Page 4 of Miss Matched

Zac

Istareatthe headline on Mark’s phone and read it again.

Billionaire Playboy Zac Vincent’s Sex Club Escapades

My ex-girlfriend’s big mouth might have been a blast in the bedroom, but it’s about to get me into a shitload of trouble.

“That’s not exactly what happened,” I say, sliding Mark’s phone across the bar to him. Leave it to me to get caught outside a sex club just as my company signs one of our biggest contracts yet.

Mark looks up at me and chuckles. His shit-eating grin makes my stomach turn.

“Glad to see this is so amusing for you.”

“There’s a selfie of you and Stacia outside of Nirvana,” Mark points out.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t there.” I drain the rest of the whiskey from my glass. “But it’s not what it looks like. Stacia had to grab paperwork from one of her producers for a last-minute callback. He asked that we meet him there to pick it up. That’s all. In and out.”

Mark shoves his phone in his pocket. “Then why’s she detailing a debauched night of threesomes and spankings?”

“She wishes.” I chuckle.

“Oh, and you don’t?” he says.

I tap my fingers on my glass and look straight at him. “I can neither confirm nor deny. Just calling bullshit on that particular article.” I point to his pocket.

Mark shakes his head. “I’m just glad you finally ended it. She was a piece of work.”

“You say that about all my girlfriends. In fact, when’s the last time you’ve had something nice to say about a girl I dated?”

“I told you Stacia had nice tits.” He shrugs, jutting a finger my direction. “But if Ali asks, I never said that. In fact, they’re all succubus harpies you need to stay away from. Her words, not mine.”

I can’t hold back my laugh when I picture Ali telling Mark exactly what she thinks of the women I date. Her opinions aren’t exactly a secret, and she’s probably right. Her radar was spot on with the women I dated in college, and has only gotten more finetuned since.

“You got it, buddy. But cut me some slack, will ya?”

“Stop picking the worst women and make it easier on me.” He tips back his shot.

Mark has a point—not that I’ll admit it.

The women I date aren’t the type you bring to game night with your friends or settle down with. But they’re all I’m looking for. Beautiful, adventurous, down for anything. Happy to accept jewelry and lavish presents from me in lieu of actual feelings. Just as I prefer it. I’m drawn to women like Stacia for a reason. Not only do they look nice on my arm at events, but they understand what I’m offering. Temporary. Someone to pass the time with until we run our course.

Which is better than the other type of women I attract, the ones I actively avoid. Seemingly sweet, but actually hiding claws they want to dig into me. Climbing up the social scene one checkbook at a time. Women like my mother.

“I hear you,” I say. “But not all of us meet the love of our lives and settle down at nineteen.”

Mark grins like a lovesick puppy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of course.” I smirk. It’s a half truth. There’s no point in denying that his wife is a beautiful woman who makes Mark stupidly happy. It’s just not the kind of commitment I’m looking for.

Scanning the bar, I tip my head toward a blonde bombshell on the other side. She’s been glancing over since she sat down and has now moved to mindfully eye-fucking me to catch my attention. I could definitely get lost between those legs for the night and forget about my problems.

“Guess I’ll just have to drown my sorrows in someone like that,” I say.

Mark’s gaze skips in her direction and then down to the cleavage spilling out the top of her dress. He chokes on his drink but recovers quickly.

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” he says.

It’s fun messing with Mark. We’ve been friends since we were nine, so I know every way to get under his skin. Beautiful women are among the many things that leave him totally flustered and somewhat terrified. I’m still not sure how he landed his wife. She was hot back in college and is even hotter now; she’s exactly the kind of woman who would normally leave Mark at a loss for words.

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