Thirteen

I'm wrong. I am, in fact, getting nowhere.

My coping abilities? Nonexistent. I can't stop thinking about Valeria. It's a sickness.

After I log off from her stream, I spend the next hour listening to her come against the flickering hum of a vibrator while I review a contract Frank sent in the five-minute window when I was chatting with her. Disgruntled, I consider calling Frank and yelling at him for: 1) Sending me this mind-bogglingly boring contract; and 2) Raising me to be a spoiled brat who cannot survive a singular instance of not getting what he wants. Of course, I do neither. I grin and I bear it.

Once Valeria finishes her stream, she goes to sleep. My mind turns. I download Duolingo and spend the next ninety minutes learning Spanish. Soy abogado.

The following morning, the ache from being close to her but not having her has grown tenfold like a big, horny tumor. Fucking my neighbor? I must have lost my damn mind. I spend Saturday morning punishing myself by passively listening while she does a twenty-minute private session with a guy who moans like a donkey. It's so frustrating, I look up the next international flight out of DCA—but Canada feels too close and I'm not about to drive to Dulles Airport for better options on a Saturday.

Right before ten, she leaves the Halcyon. Her departure should theoretically put me out of my misery, but I can't think of anything better to do than wonder where the hell she went.

The afternoon rolls around, and I've sent so many texts to Everett and Dalton asking them to distract me, I think Everett may have blocked me. Fair, I guess.

Reluctantly, I take stock of how irrationally I'm behaving. I'm a grown ass man and I live in one of the most interesting cities in the world. Surely I can entertain myself. Monuments, museums…I've spent most of my life in DC and I've never been to Ford's Theater. That's a good idea, right?

…On second thought, going to a historical site where a lawyer got shot in the head might not be a mood booster.

So I sulk. I sulk a lot.

By evening, when I'm sitting down to a needlessly complicated dinner of poached salmon and potato terrine that I spent two hours cooking, the commotion picks up next door. I don't even have to eavesdrop to know what's going down.

Valeria has two best friends who come over most Saturday nights: Lilith and Emerald. Yes, they're also camgirls, and no, I don't know their real names. Yet.

I do know Lilith Lace is an edgy goth chick who gives off vibes like she belongs to a coven and has surreptitiously planned a hostile takeover, but is waiting for a full moon to make it happen. On the flip side, Emerald X is a teeny, glitter-obsessed blonde who always seems to be drunk or hungover or an unholy combination of the two. Both make appearances on Valeria's streams, usually to masturbate side-by-side and tell outrageous stories about their weekends. And sometimes, yes, they do fuck each other. I've watched. I've gotten the impression it only happens when the tips are flowing particularly heavily though. And you know what? I respect that. I sure as shit don't work for free either.

But tonight, they're not camming. Valeria never streams on Saturday nights. Plus, she sent an update to her subscribers about a stream with Lilith and Emerald next Thursday. Tonight, all evidence points to a girls' night.

And I can hear them through my fucking wall.

It's the same playlist most Saturdays: some current stuff, some nineties shit, and a random ABBA song. Every girls' night, they belt each track while they get progressively tipsier, until one of them shouts at another to "Call an Uber, bitch!" and then they zip out of the Halcyon in a flurry of tight dresses and fuck-me heels.

Fuck me.

Tonight, they're in rare form. Their singing sounds louder, their giggles seem endless, and I swear I can smell how much rum they're drinking.

I, on the other hand, am moping at my kitchen table, laptop open and dinner half-eaten, trying to write yet another one of Frank's out-of-the-blue contracts. Progress is basically nonexistent though. I'm just so damn distracted.

Where is she going tonight?

Is she going to let some guy dance with her? Grind against her?

Is he going to buy her a drink?

Is she going to bring him back and screw him in her bed with just eight inches of walls between us?

As far as I know, Valeria has never fucked anyone in her condo, and frankly, I want to keep it that way—unless it's me. Unless I'm the one fucking her in her condo.

"Call an Uber, bitch!" someone yells—Lilith, I think, because she has this scratchy, smoky voice I recognize from Valeria's streams.

"Calm your tits. I'm doing it right now," Valeria assures her. "Smoke and Shadow?"

…Well, this has to be an invitation. She wants me to meet up with her. She obviously said the name of the club out loud knowing I could hear her—

Yeah, I'm delusional. Borderline deranged. But I know Smoke and Shadow, a nightclub on U-Street. It's a couple minutes' walk from Everett's house.

I glance down at my work laptop, where the contract is staring back at me on the screen.

The cursor blinks.

I blink.

The cursor blinks some more.

I blink some more.

Someone next door shouts, "Road shot!" and all three girls let out a high pitched woo! before the unmistakable sound of shot glasses slamming on a wooden table follows.

The cursor blinks…or was it—was that a wink? Does this contract want me to close my laptop and enjoy myself on a Saturday night for once?

In a matter of seconds, I've made up my mind and I get the guys on a three-way call. My first scheme may have failed, but I've got plenty left in me.

For this one, I'm going to need backup.

Scheme number two: Get to know her closest friends and confidants.

Thirty minutes later, Everett and I are posted in a booth at Smoke and Shadow and somehow, we've beaten Valeria and her girls here. Annoyed, Everett snaps his fingers in front of my face, making his Patek Philippe watch shift on his arm. I hate when he does that.

My eyebrow shoots up in a tacit What the hell is your problem?

"You've barely said a word and I left work for this," he replies, his tone measured and flat as usual, rich with boarding school finishing and Mid-Atlantic conceit. "My absence could very well be a matter of national security."

"Why are you even working on a Saturday? You're a lawyer at the Environmental Protection Agency, shithead," is my response. "And national security, Ev? At the EPA? What, are the plants going to rise up and pollinate us to death?"

Stammering, Everett runs a hand through his dark hair, skewing it from its usual "government neat" before he lets out a hard scoff. "The oceans might," he finally answers, scowling at me like I should know this already. "And then—"

"Shots!" Dalton announces, returning to our table with no less than six shots of something clear. His timing is perfect. Once Everett gets going on an environmentalist rant, trying to stop him is about as effective as…well, as effective as trying to re-freeze all the melting glaciers.

Okay, maybe he has a point.

"What is this, Dalton?" Everett asks, eyeing one of the shots. He holds it up and narrows his green eyes, inspecting it inches away. The scrutiny might seem like overkill to most people, but if Everett and I had a nickel for every time Dalton has unsuspectingly given us shots of Everclear, we'd have a dollar fifty-five.

"You ask too many questions." Dalton glances between us, grinning big and endearingly, as usual. That damn Cheshire cat smile is the reason why Everett and I have inadvertently shot Everclear thirty-one times. Thirty-one times.

Like a gambling man, I throw back one of the shots. Tequila.

"Damn," I mutter, breathing through the burn of the liquor moving into my chest and stinging. It's the good stuff, but still. "We're twenty-seven years old. We're too old to be doing tequila shots."

"After this week, I need a break from whiskey," Dalton explains, grimacing before he downs his own shot. "Salud."

"What happened?" Everett asks, still tilting one of the shot glasses and studying the liquor with disdain. He slides it across the table to Dalton, who immediately pushes it back to him.

"Dalton hasn't told you about his final minutes? He took four shots of Glen Grant," I fill in, gesturing at Dalton, who lowers into the booth next to me, relaxing. He nods at Everett in confirmation.

Everett blinks quickly, his expression unmoved. "Dalton, that's quite expensive," he finally comments.

"No shit, but I thought I was going to be nuked, so…" Dalton shrugs and tips his chin in Everett's direction. "What did you do?"

"I slept," Everett answers before reluctantly grabbing one of the shots. He throws it back elegantly, more like a fast, calculated sip than an actual shot. He doesn't even flinch.

"You missed the alert?" Dalton questions, brow furrowed.

Everett shakes his head, making his hair fall onto his forehead. He brushes it back immediately with a practiced flick of his hand. "I read the alert and went back to sleep."

Dalton's jaw drops, but he doesn't say anything. There's really nothing to say. This response? Classic Everett Logan. The three of us have been friends since birth, and the guy has always had ice in his motherfucking veins.

"And we all know what you did," Everett comments, facing me now. "What time is Valeria meeting us?"

"‘Meet' is a loose term for what we're doing," I confess, tilting my head side to side.

Immediately, Everett's eyebrow shoots up. It does that a lot. He surveys me, his stare harsh but harmless, before he lets out a slow exhale. "God, are you stalking her, Lander?"

"Stalking is also a loose term for what I'm doing," I admit, trying to ignore Dalton while he chuckles and glances between Everett and me.

Everett slants back against the booth's leather upholstery and folds his arms over his chest. "You didn't mention that when you told me I had twenty minutes to get to this bar."

"Why would it matter?" Dalton asks, shrugging. "Would you have said no?"

When Everett doesn't respond, it's because we all know the answer. He still would have showed up for me even if I had asked him to stand behind me and snap his fingers while I recited bad slam poetry under a spotlight in a beret, smoking a clove cigarette.

"To be clear," Everett continues, gently tapping his fingertips on the tabletop, "when you said you needed us to meet up with Valeria and her friends so we could be your wingmen, you were the only person in on the plan? Valeria had no idea?"

I pretend to be interested in my phone to avoid looking at him. "I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds..." I glance up and Everett's green eyes are lasers. "…shitty."

There's that eyebrow again. "Say it in a way that doesn't sound shitty," Everett requests, speaking slowly.

The silence is brutal.

Everett looks away, his thinking-face slowly taking over. "This feels deeply maniacal," he decides. "Since when are you maniacal?"

"Always," I answer, shrugging.

"Yes, at work," he agrees. "When Frank Cavendish is puppeteering you, you're capable of outright malfeasance. But outside of work, you're not…"

"If anything, I'm doing you a favor. I'm introducing you to a beautiful woman. That's practically a gift. A great one. If we were living in an ancient civilization and you were a god, my offering of a beautiful woman would warrant ten goats and water for my barley crops."

Everett's brow tightens. "This is not an ancient civilization, Lander. We are not on the Tigris-Euphrates river system, Lander. I'm not a god, Lander."

"That's literally the humblest thing I've ever heard you say," Dalton remarks, snorting lightly.

"And stop repeating my name. You know I hate when you do that." I slump in my seat, starting to get annoyed. "Well, shit," I say glaring at Everett. "You introduce a guy to a camgirl, and this is how he reacts."

Immediately, Everett's eyebrows shoot up. "A camgirl?" he blurts out. "Lander, I can't be seen with a camgirl. I work for the government. I'm going to be running for office next year. Can you imagine if someone saw me with a sex worker?"

It's finally time for Dalton to let out a sigh. "Funny," he mentions. "I didn't understand why Valeria is anti-lawyer, but all of a sudden," he gestures palm up at Everett and waves his hand, "I get it."

"To clarify, I have no issue with sex work or sex workers," Everett insists, holding his index finger up and pointing between Dalton and me. "I just can't be seen with one."

"Fine," Dalton replies, batting Everett's finger to the side. "You can leave. I'll take two."

I squeeze Dalton's shoulder—what a ride or die. "I appreciate the problem-solving, Dalt, but Everett's not leaving." I face Everett now. "You're not leaving; I know you're not. Because as much as you love your burgeoning political career, you love me more. This woman is amazing. Valeria is independent, savvy, gorgeous, and confident—and I'm down bad, Ev. I want her."

For the first time tonight, Everett's stiff expression softens. "In other words, she's perfect for you," he acquiesces.

I nod emphatically. "You're staying."

"I'm staying."

"Are you going to be an asshole?" I narrow my eyes in warning.

Everett manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "I'll try not to. Emphasis on try."

"Try hard. You owe me, Everett Logan. It's been twenty-seven years. How many times have I had your back?"

"Countless," he admits, grimacing. He knows exactly where this is going.

"Countless," I parrot. "You remember when I learned to rock climb so you could hook up with that girl in Colorado? I'm afraid of heights, Everett."

"Oh shit, I remember that," Dalton remarks. "Ev, he literally threw up for half an hour once he rappelled back to the mat. That was so embarrassing. He can never go back to Denver again."

Everett's face is pure stone—a legitimate quarry. "You'll never let the Colorado incident go, will you?"

"Never. Hope the sex was worth it because I'm going to lord it over you until we die."

"It was mediocre," Everett mutters. Some unspoken turmoil flashes behind his eyes and makes him shudder. "Fine. I guess I'm spending the evening with a camgirl." He grabs the last shot and downs it, unaffected once again. Like I said: ice in his motherfucking veins.

"And I hope you're ready," Dalton mentions before cocking his chin to the side. "They're here."

I look over my shoulder to where Valeria, Lilith, and Emerald have just entered Smoke and Shadow. My whole world stops when she walks into the bar. The music is pounding, the lights are low, and the place is packed, but all I see is her.

All I ever want to see is her.