Joy Ride

Nena’s “99 Luftballons.”

The Go-Go’s “Vacation.”

Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”

I smirk. That’s too fucking adorable. “You like bubblegum pop?”

Her cheeks go red. “There’s nothing wrong with bubblegum pop,” she says as she tries to grab her phone from my hand.

I. Can’t. Resist.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the way this girl needles me. It’s her French maid routine. It’s her pushing all my buttons. It’s the way she detests me.

I hold her phone behind my head.

“Max,” she says, in a perfect plea. God, it’s hot. I can hear her saying it in bed.

I feign surprise. “Oh, did you want your phone back, tiger?”

Her eyes widen when I use that word. Frankly, I’m surprised I said it. But she is a tiger, especially right now as she leans across the seat, reaching for it.

Damn, I’m an asshole. And yet, I can’t seem to stop playing keep-away with her phone, jamming it far behind me so that it hits the side of the car. She lunges for it, thrusting her arm out, but only hitting my forearm.

She swats me. “Give it to me.”

My brain short-circuits. God, she would sound hot saying that bent over the bed.

Then in a flurry, she unbuckles her seat belt and lunges at me.

Foul play indeed.

She’s on me. She’s fucking on me. She climbs, stretching high, her tits near my motherfucking face, so help me God. They are saggy, drooping, ugly breasts.

Except they’re not.

They’re perfect. Lush, ripe.

Like her sweet perfume scent. Like her cinnamon breath that flutters across my cheek as she rises higher. As she reaches, her T-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of her stomach.

I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

I simply try not to grow more aroused. But then she wraps one hand around my wrist and pries the phone with the other as her breasts smash against my eyes.

Man down.

A second later, she wrenches back, dropping down to her seat, clutching her phone. She smooths her hand over her shirt. She won’t look at me. “Something secret on your phone?”

She jerks her head and gives me a look that could kill.

I should be pissed at her. I should torment her more. But I feel as if she’s got a legit fear, and I don’t want to be a dick. Nor do I want my dick to be in charge. He’s an idiot.

I breathe a silent sigh of relief that Operation Deflation is underway.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She nods as she stares ahead.

I take my phone from my pocket, toggle over to my Google streaming music, and search for a song. I turn up the volume, close my eyes, and let Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” fill the silence between us.

When the song nears its end, I open one eye. Henley’s not looking at me. She’s gazing straight ahead, but there’s a smile on her face that says she likes the song.

And the sentiment.

8

The white ball screams across the table, straight at the purple one that’s mere inches from the corner pocket. But the cue ball misses, whacking the side of the table with a dull thud instead.

That’s how my night has gone.

I curse under my breath. Usually, I kill it at pool. Tonight, I’m a doormat.

“Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

My buddy Patrick takes a swig of his beer, sets down the bottle on the wooden side of the table, and lines up the pool stick. Narrowing his eyes, he takes aim. With a light tap, he delivers the white ball with a textbook stop-shot that sends an orange-striped ball neatly into the pocket.

And gives him the game.

“And that’s how you beat the resident pool shark,” he says, thrusting his arms in the air.

I shake my head in defeat. “Man, I suck tonight.”

Patrick laughs. “You do. But I’m also awesome. So maybe you want to give me some credit, too.”

He’s right. And I’m sucking at that, too—basic human understanding. I extend a hand and give him a shake. “Good game. Apparently, I’m an asshole in all sorts of ways today.”

“Aww.” He adopts an overdone frown. “Want to tell Uncle Patrick all about your rough day?” He racks up for another round, his brown hair flopping in his face when he leans over the table.

Patrick lives in my building. I call him the half-timer since, well, he lives here only half the time. The rest of his days he’s on the other coast.

From the hiking boots to the REI pullover shirts, Patrick is outdoorsy to the core. After offering wilderness camping, backpacking, snowshoeing, and cross-country ski trips and tours in the region, he recently expanded his adventure tour company to Northern California.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ll pass on the impromptu therapy session.”

What’s there to say, anyway? That woman gets under my skin. Henley’s not just a thorn. She’s the thorniest thorn in the entire history of thorns. Two hours with her and I feel as if I’ve been cut all over. She’s like a kitten that paws at you and ten seconds later your wrist is bleeding.

“Then I’ll tell you about my rough day,” Patrick offers, and that gets my attention. He doesn’t have rough days, unless you count a lack of snow or an excess of muddy trails. Though, in all fairness, those do sound like tough conditions, but the point is he’s one unruffled dude. He’s precisely the type of guy someone would want to guide them over trails and through wilderness areas. “I had to let one of my guides go today.”

I make my way around the table, lining up my next shot. “Yeah? What happened? Did he turn left at a trailhead instead of right?”

Patrick pretends to guffaw deeply. “Actually, he fucked a client on the job. A married client.”

“Ouch,” I say, wincing as I nail a draw shot on the green ball. Maybe I’m back on my game. Maybe Henley hasn’t totally knocked me off-balance.

“Gave him the heave-ho,” he says, miming slicing a finger across his throat. “I can’t have those kinds of problems chasing me as I build up a business.”

That’s one of the reasons Patrick and I get along so well. The dude might be the definition of laid-back, but he’s no slacker. He works hard, he’s disciplined, and he doesn’t let his people get away with shit.

“Right there with you, man. You need to run a tight ship.” Then I take a beat. “Screwing a chick in the tents is for management only, right?”

“Hey, now,” Patrick says. “I haven’t done that in—”

The sound of the door opening loudly interrupts us.

“Honey, I’m home!”

It’s Mia, and she stops in her tracks when she sees Patrick at the table. Patrick stops in his tracks, too. He blinks as he takes in my sister in her jeans, high-heeled boots, and pink sweater. Her arms are laden with grocery bags from Whole Foods.

“I’ll just make my way out of here,” Patrick says in a time-to-help-my-buddy-score-by-making-myself-scarce voice.

I laugh. “Dipshit. That’s my sister.”

“Ohhhhh,” Patrick says, then he strides across the hardwood floor and extends a hand to Mia. “Nice to meet you. I’m Patrick. I live a few floors down.”

Mia smiles brightly as she takes his hand. “Mia. I’m just in town for another day for meetings. Then I head back to the West Coast.”