Chapter 7 #2
Henley and I watch him cross the courtyard over to Vienna. Henley laughs. “Yeah, business, my ass. A hundred bucks says he’s about to take her to some place in this winery that you and I don’t even know exists and have his way with her.”
I shake my head and drain my glass. “At least someone is getting lucky.”
Henley drops his eyes down to my crotch and then back up. “How’s the dick piercing healing?”
“I’m gonna pretend like your question is normal right now, but if anyone else overhears this conversation, you know that’s not going to come off very well.”
Henley shoves at my shoulder. “You’re the one who’s been overly concerned about your dick. I’m just trying to be a supportive friend.”
A while back, as the concern for my lack of desire for the female population began to freak me out, I had a crazy idea to get my dick pierced to see if it would encourage me to put myself back out there.
You know, having a new piece of hardware to show off might spike some urgency and push me to finally sleep with someone new.
Honestly, the healing has been the worst part, besides wondering if I’ll ever get the courage to show it to someone of the opposite sex.
The corner of my mouth tips up. “Things are healing well. Should be good to go in a few more weeks.”
Henley lifts his beer to his mouth. “I still can’t believe you let some woman stick a needle through your penis.”
“Well, one day, some woman will be very grateful that I did.” My eyes land on Dilynne without thinking, but I quickly look away. The last thing I need is her brother growing suspicious of these tumultuous feelings I’m fighting to ignore.
Henley slaps my back. “I really hope you find someone who appreciates it, Elliot.”
“I hope I find several women who do.”
Shaking his head, he says, “Yeah, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”
His words catch me off guard as I twist to face him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He tilts his head to the side, pursing his lips. “I mean, now that you’ve experienced sex with someone you care about—or at least, someone that you used to care about—you’re honestly telling me you want to go back to the casual shit?”
“Just because you, Fletcher, and Rhonan have all been hypnotized by your women and are happy about it, doesn’t mean that I want that shit again. Look where that got me.”
“That’s only because Tori wasn’t the right person.”
“And I have no desire to put myself through that again with the potential of the next one being the wrong one too.”
A heavy sigh leaves his lips. “I don’t blame you for being jaded, man. But when you were happy?” Our eyes meet again. “I don’t know. I felt like that version of you was who you were always meant to be.”
“Wow. Thanks for being so vague.”
He laughs. “I just meant, I’ve watched you change over the years as life hit you with shit. Hell, we all have. But when you felt like you had a partner? Someone to lean on through the rollercoaster?” Shrugging, he continues, “I’d never seen you like that.”
“Delusional? Irrational? Out of my fucking—”
“Grounded,” he interjects before I can be more self-deprecating. “Purposeful. Like you knew who you were and not some version of Elliot Thorne people expected you to be.”
I drag my tongue across my teeth. “Well, that’s rich since I literally went through with the big wedding spectacle because that’s what my parents wanted. And I agreed to have kids with Tori even though I never really saw myself being a dad, so not sure that’s an accurate assessment.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t see myself being a dad either until I was one. And the person who ultimately helped me realize how important it was to figure out who I am and what I want…was Elodie.”
As if he summoned her, his nanny-turned-girlfriend approaches in a floor-length violet gown, her face lighting up the second she spots Henley.
“There you are,” she says as she reaches him.
His arms encircle her waist, drawing her into his chest. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to her lips.
Her smile is instant, and I hate that a sliver of jealousy slices through the center of my chest. “Carol and Nick are about to leave with Remy, so I wanted to make sure we got to say goodbye.”
Henley turns to face me, but I hold my hand up before he can speak. “Go. I’ll be fine. I need a refill anyway.”
The second they’re gone, I head toward the bar, eager for another drink to dull the ache in my chest. But then my eyes land on the ass of a woman flirting with the bartender, and I don’t even need to see her face to know who it is.
Jesus Christ, I have a problem.
“You know,” Dilynne says, biting her bottom lip as the bartender’s gaze drops down to her cleavage and then back up, “I have a theory that a man who can make a good martini must be good in bed.”
“Is that so?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
He leans closer to her as he holds the shaker in one hand, clearly hooked. “And why is that?”
“Because martinis are all about the right ratios and details.” She trails a finger over the hand he has braced on the bar, and something twists low in my gut.
“The perfect martini requires patience. Skill. Any man who can make that drink probably knows how to use those talents in other areas as well.”
Not wanting to witness another second of this horrible exchange — especially since it’s spiking this unexplainable jealousy—I slide my glass along the surface of the bar so it hits their intertwined hands. “Can I get a refill, please?”
Dilynne glares at me over her shoulder, a look she’s given me hundreds of times before, but instead of reminding me to walk away like it should, it makes me want to rile her up even further.
“I’ll be right with you,” the bartender says, making eye contact with me before turning back to Dilynne.
Irritation fills me, so I decide to put an end to this little charade. Patting Dilynne on the arm, her silky skin under my touch doing its best to distract me, I lean in closer and say, “Glad your syphilis has finally cleared up.”
Dilynne’s jaw clenches tight before she mutters under her breath. “You motherfucker.”
The bartender instantly stands tall again and drops his eyes up and down Dilynne before reaching for a glass and emptying the contents of the tumbler, sliding the martini in her direction. “Uh, here’s your drink.”
Dilynne softens her face when she turns back to the man whose dick is probably shriveled up inside of his slacks right now.
And I’m fucking giddy on the inside. My face sure as fuck doesn’t show that, though.
“I don’t have syphilis,” Dilynne starts, but he holds up a hand, stopping her.
“It’s okay. I should, uh…get back to work anyway,” he says, reaching for my glass and then asking me, “Whiskey?”
“Jack Daniels, please.”
Dilynne plants a hand on her hip as she twists to face me. “So, you’ve been out of rehab for two days and you’re already drinking?”
Fighting fire with fire, I see.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
“Yeah, your baby daddy broke me out after he got out of prison.”
The bartender’s brows are drawn so tightly together, I’m afraid they might stay that way.
Dilynne tongues her cheek before she responds. “Well, you’re the one who orchestrated the drug ring, so you might say it’s your fault little Jimmy was without his father for the past two years.”
“That may be, but you’re the one who destroyed your family when you slept with your new dealer.”
A throat clearing interrupts our exchange, but my pulse is thrumming. And yet again, Dilynne Clark seems to be the only woman that can make it do so.
“Your…Jack Daniels,” the bartender says, pulling my attention to him.
“Thank you.” I take a sip of my drink and then give Dilynne my back, heading as far away as I can from my raven-haired nemesis so I’m not tempted to shut her up in other ways.
Sadly, she follows me over to the table where I take a seat to watch the reception from afar.
“What the fuck was that, Elliot?”
My eyes meet hers as she stands above me. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play fucking stupid with me.”
“Oh, you mean saving you from mediocre sex?” I lift my glass back to my lips before muttering, “You’re welcome.”
“Do you know he’s mediocre from personal experience?”
I snap my eyes back to hers. “Martinis and sex? Seriously, Dilynne, I thought you’d be smoother than that.”
“Well, at least I’m putting myself out there,” she quips, and my jaw clenches. “At least I’m not wallowing and acting like every woman on the planet is the enemy because one fucked me over and—”
“That’s enough,” I say, cutting her off.
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “What? Too honest for you? Shocker that you don’t want to hear the obvious truth, even when it’s staring you in the face. That little habit of yours is exactly why you’re in this mess to begin with.”
I stand from my chair, towering over her by a few inches even in her heels, heels that would look so fucking good sticking straight up in the air as I pound into—
“My well-being isn’t your fucking concern,” I snap. “I thought I made that perfectly clear months ago.”
But you kept showing up. You kept fighting with me to keep living, and I have—because of you.
Shaking her head, her lips curl in disgust as she studies me. “Yeah, you did. Guess I’m the idiot who keeps forgetting.” Then she walks away, and all I can do is stare at the sway of her hips and hate myself for wanting to stop her.
Because Dilynne Clark doesn’t know when to take no for an answer, and that’s exactly how she got under my skin in the first place.