Raced

“You’re such an asshole,” I tell him but know I’m lucky to have him as my partner in crime.

“Shh!” he says again, and I give up. I take a deep breath and roll my eyes but humor him and remain silent. I swear he’s passed out but he’s still sitting at the edge of the chair and hasn’t fallen over.

Yet.

But his eyes are still closed when a huge-ass grin turns his mouth up and he claps his hands together and rubs them. “Shit, that was easier than I thought.”

“What was?” My buzz is humming now and I’m finally relaxed after a fuck-all day with the Firestone guys and negotiations over shit they’re going to cave on in the end anyway.

“Getting you to admit you’re a kept man now.”

“Fucking Christ, dude!” I spit my beer out. “Kept? You’re calling me kept?” That’s like the equivalent of telling Jenna Jameson she’s a virgin.

“It’s pretty fucking obvious when there’s a huge neon sign above your head flashing no vacancy for your stabbin’ cabin that you’re a kept man. Have a woman now.”

“A woman now? I’m sure Ry would love to hear you refer to her as that.”

He eyes me over his bottle. “So she’s not your woman, then? Because usually when you hang up the phone you don’t think twice, back to business. Now you hang up with a little smirk on your face and you’re lost in la-la land for a bit.”

“La-la land?” I laugh.

“What would you call it, then? Girlfriend-ville?” He eyes me. Dares me to deny his reference since I’m the self-proclaimed don’t do the girlfriend thing kind of guy.

I begin to argue but then stop. Fucking Becks. He knows me like the back of my hand and yet this is uncharted fucking territory for me. A woman that I want to color outside the lines with. No, scratch that. A woman that fucks with me on so many levels that I’m so busy being challenged and seduced by her words, her body, and her defiance that I don’t even realize the parameters I’m used to controlling don’t really matter anymore … because she does.

Fuckin’ A, he’s right, but hell if I’ll tell him that.

“We’ll go with woman,” I concede, but the word girlfriend rolls around in my head, sticking here and there as I get used to the idea of it.

“Holy shit!” Becks says, pounding on his chest acting like he’s choking and I just stare at him unamused despite the smile on my lips. He stops laughing and tosses a bottle cap at me as he leans back in his chair. “Well, admission is half the battle. Keeping her is the other half.”

“Keeping her?” Dude’s got my head spinning. I mean, fuck, I just told her I’d try, asked her to spend the weekend at Broadbeach with me when no one ever has, and he’s talking about how to keep her? I didn’t realize she was going somewhere.

“Baby steps, Becks. Don’t give me a heartache here. I hear keeping her but I think rings and strings and weddings and shit.”

And he only thinks my reaction makes the whole situation funnier by how he curls up and can’t stop laughing. “The look on your face is priceless,” he finally gets out, “but I’m not talking about marriage.”

Thank fuck for that. We can put away the defibrillators now. I look over at him, eyes telling him to get to the fucking point so I can enjoy my beer again without any more cardiac arrests.

“I’m talking about romance. Shit girls like, man.”

“You don’t need romance when you have my skills,” I tell him, already waiting for the smart-ass comment to come from his mouth.

“Okay, one-pump chump.”

“Fuck off!” I sneer and flip my middle finger up, but he’s laughing so hard he doesn’t even see it.

“Shit. I’ve got to take a piss,” he says and rises on unsteady feet to head to the bathroom of my suite.

I lift my feet up and prop them on the table in front of me, hands clasped behind my head. Through the open balcony doors I can hear Bruno Mars’s newest song playing in the bar across the street, but in the muted silence I start thinking about the word girlfriend. Wondering if that’s a definition we really need when we have our own language between us. Then Beckett’s words start running over again in my head until he comes back out zipping up his fly.

He walks over to the open doors and I feel a slight pang of guilt that he wanted to go hang out at the bar and I just didn’t want to deal with the crowd tonight. I’m usually interested in the eye candy and playing the game.

But I just don’t feel like it this trip.

I shake my head. What in the fuck is Rylee doing to me? All her talk about Scooter saying I Spiderman you and that look on her face as she sat naked on her knees beside me undoes me bit by bit when I’m already a mess of unraveled memories.

I lean forward and grab another beer from the bucket of ice in front of me and stare at the label for a few minutes. “So uh, romance, huh?”

I see his body register my words, but he keeps his face toward the street because he can tell I’m so far out of my fucking element here, the periodic table wouldn’t even be able to help me.

Romance? I don’t do it. Flowers die, food gets eaten. It’s not real. I’ve watched people flip the switch on and off enough in my life between my dad’s movie sets to women wanting something with me that I’m not fucking stupid enough to see the farce.

So why the fuck am I wondering what Becks thinks I’m screwing up here?

“What are you not saying to me? You think I’m not giving her the flowery shit a girl wants so she’s gonna bail?” The thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach. In fact it makes me shove up out of my chair and walk back and forth.