Chapter 28

28

Beck

We have a back door pass to get us into The Laugh Track, the comedy club downtown, which is just as effective at getting attention as buying a ticket at the front door since the paps were tipped off that we'd be coming, except we don't have to wade through everyone else buying tickets, which is really just an excuse by my team to save my ego from the people who'll tell me to suck dick and die.

I agreed to the back door because I didn't want Sarah hearing any of the bullshit that people are spouting on Twitter about her looks that the occasional dumbass is brave enough to utter in person, and also because Charlie flat-out warned me that she'd quit for real if I punched anyone.

That would be like Ellie refusing to buy me any more Christmas presents for the rest of my life, and Ellie gives the best Christmas presents.

Like the Justin Bieber electric toothbrush she got me two years ago.

Epic. Prank level infinity right there. How's a guy supposed to live without that in his life?

"Spoiled asshole," one of the bouncers mutters as we pass through the back door.

"I'm working on it," Sarah replies cheerfully. "Seriously, I asked my parents to donate my usual birthday Ferrari to a B-lister this year. That's not being an asshole, is it?"

I suck in a surprised grin and tug her in the door while the bouncers choke on their own spit and my bodyguards shuffle her faster too.

"What?" she mutters. "Like they've never stuck their feet in their mouths."

"That was awesome. Did you practice sassing the paps when you were growing up?"

"No, I always thought of the perfect comeback five minutes too late, and Mom always said it wasn't worth baiting them anyway."

"She's right," one of the bodyguards grunts.

"I know," Sarah sighs. "But that felt really fucking fantastic. For like two seconds there, I was the girl with the comeback. It'll never happen again, and honestly, my heart's about to pound out of my chest, but it was worth it."

I am definitely practicing double orgasms with her when this contract is over. Triple. Quadruple. Can a woman go for a quintuple, or would that kill her? Because I'm pretty sure a quintuple would kill me.

I'll have to ask a doctor.

We're steered around the back of the stage to a round two-person table off to the left in the open seating area, bodyguards at the table beside us. We're both angled with a good view of the black curtain blocking the stage, and our server rushes right over, only giving me a small lip curl before turning her attention to Sarah. "Hi, hon. What can I get you? We have a strawberry cosmo that's delicious. Makes the company more bearable. By the way, I can not stop watching Persephone. Do you think she'll have the baby this week?"

"I—she could go another couple weeks, but it's really exciting, isn't it?"

"She is so pretty."

"I love her tongue," I say.

"We have the best cheese fries in Copper Valley," the lady tells Sarah, completely ignoring me. "Bacon, scallions, and we don't just use goopy orange cheese, though that's totally delicious at the ballpark. We melt gouda, swiss, and cheddar together."

My stomach grumbles.

"I'm really hungry tonight," Sarah says. "Do you have hamburgers? Like half-pounders?"

"I can totally get you a half-pound burger. Bacon? Barbecue sauce? Fried egg?"

Sarah orders the mother of all burgers, with everything from avocado to bacon to provolone to fried onions on it, and I have to surreptitiously wipe the drool off the corner of my mouth.

What? I worked out today. On a fucking treadmill instead of out in the glorious summer day, but hey, I live in a time when I can run in a three-foot-by-two-foot space so I don't have little old ladies spitting on me or other little old ladies asking me to kiss their dogs since those other old ladies actually believe I'm honestly sorry for the tweet heard 'round the world last week.

Not that I snuck out of my apartment this morning for a stroll to the Apple store and had any of that happen.

Really.

Don't tell my team, okay?

Sarah finishes her order by asking for a large Cobb salad with extra bacon, sweet potato fries, onion rings, steamed broccoli, a sweet tea— just bring a jug, please, because I'm extra thirsty —and a Nutella almond malt.

I've never fallen in real love before—I mean, with a human, because I've fallen in love plenty with fried cheese sticks and a solid steak—but I'm growing more and more convinced that feeling after the taser incident wasn't just residual voltage.

When the server finally dashes away, I angle closer to her, draping my arm around the back of her chair so I can whisper in her ear. "Can I kiss you? Right now? Because that was the sexiest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life, and I'm having a really hard time keeping my hands to myself."

She pretends to be puzzled, which makes her eyes sparkle and shine and yeah, definitely not residual voltage. "That sweet girl insulting your interpersonal skills and asking about Persephone?"

"You, ordering mounds and mounds of food. I'm having these fantasies about spreading it all over your body and feasting for hours."

"If you're not careful with all that dirty talk, we're both going to regret what those photographers post to the world in about two minutes," she breathes, her eyes going dark like yes , she wants me eating all over her.

And now I'm wondering what color her nipples are and if she's the silk, lace, or cotton panties type, or if she's in a thong, or boy shorts, and fuck , is it possible to be aroused in your stomach at the same time as you're sporting a redwood, because everything's pretty much revving engines right now.

"I don't care about the photographers," I tell her. "I'm so turned on right now."

"Oh, because you think I'm going to share?"

Her lips are smiling and teasing, but her eyes are dark. So dark. Not just normal Sarah dark, but intense and deep and shadowed by her lowering lids, but still sparkling. The room's dimly lit, but it's glowing just for having her sitting in here.

"Name your price. Anything. You want my Frogger game? My car? A house in the mountains? A willing student with an eager tongue who really really wants to learn that double orgasm trick?"

"I think you're cheating," she whispers.

"I think you're the world's most perfect woman and I'm in serious trouble here."

"It was really that sexy?"

"If I was lying, I'd say you were the alien queen of a distant planet come here to hypnotize all the men and steal pieces of our spleens to start a master race of sex slaves on your own planet."

She cracks up even as she leans closer to me, her fingers coming to rest on my cheek. " How did you ever become a fashion mogul? That's more cutthroat than Hollywood, and I swear you're a thirteen-year-old boy in a man's body. Which I'm completely okay with, by the way. I like you this happy and goofy."

"How has no one ever noticed before how gorgeous your eyes are? They're like pied piper eyes. You should have men following you like puppies everywhere you go just for opening those beautiful eyes every morning."

"Looks aren't everything."

"But your eyes are. Your eyes are everything ."

Inches. Inches . I could be kissing her in mere inches. And I'm completely dead serious about everything I'm telling her.

She is hot and sexy. And her eyes—yeah, I could drown in those eyes. Happily.

"Lavoie. Lavoie, look. It's the underwear guy."

Sarah jerks back and looks up.

Two solid-looking familiar dudes are sizing me up. I know these guys.

"Ohmygod, Nick Murphy and Duncan Lavoie," Sarah gasps.

Right.

Hockey players. The Thrusters.

They steal two chairs from the table on the other side of us and shove me out of the way to box her in. Murphy smiles at her and I want to punch his smarmy goalie face. Lavoie takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, and I want to dunk his entire upper body in a toilet.

"This guy bothering you?" Lavoie asks.

"No," she assures him with a smile. "He's very good company. And harmless."

"I am not harmless," I object. "I can kick your ass in Pac-Man."

Murphy looks at me again with his dark green gaze. "You learn your lesson about talking to women yet, or do we need to step outside?"

"Stop," Sarah says. "He's definitely learned his lesson. He even just offered to let me have his car. He's very, very sorry. And his mother chewed him out and apologized on his behalf too. Sorry, bud, but you can't touch that."

Nick's brow furrows. "Yeah, I got a mom like that. Except I never fuck up."

"Dude," Lavoie mutters. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Hey, I wouldn't tweet that shit to my sister or any other woman."

"Just to your sister's exes," Lavoie supplies.

"I'm avenging the fucking world." He points at me. "And that's my sister about to go up on stage, so you better laugh your ass off. But only at the right spots. And don't even think of tweeting anything about her. Anything . Even anything good . I'll be watching you."

My bodyguards are useless.

Or possibly they're enjoying this.

Hard to tell. But I'd be enjoying this if I were them.

"Can I get a picture?" Sarah asks. "My friend Mackenzie loves the Fireballs first and foremost, but the Thrusters are her second favorite."

" Distantly ," I add. Helpfully.

Sarah grins, and these two hockey players have clearly taken one too many pucks to the head, because neither of them falls at her feet and worships her just for that gorgeous sight.

"Well, yeah, but they're still second," Sarah agrees.

"You haven't asked for a picture with me," I point out.

"Oh, I think I have a lot more than a picture with you." She tosses me another smile that hits me so hard in the chest that I almost fall out of my chair.

Or maybe that was a server tripping over the chair leg.

Possibly on purpose while trying to hit me in the head with a serving tray.

But still.

I feel that smile all the way to my bones.

And not just the boner growing harder with every passing second behind my fly.

The server delivers Sarah's drink and milkshake and a complimentary basket of fried pickles while they're taking pictures. After Sarah texts Mackenzie, Murphy gives me the same double-fingered I'm watching you point that Judson got me with before we left Sarah's house.

"Laughing. You. In the right spots. Off Twitter. Got it?"

"I giggle when I'm nervous," I tell him, which makes Sarah snort sweet tea out her nose. "Oh, shit. Sorry. Here." I lunge for napkins and dab at her nose and mouth, which are fuck , so pretty.

How in the world has she hidden this long?

"I'm okay," she sputters around a laugh. "Thank you."

After making sure I'm not going to accidentally kill her, Murphy and Lavoie leave us alone.

But they sit close all through open mic night.

Which is so-so, except for the ventriloquist, who's fucking hilarious, and not just because Nick Murphy will kick my ass if I don't think so and laugh in all the right places. That goat puppet she's using reminds me of Wyatt. Totally straight-laced.

Which I think makes me the cat puppet named Lucy, which is a little awkward, but I can deal with feeling a kinship with a cat puppet.

Sarah shares all of her food with me, our chairs pressed tight together so I can loop one arm around her the whole night, because I'm having fingergasms just from touching her, and by the time the show's over and every last amateur comedian and comedienne have had their turns, the photographers lurking across the room have gotten an endless supply of good shots of Sarah and me enjoying the show.

And I'm pissed.

Because she should be able to go out and enjoy a comedy club without knowing that her every move is being watched and scrutinized by the world.

"We need to call this off," I tell her when we're back in my car, headed for my building. Security can sneak her out in an unmarked car from there.

"What? Why?"

"Because I don't like those assholes taking pictures of you."

She watches me as we pull into my parking garage and I take the hard left to head into my private underground garage behind the lift door that most people assume is for deliveries.

"Maybe it's not so bad," she finally says as I'm parking. "I did some selective googling at work today. Donations to animal conservation projects are up twenty percent this week."

I want to be fucking up twenty percent . With her.

But I'm also the moron who just told her we needed to call this off, and fuck , she probably thinks I mean all of us.

"I could make two phone calls and get that tripled and you wouldn't have to smile for another camera in your entire life."

"I like making a difference." Her cheeks start to go splotchy, and I can't help tracing the uneven edges of red in her cheeks. "I care," she whispers. "People can see it. And that means more than Levi Wilson or Cash Rivers giving it lip service."

"I was going to blackmail one of the British princes and remind someone whose name I'm legally not allowed to mention that he owes me a favor, but I can call Levi and Cash too."

She lights up so fucking bright when she smiles.

But I wasn't actually joking.

"My mom's been asking me for years to go on vacation with her and Dad," she tells me. "I've always had an excuse, but we all knew I just didn't want to have my picture taken with them. Maybe now…we could try it. I'm not so afraid anymore." She smiles hesitantly, like she feels silly for putting her parents off for so long. "Maybe you did me a favor by being an internet jackoff. And I'd never actually gotten to taser anyone before, so there's that too."

Instead of answering, I release my seat belt and lunge across the seat to kiss her. I stroke her thick, silky hair and wish it wasn't tied back, and she latches onto my wrists, but instead of pushing me away, she clings tight and angles her lips against mine and leans all the way in.

This .

This is what I've been searching for my entire life without even knowing I wanted it.

This desperate hot need to not just kiss a woman, but to be kissed by her.

To be everything she wants.

To step up my game. Try harder. Be smarter. More gallant.

More gallant?

Shit. I'm turning into some kind of medieval knight for her.

And I'm totally balls-to-the-wall on board with going all knightly on her ass if that's what it takes.

Especially when she parts her lips and lets me all the way in.

Fucking. Heaven.

Her hands trail down my forearms, she deepens the kiss, and I'm two seconds from blowing my load just because a woman's gliding her tongue over mine.

I might not be the world's most experienced lover, but I don't do premature anything.

And I don't think she'd kiss a guy just to kiss a guy.

Especially not this guy.

So I have a chance.

A real chance.

My hand is drifting down her shoulder toward her breast when my car horn blasts out of nowhere.

And not just the horn.

The whole damn alarm

Sarah flings herself backward, her fingers going to her lips, eyes wide, and she fumbles for the door handle.

I drop my phone between the seats trying to grab it to pull up my car app and deactivate the alarm, but as soon as Sarah leaps out of the car, I realize what's going on.

Charlie.

Charlie's phone is hooked to my car, and she just activated the alarm.

And I'm positive it's her, because she's standing right there, in front of my car, phone in hand, and the alarm stops as soon as Sarah shuts her door.

I glare at my assistant.

Not in the contract , she mouths.

I flip her off.

She smirks.

It's a smirky, know-it-all, serves-you-right smirk. Possibly with a side of if you're going to woo the woman, do it right, after you're not contractually obligated to just act like you like her anymore, when she knows you're really just into HER and not what she can do for your career .

I drop my head to the steering wheel, because fuck .

She's right. Even with telling Sarah this isn't about the contract, she has no guarantee. Which means she's going on faith.

Faith in me.

I should probably be grateful there's no emergency airbag deploy button on the app.

I'm also revoking Charlie's privileges to run my car app.

"Ready to go home?" She's asking Sarah as I finally pull myself out of the car.

Sarah nods, face splotchy red, without looking at me.

"You want to come over tomorrow and watch movies?" I hear myself ask.

She glances at me and holds eye contact, but gets redder with each passing second. Shit .

"I have plans, but thanks for the offer," she says.

Dammit dammit dammit . "Anytime. You're fun." You're fun ? What am I, twelve ? I had all the right words earlier, and now I'm completely fucking this up.

Charlie's sucking her lips in. I know she's stifling a smile, and I'm getting hot in the face too.

One kiss.

One single goodnight kiss.

And my assistant goes and ruins it.

I should fire her.

Except she's probably right.

I shouldn't be kissing women when it's not clear if it's for me or the stupid contract, because if I were Sarah, I'd be doubting every word I said about liking her for her.

"I meant going out in public," I say to her. "We should call off going out in public."

"Not gonna happen, Romeo," Charlie says. "Or I'll fire you ."

Sarah flashes me a brief smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and I think I've just fucked up again, but I don't know how , or why , or how to fix it. I just know I don't want her to leave.

And not because I don't want to be alone.

But because I want to be with her .

"Can I call you?" I ask as Charlie ushers her toward the back door of the garage.

This time, she stops and looks at me. She's still blushing, but she finally lifts those gorgeous eyes to meet mine, and wham .

"Yes," she says with a shy smile.

"Window's closing to get you out before you're going to be followed," Charlie says, and Sarah and I both sigh.

I'm about to tell her she can just stay when she ducks her head again and lets Charlie hustle her out the door.

I slouch against my car.

That was the best date I've ever had in my entire life .

It was just a comedy club. With good food. Some photographers watching us. A near-miss with having a beer or seventeen spilled down my crotch.

But I haven't split a burger on a date since I was seventeen and couldn't afford to get my date more. I haven't let my fingers linger in the fry basket in the hopes that we'd accidentally touch in even longer. I haven't wished the show would be over so we could be alone again, or been so simultaneously sad when we left because it meant I was that much closer to having to let her go home.

And listening to her snort-laugh at some of the really bad jokes tonight—I don't get why the internet as a whole isn't tripping all over itself to talk about how gorgeous and funny and smart and kind she is.

My phone dings. Text from Charlie.

Go to bed, Beck. Business meetings all day tomorrow .

I sigh and head for the elevator, where there's ever-present security watching over my garage hidey-hole. "Not your usual type, Mr. Ryder," the guy says.

I scowl at him. "Damn fucking better."

His smirk slides off and he goes pink in the cheeks. "Yes, sir."

This world.

I thought I was the fuck-up last weekend.

But maybe the whole damn world has lost its mind.