Page 18 of Scout
He exhales slowly. "It’s nothing personal, Kendrix. Money is money. This is my job. It pays for my life and… moreimportantly, it helps me make sure my little sister has a good life."
That hits me harder than I expect. He’s got a sister. He takes care of her. My heart twinges.
"So what was that night? Just a paycheck?" I ask. "You suck all your clients’ dicks, or was I special?"
He shakes his head. "I told you… I don’t. But that’s what you are, Kendrix. A client."
The words hit hard, but I barrel forward. "What if I told you I haven’t stopped thinking about that night? That I’ve thought about booking you ten times just to see you again?"
His lips quirk into a smile. "I’d say just ask for my number, Kendrix. I’d gladly give it to you."
He holds out his hand. I hand over my phone without hesitation. He types something in quick and I hear the ding from his own phone.
He hands mine back. "There you have it. And now I’ve got yours."
A voice cuts in behind us. "What the hell is this? You trying to steal my date, Kendrix?"
I turn and raise my hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn’t dream of it. Just having a little conversation. Scout here was worried about a scrape his little sis got on her bike. Right, Scout?"
Scout’s brow arches for a second, but he plays along like a champ. "Yeah. Juniper fell off her bike. Just wanted to make sure I was taking care of it right."
Xavier snorts. "Kendrix is a surgeon. Cuts and scrapes are beneath him. Next time, ask me. I’m the ER doctor."
Scout nods. "I will. Thank you." He smiles, then shifts gears. "Now... where’s that drink?"
Xavier lifts the glasses. "Right here. But the bartender started rambling on about green tea shots and I couldn’t carry everything. Let’s go back to the bar."
We follow him, Scout falling into step between us like he was born for this.
We raise our glasses.
"To great internet finds," Xavier says with that smug glint in his eye.
Scout lets out a belly laugh.
It’s definitely a jab.
Sexy, smug bastard.
8
Scout
The party is winding down.People are trickling out, hugging too long, laughing too loud. The jazz band has given up on trying to be background noise and started playing covers of pop songs like they’re classy enough to pull it off. I’m leaning against the bar, a fresh martini in hand, and both Kendrix and Xavier are still flanking me like shadows that smell like sin.
Too many martinis. Way too many tequila shots. But it was an open bar, and I’m nothing if not budget-conscious.
The three of us keep brushing hands, nudging shoulders, laughing at things that aren’t even that funny. And it’s happening. That slow, inevitable slide into something neither of them probably expected when they walked in tonight.
I can’t even remember who says what. Something about how hot the bartender is, then Kendrix leans in with a smirk and says, "Not as hot as you looked licking that salt off your hand." And Xavier’s laugh has a little growl in it, and I suddenly forget how to breathe.
We call an Uber. It feels like the only logical thing to do.
Xavier tells Maddoc we’ll be back for the cars tomorrow, and Maddoc—bless his grumpy soul—just lifts one side of his lip and mutters, "Arrogant drunk dickheads."
We lose it, laughing uncontrollably as we stumble onto the sidewalk, cool night air rushing over my flushed face, a reminder that I’m still tethered to Earth.
Perez, our driver, pulls up in a dark blue Toyota Corolla and somehow, impossibly, the three of us cram into the backseat. I’m in the middle, of course. The universe has jokes.
