Twenty-Nine
Ayla
* * *
“So what is it you do again?” Locke squints across the table at Bostyn, whom I invited on the way over here because I didn’t want to be the third wheel and also because she coincidentally had offered to take me out for drinks tonight after getting my text earlier today.
“I write a dating and relationship advice column for Beauty Mark magazine,” she says, sipping her cocktail. The defensiveness in her tone is palpable.
“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” Locke mocks her, placing his hand gently over hers until she yanks it out from under him.
Bostyn rolls her eyes. These two just met, but they’ve been going at it all night. It didn’t help that within five minutes of sitting down, Bostyn had made fun of his Date Snap app and laid out all the reasons why dating apps are what’s wrong with society today.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?” Bostyn shoots him a death stare.
“Women like you are the reason guys like me use dating apps,” Locke says, mouth holding a smug smile. “And FYI, dating is just a twenty-first century word for hooking up. Nobody fucking dates anymore. People who use dating apps to find dates are using them wrong.”
“So every single man who uses a dating app is just looking for a quick lay?” she asks.
“Exactly.” Locke huffs, lifting his beer glass when the waitress passes by.
I reach beneath the table, giving her hand a squeeze. She’s tense. He’s got her all worked up, and now I feel bad. I never would’ve invited her along had I known he’d be getting under her skin like this.
The funny part is, he’s exactly her type—minus his colorful personality. He’s tall with a runner’s build, dark hair with a modern haircut, chiseled jaw like Rhett’s with a dimple in the chin. His lashes are dark, framing his pale blue eyes, and he projects an aura of confidence detectable from across the room.
I glance at Rhett after I feel him staring at me, and we exchange looks before he leans over and whispers in my ear.
“Is it wrong that I’m extremely entertained?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “But at least we’ll be going to hell together.”
“You’re delusional. And chauvinistic. And you disgust me.” Bostyn rises from her seat, tossing back what little remains in her martini glass. Better in her stomach than on his supercilious little smirk, I suppose. “Ayla, I love you, but I need to go before I do something really stupid.”
“Wait, no. Bos,” I stand, reaching for her. “Don’t go. He’s doing this on purpose. He thinks it’s funny to annoy you. Look at him. He’s grinning ear to ear.”
We all look at Locke, grinning like a drunken idiot.
“Don’t go because of him,” Rhett adds. “Seriously. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a paltry attempt to get a rise out of you. He does it to me all the time. Doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“Hey,” Locke’s smile fades. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“It’s okay, guys. I’m going to go,” Bostyn says. “Ayla, call me tomorrow. Rhett, it was nice seeing you again. Locke, go to hell.”
My jaw falls. I’ve never seen Bostyn like this before. Ever.
“I should go to her,” I say.
“No. Locke should go,” Rhett smacks the back of Locke’s head. “You owe Bostyn an apology.”
Locke rubs his neck, face wincing. “For what? If anything, she owes me an apology. You heard what she was saying about Date Snap. Talk about rude as fuck.”
Rhett glares at his brother, who tosses back the rest of his beer and leaves the table, following after Bostyn.
“Well, that was …” I say, turning to Rhett and taking my seat again. “I don’t know what that was.”
“I think he’s intimidated by her.” Rhett slips his hand into mine.
“Intimidated? By Bostyn?”
“Yeah. He knows she’s smart. And the smart girls don’t sleep with him. Any woman he can’t bag is a threat to his fragile little ego,” he says. “They intimidate him, so he responds by being an enormous asshole. It’s like his defense mechanism.”
“Wow, Carson. That was deep.” I lean closer and he kisses my forehead, cupping my jaw in his hand.
“Let’s get out of here.” His hand slides up my thigh, and I recognize the wicked glint in his pale blue irises.
Thirty
Rhett
* * *
“Have you been checking your calendar?” Allison dumps a stack of mail and paperwork on my counter the next morning. “I put some new appointments on there. Just want to make sure you’re seeing them.”
“Of course,” I lie. It’s the off season. I rarely check that shit.
“Good, so you saw the mandatory team meeting next Friday?” she asks. “Ten o’clock. Do not miss it. I’m sure you’re well aware, but your contract requires you to attend all team meetings.”
Coach and his fucking meetings. He’ll call one over the dumbest shit. I think he just likes to hear himself talk, and he gets bored when he’s not occupied with a rigorous regular season schedule.
“Also,” she says, rifling through the mail. She pulls out three envelopes with Greenbrier Law Firm in the upper left hand corner. “This attorney’s been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“The one who keeps calling about Bryce?”
“Yes, that’s the one. You need to get back to him. They’re starting to send letters now.” She pulls one from the stack that’s thicker than the others. “This is the newest one. I think you should open it. I’m running out of excuses as to why you’re not getting back to them.”
“I’ll get to it later.” I toss it aside.
Allison sighs. She knows me too well.
“I will. I promise,” I say.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Soon?” she asks.
“Soon as you leave.” I flash a teasing smirk. Ayla’s coming over any minute now, and we’re going to take the Hampton’s Jitney to Montauk to stay in some private beach house for the weekend—her idea of course.
“Rhett, please,” she says. “What if it’s important?”
“I’d really prefer not to concern myself with anything remotely related to Bryce Renner,” I declare. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“I don’t think they’d call every other day or send you several letters in the mail if it wasn’t something that could wait.”
“Allison, you’re killing me here.” I retrieve the letter from where it landed and flick it between my fingers. “I’ll open it right now.”
I tear at the paper, glancing over at her.
“You happy now?” I ask.
She nods, watching. Glad at least one of us cares enough to be curious.
There’s a letter inside and another envelope with my name scribbled in Bryce’s handwriting. Unfolding the first piece of paper, my eyes skim across the words.