The Last Guy

Chas screams and jumps off the couch to do a boogie dance. I’m trying to swallow the knot tightening my throat. Working for a network affiliate in New York is one step below working for the network. It’s the chance of a lifetime.

My eyes go to the clock. It’s almost ten. “It’s too late to call him.”

“Fuck you, Marv!” Chas is singing and pointing her long fingers toward the door.

“I have to call Nancy . . .”

“We have to celebrate!” Now my roommate is clapping. “Get dressed—we are going dancing!”

I think about the texts Vicky had sent me over the last few weeks, apologizing again, asking if I were okay. I’d ignored them all. “I have to call Vicky and thank her.”

“You can do all that later. I’m calling for a car. Put on your party dress!”

Twenty minutes later, we’re in Barbarella, a funky-fun downtown dance club with 1960s Space-Race-era décor. We’re in the center of a smoke-filled, semi-crowded dance floor. Neon-purple lights flash all around us, and we reach for the stars, which are little white points of light scattered across the black ceiling. It looks just like the Milky Way, and with our arms up, we twist our hips to classic 90s house music. Chas is in a short sequined slip dress, a classic Julie Newmar flip wig, and sky-high stilettoes. I’d thrown on my red dress and heels, touched up my lipstick, and ran out the door behind her.

“It’s Priscilla!” Chas cries, and we jump up and down, singing and dancing to “Finally” by CeCe Peniston. “I’m Queen of the Desert!”

The song mixes into Robin S’s “Show Me Love,” and Chas pulls my arm toward the bar. I make a pouty face. “I love this song!”

“Too much desert. I must have refreshment.”

We’re stopped on the way off the floor by one of Chas’s fans wanting an autograph. I snort a laugh when she signs the guy’s bicep then squeals about how big and hard it is. Selfies taken, we make our way to the crowded bar.

“Why aren’t you performing tonight?” I ask as we wait for fresh Cosmos.

“I have the week off,” she says, rocking her hips to the beat. “Maybe I’ll go with you to New York. I haven’t seen Nan in ages!”

My eyes drift up to the flat-screen television hanging behind the bar. The news is ending with a recap of scenes from the charity ball earlier this evening. I’d done my best to avoid all coverage and put the event out of my mind, since it’s to benefit the same inner-city school where I’d started to fall in love with Cade. Eli Manning appears with other local celebrities, and my stubborn gaze searches every face looking for his. I see Coach Hart followed by Cheetah . . . and my heart stops when Cade appears on the screen.

Dark hair flops onto his brow, and his steel blue eyes laser from the television to burn a hole in my already decimated heart. The television is on mute, but I watch his full lips surrounded by that beard, his perfectly straight teeth as he smiles, waiting patiently as Matt asks him a question.

Tears burn my eyes as much as I fight them. It hurts so bad to see him standing there, looking healthy and amazing, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I can still hear his voice. He stopped calling me, but I still have one of his voicemails saved on my phone. Sometimes, when it’s really bad, I’ll press it to my ear and listen to the rich vibration of him speaking. Hot tears will stream down my face, and I’ll cry myself to sleep . . .

Those are the bad nights, the nights when I wonder how much I truly care that he knew the entire time, every time I’d thanked him . . . when I’d told him everything, when I’d bared my deepest feelings, my hopes and dreams. He’d known it had been over for me the whole time. He hadn’t even tried to warn me.

“Be My Lover” by La Bouche comes on, and I turn to find Chas. I want to dance—correction: I need to dance. Only, I don’t turn fast enough to miss it. The last shot of the gala is that same blonde stick-insect prancing up to Cade and planting a kiss right on his face. Maggie Grace in a mixture of words including fiancée appears under her image, and my heart drops to my feet. I lift my martini glass and chug the rest of the pink liquid, ready to slam it on the bar when a deep voice freezes me in place.

“She’s always looking for some way to be on camera.”

Spinning around, I almost fall when I see Cade standing behind me staring up at the TV screen. He looks just as luscious as he had when Matt was interviewing him, except his black tie is gone. The top button of his white shirt is undone, and both hands are in his pants pockets.

“Cade . . .” My stomach clenches, and my voice is just above a whisper.

“I didn’t expect to see you here. Trent wanted to celebrate.” His blue eyes move around my face. “The gala was a big success.”

A sharp pain shoots through my forehead, and I fight back the tears. I remind myself my life is better now. I don’t need Cade Hill or his player ways and half-truths. I’ve just gotten the chance of a lifetime. I am not focusing on the past or betrayal or how much I want to bury my face in his chest and lose myself in the scent of warm fires and citrus and him.

I clear my throat. “I’m glad to hear it.” I sound way calmer than I feel. “Deadrick is a worthy cause.”

Cade waves at the bartender. “A Cosmopolitan and a Jameson.”

“You don’t have to buy—”

“So you’re working with Tommy now?”

Shaking my head, I do a dismissive wave. “It’s just a temporary thing. I-I actually got a letter from Brian Caldwell today. He’s with the NBC affiliate in New York. They want to interview me.”

Cade studies me a moment, and I can’t figure out the expression on his face. It’s some strange mixture of pride and anger. “You’re going to work in Manhattan?”

“It’s just an interview.” He hands me my drink, and I nod. “Thanks. I don’t know that anything will come of it. It’ll probably be just an expensive trip, but at least I’ll see Nancy.” His brow furrows, and I continue, borderline babbling. “My old roommate. She moved up there to go to culinary school and hopefully get a job with the Food Network, although—”

“They’ll offer you the job.” He cuts me off, and it sounds almost like saying the words makes him angry. “They’d be fools not to.”

I don’t know how to answer that, and we fall quiet. House music fills the gap, Be my lover . . .

“So you’re engaged now?” My stupid brain just has to know.

“No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t know why she . . . I’ll get Vicky to correct it.”

I look down, taking a slow sip of my drink. I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m buzzed and sad and having him this close is killing me. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep talking to him this way.

“You look . . . really good,” he says, and pain echoes in my chest with every heartbeat. “I always liked that dress.”

“So do you.” My voice breaks, and it’s time to go. I have to get out of here before I lose my grip on control and completely humiliate myself by falling apart. “Well . . . good luck to you.”

I turn and almost bounce off Trent and Chas prancing up arm in arm. “Rebecca Fieldstone!” Trent presses his hand against his chest. “Watch where you’re going, girl! My safety is your priority!”