Jamie cocks her head. “Go? Where?”
“Out. It’s Saturday. There will be dancing involved. And drinking. Definitely drinking.”
“Are we celebrating?” There’s a knowing lilt to her voice.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But maybe I just want to dance.”
“We should call Ollie and Courtney,” she says once we’ve both changed and are back in the living room. I look up from where I’m checking my purse for all the necessities of a night out. “He called earlier, by the way. I forgot to tell you.”
“Oh, hell. Did he want me to call him back?”
She shrugged. “He was just calling to check on you. Make sure Damien Stark didn’t eat you up last night. Little did he know.”
My cheeks warm. “You didn’t tell him?”
“All I said was that you got home safe. That Stark put you in a limo and sent you home. I didn’t share the dirty details. Should I have?” There’s a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I bet Ollie would like that story.”
“No,” I say firmly. “No.”
“So do we call them?”
“Why not?”
Courtney declines since she has to wake up early to go to some conference in San Diego, but Ollie is up for meeting us. We start out at Donnelly’s, a pub near the house he’s renting in West Hollywood, and move on to Westerfield’s. “Don’t worry,” Ollie says as I eye the long line behind the red velvet rope. “I promise we’ll glide right in.”
I assume Ollie has some sort of suck with the guy at the door, but it turns out that my friend is relying on Jamie and me. The bouncer looks us up and down, and Jamie gives him her best I’m so hot it should be criminal look. “In,” the guy says, and I can feel his eyes on my ass as we enter the dark, thrumming venue.
“This is crazy,” I shout. “We can’t even talk.”
“Then dance!”
Jamie takes my hand and Ollie’s and drags us onto the dance floor. I can feel the bass reverberating through my chest, and after a moment, I allow myself to get lost in the wild, pulsing sensation. Ollie and Jamie have both had a few more drinks than me, and they’re totally into the music, doing a little bump and grind number that I’d worry about if I didn’t know what good friends they are.
No, I think, what good friends we are. I ease my way between the two of them, hook my arms around their shoulders, and proceed to laugh my head off as we try to coordinate some sort of move that doesn’t end up with the three of us falling on our asses. It’s fun, but I’m sure we look ridiculous. I don’t care, though. I’m in the midst of a total attitude adjustment. I’m there with my two best friends. I’m in Los Angeles. I have a great job. I’ve had two amazing orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, and I’ve fielded an offer worth one million dollars. Honestly, days like these don’t come along that often.
“Drinks are on me,” I say, realizing that I’m more than a little parched.
The bar is all the way in the back of the room, and when I arrive there, I realize why. It’s infinitesimally quieter here, which means that the bartender doesn’t have to know how to lip-read in order to hear the drink order. I’m standing there waiting to get the drinks back when Ollie approaches, his hair stuck to his forehead and his face red from the efforts of keeping up with Jamie on the dance floor.
“She wear you out?” I ask.
“Never,” he says, and there’s a devious little gleam in his eye. “She hit the ladies’. Thought I’d come find you. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Okay.” I frown, because this is hardly the best location for a heart-to-heart. “What’s up?”
“Stark,” he says. “I got the impression from Jamie that things between you two might be heating up.”
I make a mental note to strangle Jamie.
“They’re not,” I say, not sure if I’m telling the truth or telling a lie. It’s the first time I can remember not being completely honest with Ollie, but for the moment, I want to keep my complicated feelings about Damien Stark to myself.
“Yeah?” he says. “Well, good. Because I was worried about you.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. “Really? Why?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “The way he looked at you at the party. The way you looked back.”
“Okay, yeah, there was heat,” I admit. “But why is that a problem? Why did you tell me to be careful?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, and the damp strands curl even more. It gives him a mussed, sexy look.
“Just stay away from him, okay? The guy’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
Ollie shrugs. “You know. He has a temper, for one thing.”
“That’s hardly news,” I say. “He was famous for it during his tennis days. That’s how he messed up his eye.” During a fight with another player, Damien had been hit in the face with a racquet. According to the stuff I’d read, he’d been incredibly lucky that he’d suffered no permanent or debilitating injury, but the pupil of his left eye is now permanently enlarged. “But that was a long time ago, and he’s not a competitive athlete anymore. Is that seriously what you’re concerned about?”
But Ollie just shakes his head as Jamie bounces up to the bar and grabs his arm. “I’m taking him back,” she says.
I watch them slide back onto the dance floor. Dangerous.
He’s dangerous, all right. But somehow I don’t think Ollie means it the same way that I do.
“Seriously, Jamie,” I say, as she turns down yet another twisting, winding, darkened Malibu street. “Can’t we just go home?” We are completely lost. The street signs have apparently been hidden by elves. I’m sure it’s to keep the riff-raff out. And we, of course, are firmly among the riff.
We parted ways with Ollie over an hour ago after having eggs and toast and an ocean of coffee at Dukes on Sunset. Only after he’d gone did Jamie tell me that we were going on a mission to find Stark’s new Malibu house. “One of the articles I read said it had beach access. And I used to hang with this guy from Malibu, so I got to know the roads pretty well.”
I, of course, protested that she was insane. But I didn’t protest too loudly. I admit I was curious. And even though I doubted we could find the place, driving around Malibu in the middle of the night seemed just crazy enough to be fun.
Now, however, I am getting tired and a little bit carsick.
“We might as well go home,” I say. “We’re never going to find it.”
“We will,” she insists, pulling over long enough to squint at the map she’s pulled up on her phone. “If it has beach access there aren’t that many streets it can be on. And it’s not like there’s a lot of construction going on right now, especially not for the square footage that a guy like Damien Stark will want. When we get close, we’ll see it.”
“Yeah, but that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I mean, this isn’t some two-thousand-square-foot house in suburban Texas where you can just wander through the framing and drywall. Even if you find it, there’s going to be a fence and probably security.”
“Out. It’s Saturday. There will be dancing involved. And drinking. Definitely drinking.”
“Are we celebrating?” There’s a knowing lilt to her voice.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But maybe I just want to dance.”
“We should call Ollie and Courtney,” she says once we’ve both changed and are back in the living room. I look up from where I’m checking my purse for all the necessities of a night out. “He called earlier, by the way. I forgot to tell you.”
“Oh, hell. Did he want me to call him back?”
She shrugged. “He was just calling to check on you. Make sure Damien Stark didn’t eat you up last night. Little did he know.”
My cheeks warm. “You didn’t tell him?”
“All I said was that you got home safe. That Stark put you in a limo and sent you home. I didn’t share the dirty details. Should I have?” There’s a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I bet Ollie would like that story.”
“No,” I say firmly. “No.”
“So do we call them?”
“Why not?”
Courtney declines since she has to wake up early to go to some conference in San Diego, but Ollie is up for meeting us. We start out at Donnelly’s, a pub near the house he’s renting in West Hollywood, and move on to Westerfield’s. “Don’t worry,” Ollie says as I eye the long line behind the red velvet rope. “I promise we’ll glide right in.”
I assume Ollie has some sort of suck with the guy at the door, but it turns out that my friend is relying on Jamie and me. The bouncer looks us up and down, and Jamie gives him her best I’m so hot it should be criminal look. “In,” the guy says, and I can feel his eyes on my ass as we enter the dark, thrumming venue.
“This is crazy,” I shout. “We can’t even talk.”
“Then dance!”
Jamie takes my hand and Ollie’s and drags us onto the dance floor. I can feel the bass reverberating through my chest, and after a moment, I allow myself to get lost in the wild, pulsing sensation. Ollie and Jamie have both had a few more drinks than me, and they’re totally into the music, doing a little bump and grind number that I’d worry about if I didn’t know what good friends they are.
No, I think, what good friends we are. I ease my way between the two of them, hook my arms around their shoulders, and proceed to laugh my head off as we try to coordinate some sort of move that doesn’t end up with the three of us falling on our asses. It’s fun, but I’m sure we look ridiculous. I don’t care, though. I’m in the midst of a total attitude adjustment. I’m there with my two best friends. I’m in Los Angeles. I have a great job. I’ve had two amazing orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, and I’ve fielded an offer worth one million dollars. Honestly, days like these don’t come along that often.
“Drinks are on me,” I say, realizing that I’m more than a little parched.
The bar is all the way in the back of the room, and when I arrive there, I realize why. It’s infinitesimally quieter here, which means that the bartender doesn’t have to know how to lip-read in order to hear the drink order. I’m standing there waiting to get the drinks back when Ollie approaches, his hair stuck to his forehead and his face red from the efforts of keeping up with Jamie on the dance floor.
“She wear you out?” I ask.
“Never,” he says, and there’s a devious little gleam in his eye. “She hit the ladies’. Thought I’d come find you. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Okay.” I frown, because this is hardly the best location for a heart-to-heart. “What’s up?”
“Stark,” he says. “I got the impression from Jamie that things between you two might be heating up.”
I make a mental note to strangle Jamie.
“They’re not,” I say, not sure if I’m telling the truth or telling a lie. It’s the first time I can remember not being completely honest with Ollie, but for the moment, I want to keep my complicated feelings about Damien Stark to myself.
“Yeah?” he says. “Well, good. Because I was worried about you.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. “Really? Why?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “The way he looked at you at the party. The way you looked back.”
“Okay, yeah, there was heat,” I admit. “But why is that a problem? Why did you tell me to be careful?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, and the damp strands curl even more. It gives him a mussed, sexy look.
“Just stay away from him, okay? The guy’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
Ollie shrugs. “You know. He has a temper, for one thing.”
“That’s hardly news,” I say. “He was famous for it during his tennis days. That’s how he messed up his eye.” During a fight with another player, Damien had been hit in the face with a racquet. According to the stuff I’d read, he’d been incredibly lucky that he’d suffered no permanent or debilitating injury, but the pupil of his left eye is now permanently enlarged. “But that was a long time ago, and he’s not a competitive athlete anymore. Is that seriously what you’re concerned about?”
But Ollie just shakes his head as Jamie bounces up to the bar and grabs his arm. “I’m taking him back,” she says.
I watch them slide back onto the dance floor. Dangerous.
He’s dangerous, all right. But somehow I don’t think Ollie means it the same way that I do.
“Seriously, Jamie,” I say, as she turns down yet another twisting, winding, darkened Malibu street. “Can’t we just go home?” We are completely lost. The street signs have apparently been hidden by elves. I’m sure it’s to keep the riff-raff out. And we, of course, are firmly among the riff.
We parted ways with Ollie over an hour ago after having eggs and toast and an ocean of coffee at Dukes on Sunset. Only after he’d gone did Jamie tell me that we were going on a mission to find Stark’s new Malibu house. “One of the articles I read said it had beach access. And I used to hang with this guy from Malibu, so I got to know the roads pretty well.”
I, of course, protested that she was insane. But I didn’t protest too loudly. I admit I was curious. And even though I doubted we could find the place, driving around Malibu in the middle of the night seemed just crazy enough to be fun.
Now, however, I am getting tired and a little bit carsick.
“We might as well go home,” I say. “We’re never going to find it.”
“We will,” she insists, pulling over long enough to squint at the map she’s pulled up on her phone. “If it has beach access there aren’t that many streets it can be on. And it’s not like there’s a lot of construction going on right now, especially not for the square footage that a guy like Damien Stark will want. When we get close, we’ll see it.”
“Yeah, but that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I mean, this isn’t some two-thousand-square-foot house in suburban Texas where you can just wander through the framing and drywall. Even if you find it, there’s going to be a fence and probably security.”
