And then she was murdered.
Missy showed up at Krista’s funeral back in New York. She was a rope to grab on to when it felt like I was drowning in a sea of guilt and grief and endless, relentless rage.
She came back to California with me and I gave her everything she wanted. In return, she sucked like a Hoover and fucked like a whore—whenever and wherever I wanted.
Quite frankly, the relationship Missy and I had wasn’t unusual. Not on Wall Street or Silicon Valley or Hollywood. Girlfriends and mistresses, even most wives, are paid in jewelry and designer wardrobes, black American Express cards and luxury penthouses.
It’s a service economy that serves both parties extremely well.
But either fate sucks balls or I’m an outlier. Because the thing about access to an unlimited supply of something you think you want—it doesn’t take very long to realize you don’t.
I fell in love with Missy as a teenager. But ten years later, it was obvious she was more in love with my bank account than with me. Somewhere along the way, we stopped having fun, stopped enjoying each other’s company.
Though I can’t ever remember a time when she would turn her face up to the sun, breathe in the salty air, and listen to the sound of the waves with a smile stretched across her lips.
Not like Vivienne, who right now is waggling her auburn brows and dissolving into a fit of giggles after she asks, “How hard?”
Drunk Vivienne has no filter. And she thinks her own jokes are hilarious.
I can’t wait to introduce her to Tripp and Jolie. The thought comes suddenly, unexpectedly. But it’s the truth—and it has nothing to do with fending off their matchmaking efforts.
I move her margarita aside, not that it matters. It’s practically empty. “You’re cut off,” I say, lightly chiding. She really is adorable.
“I am.” She nods. “Definitely. Cut off from margaritas and cut off from men. No more for me.”
Well, that wasn’t what I was aiming for. “Are you sure about that? Because you were eye-fucking me something fierce the other night.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” she says, popping a chip in her mouth. “You have a better dick than Dick.”
I grab my napkin and cough into it, banging my closed fist against my sternum.
“Better everything, actually.”
Jesus.
“Can I ask you another question, Viking?”
I motion for her to go ahead, not trusting my capacity for intelligible speech.
“Do you ask your girlfriends to wax for you? And I don’t mean just the sides. I’m talking full-on Brazilian.”
I’m waiting for the punch line, but Vivienne stabs a piece of shrimp from her plate and puts it in her mouth.
“Are you asking because Dick did?”
Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised by my guess. “Yes! Can you believe it? I mean, I didn’t think much of it at the time . . . but it’s not normal for a guy to schedule his girlfriend’s waxing appointments, is it?”
I rub my forehead. “No. Definitely n—”
“And it’s not like he ever inspected their work. Not up close anyway. Richard didn’t go downtown.”
I signal to the waitress for the check. But I can’t resist. “Ever?”
“Nope. But you’d better believe he expected me to get up close and personal with his,” she waves her hands, “you know.”
“Dick?” I supply.
“Exactly.”
“And yet you didn’t ask him to return the favor.”
She looks horrified. “Of course not. How do you ask someone for that? They either want to and do, or they don’t, and it’s not worth asking.”
I have absolutely no idea how we got onto this topic. It’s too personal for how little Vivienne and I know each other. And yet, it’s also perfect.
Krista would have loved her.
“Let me get this straight—there’s something you wanted from your boyfriend, but because he didn’t offer and you didn’t ask, you settled for not getting it at all.”
Vivienne shrugs. “I guess so.”
The waitress appears with a leather folder and I thrust my credit card in her direction, not taking my eyes off Vivienne. “Did he get you off in other ways?”
Her head tilts to the side, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Orgasms, Vivienne. Did you have them with Dick?”
“Um, sometimes. And sometimes after.”
“After . . .”
“After he fell asleep.”
Christ. “After he fell asleep, you would get yourself off?”
She gives a reluctant nod. “You make it sound bad.”
“It is bad. It’s fucking awful. How long were you with this guy?”
“Two years.”
“Two years? Please tell me you’re joking.”
She balls up her napkin and sets it on top of her plate. “If I start to cry, can we do another tequila shot?”
“For fuck’s sake, please don’t shed a single tear over that asshole.”
“I won’t. But I could definitely go for another shot.”
I raise a skeptical brow. “I thought you were done with men and margaritas.”
“I am. But a tiny little bit of tequila is not the same at all.”
I sign my name on the check and slip my credit card back into my wallet. Standing up, I extend my hand to Vivienne. “Maybe so, but you’re still not having any.”
She slips her small hand in mine and leans into my grip, locking eyes with me and rising smoothly from her seat. “What if I want to see what it’s like?”
“What?”
“Sex with a Viking.”
“I’d say that’s the tequila talking.”
“Maybe. But what if the tequila is just making me ask for what I really want?”
My gut twists. If Vivienne were sober right now, I’d fuck her in the front seat of my car. I’d go down on her outside by the pool. And then I’d fuck her again, slow and leisurely, in my bed. If I had a bed.
“Then you should have drunk more tequila when you were with Dick.”
Vivienne slides her tongue across her mouth, sinking her top teeth into her bottom lip. “Touché, Viking. Touché.”
Chapter 13
Vivienne
I’m in that weird place, caught somewhere between drunk and buzzed. Somewhere between saying everything that comes to mind and knowing I should shut my mouth. Between wanting to sleep and wanting to fuck . . . a Viking.
It’s been so long since I’ve let myself lose control. Tequila is a lubricant, making all my rules slippery and hard to hold on to.
Right now, I just want to hold on to Lance. Hold more than just his hand.
Common sense says I shouldn’t give into my feelings—no sex until I’ve completed my work on the house and have the photos to prove it. But when will that be?
What if these next two months are all we’ll have?
I lean into him as we walk out of the restaurant, sighing as we step outside. The summer breeze carries the salty tang of the nearby sea as it caresses the bare skin of my shoulders, my hair swaying against my back. “I love the Hamptons. Especially when all the weekend warriors are back in the city.”