The Last Guy

I force a smile as we air-kiss each other’s cheeks. “Congratulations on the gala tonight.” I squeeze his forearm. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to celebrate.”

“Houston! We have a problem!” Chas cups her mouth dramatically with one long hand. “What’s up, buttercup? You’re calling it a night?”

“I’m sorry.” I step forward to air-kiss my roomie. “I think today’s hitting me all at once. I’m suddenly exhausted.”

“Do you need me to see you home?” My roommate’s chin starts to lift in Cade’s direction, and I see her trying to make history repeat itself.

I grip her arm, and my jaw tightens. “I’ll be fine. I’ve already called an Uber.”

“Bolt the door as soon as you get inside.” Chas uses her exaggerated mom-voice.

“I will.”

Trent and Chas are calling “Byeeee” in unison, and the heat of Cade is burning at my back. Without looking over my shoulder, I adopt a confident stride and make my way through the crowd and out the door.

Only a few steps more, and I can fall apart . . .

Cade

THE CLUB IS smoky and packed to the gills with writhing bodies, but the only thing I see is Stone’s curvy backside as she walks away from me.

Her hair is down and long in the back, the sleek strands like a cascading waterfall. God, I sound lovesick. My fingers itch to pull her head back against my chest and put my mouth on her neck. She’d taste like coconuts and summer, and I inhale sharply at the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.

I want her.

She doesn’t want you.

“Go after her,” Trent hisses in my ear and gives me a nudge toward the door. Of course, he and Chas had been texting tonight, hence the reason we’d ended up at the same bar.

“She’s almost gone,” he says to me. “It might be your last chance!”

I want to go after her. I want to follow her out and beg her to forgive me for not doing more to stop Marv and his stupid shenanigans.

But I can’t.

My body tightens with tension. “No. She hasn’t forgiven me.” I force myself to shrug nonchalantly. “She’s moving on anyway to New York.” I clear my throat. “Which is great for her. Fucking great.”

I slam my drink and signal the bartender to bring me another one.

I want to feel numb.

Chas, who’s been shimmying to the music, takes a seat at the bar and pats the one next to her. “You look down, Star-Lord. Come here and talk to Mama Chas. I’m a good listener.”

I manage a smirk. I don’t acknowledge the Star-Lord comment but know it has something to do with Stone.

“Trying to psychoanalyze me?”

“Naturally, darling. My aunt LouVerne lived in Little Rock, but she was a New Orleans gypsy.”

“That so?”

“She said I inherited her gift. Come on, sit your hot ass down and show me your hand. Let me tell you what it means.”

I heave out a long breath, suck down the rest of my drink, and plop down. “Alright, lay on the bullshit.”

“Right hand, please.” She nudges her head at my hand, and I place it on the bar.

With a serious expression, she studies my palm, her long mocha fingers drifting and tracing over the intricate lines.

Trent is fascinated and hovers around us. “Do you read tarot cards too?”

“Sure, honey. I do it all,” she says, without looking at him. “Fortune-telling, tea leaves, astrology, crystallomancy, feng shui—”

I pop an eyebrow. “You’re part Chinese now?”

“I sense a hostile vibration,” she says.

I roll my eyes, and Trent pops me on the arm. I chuckle, the alcohol kicking in. “Okay, okay. Just get it over with.”

Chas points to a line at the top of my hand. “See this here? It’s a long fate line, which means lots of happiness . . . although here you have an interruption.”

“Is he going to die?” Trent gasps.

Chas’s lips twitch. “Don’t freak . . . he has a long life line, but sadness and heartbreak have plagued you recently. You made a mistake . . . a tiny one . . . and it hasn’t been rectified. You must fix this or never have happiness again.”

“Dude. That sucks,” Trent says, giving me a sympathetic look. “You can’t leave things unsettled. Think about Dad. I mean, we aren’t perfect—never will be—but things are better.”

I exhale. “Okay, what else?”

Chas peers at my hand, tracing the line near my thumb. “This is your love line.”

I smirk. “I bet it’s horrible.”

She ignores me, intent on her reading. “You love deeply, but you’ve been hurt in the past.” Her heavily lashed eyes flick up to mine.

My mouth tightens. “Hasn’t everyone?”

“Maggie Grace, aka Lying Bitch,” Trent exclaims. “She walked out on him when his knee was busted. Didn’t even leave a goodbye note and then goes and tells everyone she’s his fiancée. Crazy ass—”

“That’s enough,” I say.

Yes, she’d left me, and it had stung. But it was nothing compared to watching Stone march out of my office.

Chas nods, her voice low and serious. “Fear of being hurt and a mountain of pride are keeping you from getting what you want. There is someone you care for very deeply—not your ex—and you must tell her or nothing will ever be right again. If you want something, you must fight for it.” Her knowing gaze sweeps over me. “You feel me?”

Even though my bullshit meter is going off, a tingle goes down my spine, and my heart thuds. I am a fucking fighter. Always have been. But when it comes to Stone, she’d walked away from me. So. Fucking. Easily. I have my pride, and if a shit ton of phone calls and texts aren’t enough . . .

I jerk my hand away from Chas.

“She gave up, not me.” Picking up my drink, I take a deep swallow. It burns going down, and I’m glad. I need it.

With my index finger at the bartender, I order another one. He quickly obliges.

Trent gives me a concerned look as he watches me suck it down. “Bro, you okay? I haven’t seen you drink this much—”

I cut him off. “I’m fine. Bathroom break.” I stand, weaving for half a second until he straightens me.

“Want me to go with?” he calls as I walk through the crowd to get to the back of the club. I raise my hand up and flip him off without even looking.

Making my way down the narrow hallway, I find the restroom, shoving open the door with my palms. Thank fuck it’s empty. I grip the sink and peer at myself in the mirror. My face is ashen and there are bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. It isn’t because of work or the gala or Trent.

Stone, fucking, Stone.

And right there, I allow myself to process what she’d said.

She’s going to New York and going on to a hell of a lot bigger things than being in car commercials in Houston. She isn’t just walking out of my office . . . she’s walking to another part of the goddamn country.

A wave of nausea hits me, and my knuckles whiten as I hang on to the sink.

“Get yourself together,” I mutter.

I’m going to be sick because I drank too much.

That’s a lie—I’m sick because of Rebecca Fieldstone.

My chest tightens at the thought of her. I straighten my shoulders and roll my neck, needing to alleviate the pressure.