sleep together and then have to remind her that I don’t want anything serious. After I’ve done the damage of sleeping with her, I don’t want the burden of smashing her heart into teeny, tiny bits.
“Are you planning on finding someone tonight, too?” Gigi asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“No,” I tell her. “All you.”
She frowns. “Why? It’s not as fun if I’m the only one tossing pickup lines out and flipping my hair.”
“First of all,” I say, flipping my gaze to her, “I don’t flip my hair when I pick up a woman.”
“You smile at them, then. And you know what smile I mean.”
She’s been paying attention despite her insistence that she’s not interested—fascinating. I tell her this as we pull into the parking lot of the bar.
“I didn’t point that out because I’m interested,” Gigi tells me flatly.
“Because of the tattoos,” I reply. “Right.”
“My sister said the same thing!” she huffs, throwing her body into the back of the seat with a flourish. “God. It’s like saying you don’t like something about somebody is the worst.”
“You told your sister about my tattoos?” I ask. She can see the curiosity sparkling in my eyes, I’m sure, because she waves me off.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I was telling her about how impossible you are to deal with, how annoyed I am that you are the one helping me find a fling. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Right,” I say, cutting the engine and pulling out the keys. “Sure. But I’m failing to understand why my tattoos were part of that conversation.”
“Because,” Gigi huffs, “Mollie—my sister—asked why you were… fling material. Qualified to be a fling instructor.”
“You called me a fling instructor?” I say with a laugh.
“What else am I supposed to call you?” she asks, her gaze finally meeting mine.
“Guy who you refuse to sleep with but think is equipped to help you find someone else to sleep with because he’s usually the guy girls want to sleep with?”
“That’s too long,” she decides. “I like fling instructor better.”
“I’m still wondering where my tattoos come in.”
“Cade,” Gigi deadpans. She’s looking at me with that twinkle she gets in her eyes. “Really.”
“Really,” I say. “Enlighten me.”
“Because you’re hot,” Gigi says, all business. “To the majority of the female population, anyway.”
“You think I’m hot?” I say, my eyebrow arching and pulling the corner of my lip with it.
“Well,” she rips her pretty blue eyes away from me, “I would, if it wasn’t for that damn attitude.”
When we pull into the parking lot behind Murphy’s, Gigi looks worried.
She’s chewing on her lip, her eyes darting around like an animal that’s trapped and looking for an escape.
“Hey,” I say, placing a hand on her thigh after I cut the engine. “You okay?”
She nods. “So okay.”
“Nervous?”
Her eyes dart around again. “No,” she says, quick.
“You have no reason to be,” I promise. “You look good. Any guy would be happy to go home with you tonight.”
The bar is packed, save for a few empty seats in front of the bartender and a smattering of empty tables. Crowds gather around two dart boards, smoke thick in the air as the noise grows louder.
“I can’t believe,” Gigi says as she weaves her way through the bar and finds us a spot dead center with two stools, “that you do this for fun. I consider myself outgoing, but—”
She looks around, surveying the signage, the neon decorative lights above the bar, and the rambunctious crowd to our backs. She winces as her stool groans under her weight.
“What you need to do,” I say as I wave the bartender over, “is relax.”
“I am relaxed,” she fires back. “I’m so relaxed.”
“Uh huh.” I order us two lemon drop shots. It’s not my favorite—too sweet, usually—but it’s what I’ll buy a girl if I don’t know her preference.
Gigi looks at a water spot on the counter in front of her. “What if I don’t find anyone?” she asks.
“Then you chalk it up to a bad crowd and try again tomorrow night,” I say. “I mean, if you want.” She frowns. “What? What is it?”
“I just have a feeling no one will be interested,” she says softly. I can barely hear her over the noise of the bar.
“Here,” I say, picking up our shot glasses as they arrive. I hand one over to her and hold mine up. “To going home with someone tonight,” I say. Gigi scowls. “To going home with a guy without commitment issues?” I supply.
She rolls those blue eyes. “Better,” she decides. “To that. Sure.”
We clink our glasses, and I down my shot, throwing my head back and slamming the glass down. I don’t like to see Gigi lacking confidence in the way she is now. She sounds so sure of herself when she speaks to me. I want everyone—even the guy she’ll go home with tonight—to see that same Gigi.
“I need another one of those,” Gigi says. “Can I get another one of those? I need another one.”
“Of course, princess,” I say. “Tonight is your night.” I flag the bartender over again.
“Cade.”
“Don’t I know you well enough to call you by a nickname?” I ask.
She waits for the bartender to pour her shot and hand it over. “No,” she says, stern, and then tips her head back, taking the shot like a champ. “Another?”
“That’s my girl,” I say, smiling.
“I don’t think I like that one, either,” Gigi says.
Gigi flags the bartender and gets another shot. We’re talking about the probability of Rory and EJ getting married someday when she says, “What does EJ stand for, anyway?”
“Edward James,” I say. “My uncle’s name.”
“That’s weird,” she decides. “People normally name their kid after their dad, right?”
“Usually. But EJ and I don’t know our dad. Our Uncle Eddy stepped up in that department.”
She frowns. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It worked out. Eddy’s the one who’s gonna help me fund the tattoo shop.”
“Really.”
I nod. “You should see him. He’s a tattoo artist, too. But he’s like me,” I hold out my arms—my sleeves in full view, “on steroids. Both arms, both legs, his back…”
“God.” Gigi scowls at me. “All that. All over your body.”
“All over,” I agree.
“Is—is that what you’re doing?” she asks. “Is that what you want to do? Eventually, maybe?”
“Eventually, maybe,” I say. I spot a few guys chatting at the end of the bar. One, sporting a backwards hat and pristine white sneakers, keeps eying Gigi.
“I guess I didn’t realize how rare it was to have a fill in,” she says. “People are raised by single parents all the time, but it’s not always that someone steps up.”
“Who stepped up for you?” I ask.
“My mom. My dad’s wife, my sister’s mom, Greta,” she says, biting her cheek. “Whatever you’d like to call her.”
“What happened with your not-mom?” I say for lack of better terminology. “Belinda?”
“She aborted the motherhood mission,” Gigi says. Her face twists as she thinks about it. “But to talk about all that, I need more drinks.”
“Why don’t we,” I say, “cool it on the drinks and start on the flirting?”
Gigi looks around, swiveling on her stool. “Do you see any prospects?”
I nod toward White Sneakers. “That guy looks good. Refined. Your type?”
She looks at him through a sidelong glance. “I do like them refined,” Gigi agrees.
I smile, then bite it back for fear she’ll think I’m making fun of her and give up altogether. “He’s been eying you,” I tell her. “Go make the first move.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “I can’t just do that.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I need another shot first, Cade. I can’t—”
“Think about how self-assured you are when you’re telling me how not your type I am and apply that level of passion to White Sneakers over there. You’ll do fine, and he’ll buy you drinks. It’s a win-win–really.” Another doubtful look. I’m starting to understand Gigi, and I think she needs an incentive. “If this blows up in your face,” I say, “which it won’t because you look amazing, I’ll gladly take you back to the apartment—”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
“—I’ll take you back to the apartment for pizza and ice cream with Rory and EJ.”
“Oh.” She blinks, considering this. “You’ll buy me ice cream?”
I nod.
“Fine.” She grabs my drink, surveying it. “I need this,” she decides, and throws her head back to down the whole thing. “Wish me luck.”
“Go get ‘em,” I chide. “You got it.”
I watch her saunter over, hips swaying, blonde waves that cascade down her back swaying with them. I can’t hear what she’s saying, and I’m horrible at reading lips, so I focus on getting another drink. If all else fails and I overdo it, I’ll call EJ to come pick us up.
“You here to drink sorrows away?” someone says after a while.
I didn’t hear the tan, chocolate-haired goddess that is speaking to me now sneak up on me like a stealthy gift. But I’m glad she did. Because god damn, I need it.
“I don’t have any sorrows now that I’m talking to you,” I chide.
She hums, satisfied. “Since I’m so welcome, buy me a drink?”
The way she asks makes me think of the way Gigi demands. “My pleasure,” I say, flagging down the bartender for two lemon drops.
Her name’s Nicole? Nicolette? Nikki?
I don’t remember, and at this point, I don’t care.
Because I can’t stop thinking about Gigi.
She disappears with White Sneakers after they talk and laugh, and she flips her hair at him for at least an hour. He has his hands on her waist, and next thing I know, she’s nowhere to be found.
I send a text. Just a quick,
You good?
Wonderful . He’s just coming out of a relationship, too. Perfect candidate!
We love using sex to avoid emotional issues . Have fun. Text me if you leave the bar.
I love avoiding emotional issues .
Nicole/Nicolette/Nikki is still talking. She’s stirring her mojito, chattering about her day-to-day working at a law firm as a secretary. “And my friends ask me, ‘ Nadia, how do you keep yourself from just abandoning it all and running to the Bahamas?’ And, I’m like, I don’t know. Fredrick & Riker Law pisses me off like nothing else, but it sure pays the bills!”
Nadia. That’s it. I was interested in Nadia. More than. And then Gigi disappeared, and I can’t help but wonder about her. I haven’t been able to stop since she walked off with him.
“I gotta run to the bathroom,” I tell Nadia. “Order us another round?”
I’m on drink three, and with this extra drink with Nadia, I won’t be driving home tonight. I walk to the back of the bar and am pulling the men’s restroom door open when Gigi stumbles out of the women’s bathroom.
Her hair is disheveled, her dress riding up her legs, until she realizes and pulls it down. “I tried to fix myself,” she says softly, “before I came to find you.”
“Where’s your guy?” I ask. “Take care of things that quickly? Where’d he take you?”
Gigi shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I understand her desire to keep it a secret. I don’t kiss and tell either. But my jaw is ticking. “Fair,” I say. “You ready to go?”
“Please.” She nods.
I tell her to wait for me by the bar. I use the bathroom and make my way to Gigi, feeling like the weight that has been sitting with me all night has lifted. I’m happy for her, getting her fling out of the way, being the one night girl and walking away like the confident girl she is. It’s pretty badass.
“Hey,” I say to Nadia. “I have to call it a night. My friend is ready to go, and I’m her ride.”
Realizing Gigi is standing with me, Nadia purses her lips. “Oh. You’re leaving with your friend.”
“She is my friend,” I say, hoping the fury that is dancing on her face dissipates. “I had a great time tonight, though.”
“Can I put my number in your phone?” Nadia asks. “Rain check?”
I can practically hear Gigi’s eyes rolling around. “Yes,” I sigh, handing over my phone. I get Nadia’s number and walk with Gigi out of the bar.
“I’m glad it went well,” I say. When she doesn’t say anything, I try again. “It seemed like you guys had chemistry, at least.”
She slides into the truck, wordless. I put the keys in the ignition and turn the engine over, casting a glance her way. Those blue eyes look watery.
Princess is crying because of White Sneakers. And I’ve never wanted to break someone’s legs more in my life.
“What happened?” I ask. “Why are you crying?”
“He couldn’t do it,” she whimpers. “I wanted to. I was ready. And he pushed me away and told me it wasn’t going to work out tonight.” She scrapes her hands across her face, trying to wipe away her sadness. “That’s code for ever, isn’t it? Saying tonight won’t work and then not asking for my number is code for it won’t work ever ?”
My heart clenches. “Gigi—”
“I think I’m sad because I’m drunk,” she realizes, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, mascara smearing.
“Are you normally sad?” I ask. I don’t want to see her cry.
She shakes her head wildly. “No.”
“Are you normally sad when drunk ?”
“No.”
“I want to help,” I say, “but I don’t know why you’re crying.”
“No one wants me,” Gigi whispers. “Nobody.”
My chest squeezes. I hate that she believes something so untrue with such conviction. “Why do you say that? Did it go bad with that guy?”
She’s crying again, tears streaming, and she tries to swipe them all away, to no avail. I watch as the tears fall, small dots of wetness collecting on the truck’s dashboard as she leans her elbows against it, her head in her hands. “No one wants me, Cade,” she sobs. “Not Marcus, not Belinda. Not even a random guy in a bar. Guys love anything willing to sleep with them!” Her voice is hoarse. “Except for me.”
“Gigi.” I hate seeing her like this. “Did he do anything wrong?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not really. I was just really trying, you know? And he seemed into me. Until he wasn’t. What did I do?”
I’m upset she’s upset. My jaw ticks, and I consider once more breaking White Sneakers’ legs. Worst that’ll happen is I go to jail.
“Where was this?” I ask. I’m imagining that asshole getting Gigi in the bathroom, or in a dark corner, just to reject her in the end. I hate him.
“His car. But does that really matter?”
I shake my head. Guess not. “No. But listen to me, this is on that guy. Not you. You are hot . You did everything right.” What a sleaze ball, taking her to his car. It’s like he’s in high school.
“I lost it,” she confesses. I started crying immediately. Like a fucking baby.” She’s not looking at me, her head still supported by her arms. “It was one thing to have casual sex with Marcus. It’s another with an actual stranger.”
“Not everyone’s cup of tea,” I agree.
She laughs, wet-sounding. “Not everyone’s cup of black coffee,” Gigi supplies, a small grin forming. “I wish Beach Brew was open.”
The words are bubbling, begging to be set free. I let them go with a carelessness only Gigi Knox can bring out of me. “I want you,” I say.
“What? Cade. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“No, I know that. But you said no one wants you. It sounds like you’re saying no one enjoys your company, no one enjoys your existence.”
“If history proves anything,” she says, “that’s the truth. Belinda didn’t want the burden of parenting me, Marcus didn’t want the burden of committing to me, and Bar Guy wasn’t interested in getting to know anything about me before seeing me without my clothes, and then he decided he didn’t even want me for that. I thought I was fine with it. But I want to know things about people and have them know things about me before I hook up with them. I can’t do the totally emotionless sex thing.”
“Most people—most girls—can’t,” I tell her. “It’s not a big deal.”
“How do you do it?” she asks. “Just have sex and then leave the next day and never see the girl again that you connected with on such a deep level?”
“I don’t connect,” I say. “I try my damnedest not to.”
Gigi’s eyebrows pinch. “Why? Is it because you don’t feel like you can love someone, Cade?”
My chest tightens. “Why do you say my name so much?” I ask.
“Why do you deflect and ask a question when you don’t want to talk about something?”
She’s got me. This girl is something else. Like a bright red heart tattoo with a girl’s name on it in a sea of smooth black and white. She’s the obnoxious red heart that you wish you would’ve done in black ink instead of red, so colorful and loud, and then later wish you could get it removed.
“Can you tattoo a heart on yourself?” she asks. “You need one right here.” She jabs a finger into my left chest. “Right where your heart would be if you had one. Along with every other man who doesn’t want to connect with somebody. I’m great, Cade! I deserve to be connected with.”
“I agree,” I say. “About you being great and deserving of connection, if that’s what you’re after. And I have a heart.”
“You don’t use it,” she snaps. “If you did, we’d be in an immensely different situation right at this exact moment.” I know she’s intoxicated. But her saying that makes my chest feel like it’s going to fall in on itself, my insides toppling like a Jenga tower. “I thought the tattoos were a deal breaker.”
She waves a hand at me, dismissive. “They are. For a fling. The deal breaker for anything else with you is that you refuse to commit to anybody. You’d break my heart just like the rest of them.”
Which is exactly why we can’t be in a relationship, Gigi and me. She needs things from a partner that she doesn’t need from me as a friend, a wingman. Hell, she needs things from a boyfriend that I am incapable of providing. I’m happy to stay in the role of least stress. I can’t do boyfriendly duties, and I have no interest in starting now.
“Let’s go get you that ice cream,” I say. “You still want ice cream?”
She sniffles, dabbing at the puffiness under her eyes. “You’re deflecting again.”
“Do you want the ice cream or not?”
“You promised me ice cream,” Gigi says. “Of course, I want it.”