“You never talk about exes. They’re all twats. And I have no clue who Trevor is.”
“He’s fake,” I whisper.
She tilts her head, tutting me. “Be careful there. You’re playing with his heart.”
I scoff. “That would be impossible.”
She wags a finger at me. “Don’t be a twat.”
I’m simply giving TJ what he wants. Me with another man. “I’ve got this under control,” I tell Olivia.
We head inside, pouring into the crowded space, and soon the band begins. I’d like to say Lettuce Pray drowns out my thoughts. But it seems to stoke them. All these songs of longing have me imagining TJ kissing other men. Touching other men. Fucking other men.
Halfway through the set, TJ tells us he’s going to grab a drink. I don’t follow him. I dance with Olivia and Alex, and when Olivia spots her pretty blonde friend Polly, the four of us dance to the beat.
A few minutes later, TJ returns, but he doesn’t join in. He nurses his drink, stares at the stage, and says nothing.
With every move I make, I fume.
With every shake of my hips, I seethe.
When the music ends, Olivia says the three of them are going to get a nightcap. Translation: Olivia is going to pitch a threesome to Polly and Alex.
“Cool. TJ and I are going to Wiseman,” I tell her.
Out on the street, she pulls me aside once more. “What are you doing?”
I scoff, like none of this is a big deal. “I’m going to fuck someone else tonight.”
She shakes her head, her eyes hard. “He’s been staring at you all night with the most intense look in his eyes. He can’t stop looking at you.”
“I don’t care,” I spit out.
I don’t care so much that when the three of them head one way, and TJ and I go the other, I stride right up to the bar in Wiseman and order two beers.
The bartender serves me straight away. I hand one to TJ, then lift mine.
“Cheers. To Project Wingman,” I say, and yes, this is my best performance ever.
A resigned breath comes from him as he clicks his glass to mine. “Let’s find you a man,” he says, and when he sets down the beer, it is on.
20
My Kingdom for A Do-Over
TJ
* * *
This was a rookie mistake.
Jude Graham is not only the most charismatic man I’ve ever known. He’s the most charismatic man in all of England.
And I’m the dumbass who let him loose on the London population.
I wish I could reboot the last several hours. Erase them from existence and start over at Samuel Johnson’s house.
Because my stupid idea led to this.
Men in the bar stare at Jude unabashedly.
The swoony Brit leans against the sleek silver counter, surveying a kingdom of cocks, ready for his choosing. He sets a hand on my shoulder, ever so casually. My skin sears from his touch. He gestures casually to a guy at the other end of the bar, a dark-haired dude wearing a tight white tank. Tribal tattoos circle his beefy arms. He’s muscular—Jude’s type. “What do you think about the guy over there? He’s got hot alpha written all over him, don’t you think?” Jude asks, charm dripping from his tongue.
I just grunt, Sure.
My wingman swings his gaze the other way, hums appreciatively at a group of guys, then whispers in my ear, “Check out the suit at three o’clock. He’s perfect for you, TJ,” he says, and his breath coasts across my skin sensually, but the knife of his words stabs my chest.
Where is a do-over button when you need it? But this is life, not a chapter I can start again. I can only get through this.
“Let’s go for it,” I rasp out, and I’m not even sure what I’m suggesting, that he talks to the inked guy or I talk to the suit?
But it doesn’t matter because they’re both heading our way. We are the hunted tonight. With his easy smile and casual pose, Jude is giving off all the pick-me-up vibes in the city. The tatted man licks his lips as he strides right up to my roomie.
“Hey there. Can I get you a drink?” the inked guy asks.
“As long as it’s a martini,” Jude says, flirting his fucking ass off.
“Anything for you,” the man says, then sets a hand on Jude’s shoulder and guides him a few feet away.
From me.
Jude leaves his beer behind, and it feels like a metaphor.
Great, now I’m comparing myself to a half-drunk beer.
Can this night please end, so I can go home and wallow in regret with my earbuds? I deserve a double dose of Zeppelin and The Allman Brothers Band.
I clench my fists, dig my nails into my palm. Breathing out hard, I try to get a grip on my emotions as the man in the suit comes my way. How can anyone be attracted to me tonight? Isn’t it obvious I’m drowning in a boiling vat of self-loathing mixed with jealousy?
“Great bar, isn’t it?” the suit says.
It’s a decent opener since it’s simple and not cringe-y. But it won’t work on me because he’s not Jude.
“Yeah, it’s a cool spot,” I say so that I’m not a dick.
And fuuuuck.
My mind lands on the great dick convo with Jude as the suit peppers me with questions.
Where are you from?
Do you like this song?
How’s your night?
I respond half-heartedly with monosyllabic answers, sneaking glances at Jude the whole time. Swirling his martini, Jude laughs and smiles. It’s a dance of seduction as the inked guy grins and runs a hand down my roomie’s arm.
I burn everywhere. I want to throttle that guy touching Jude.
“Earth to the American.”
I snap my attention to the suit. I’m an ass. “Hey. Sorry, man.”
“Can I give you a tip?” the suit asks.
I brace myself for a cold send-off. I deserve it. “Sure.”
The suit leans in, whispers in my ear, “You should just tell him you’re into him, mate.”
“Shit, I’m really sorry.”
He smiles. “Been there. Just get your man.”
“He’s not mine . . .”
The suit lifts a playful brow. “Not yet.” He drops a chaste kiss to my cheek and walks away.
Like acting on his advice is all too easy.
But I have to do this. It’s necessary. As necessary as writing the next chapter in my book. Drawing a fortifying breath, I turn around, march over to Jude, and do what I should have done earlier today. Tell it like it is. “We’re leaving.”
Jude snorts. “But the fun just started, roomie.”
The inked man drapes a possessive arm around my roommate and squeezes. “Don’t steal Jude from me.”
Yeah, some things are easy. Like this. “He’s taken,” I say to the guy.
Then I take what I want. Jude. I pull him outside into a stormy Sunday night in London. Fat raindrops pelt my head.
Jude stares hard at me. “What the hell was that about, TJ? This was your fucking idea.”
“And it was the worst idea ever,” I spit out.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have suggested it,” he counters, his voice full of fire.
“You’re damn right I shouldn’t have.”