He’s silent for a beat. His thumb takes several swipes across his lips before he turns toward me and says, “I’d like to stay in touch.”
My eyes widen, and I almost choke on my coffee.
Well, shit.
I pause, hesitating to say yes for obvious reasons. One being, Baz could be guilty. I force a swallow and scratch anxiously at the back of my neck.
“I can give you my number … which I guess is kind of strange, considering …”
“Considering how many times I’ve fucked you?” He smirks, and I dip my head, hiding the blush that stains my cheeks.
A rueful smile twists my lips. “Exactly.”
Baz slides off the stool and spins me toward him. He cages me in, his arms and shoulders effectively trapping me in the best of ways.
“I mean it. We’re keeping in touch, dirty girl,” he says as he stares down at me intently. He slides a hand behind my neck, tangling his fingers in my hair before he yanks my mouth up to meet his.The kiss is hot. It’s hard and demanding, yet smooth and firm in his intentions. He’s saying goodbye without saying goodbye.
When we pull away, we’re both heaving for much needed breath, our foreheads resting against each other’s.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I whisper.
Surprisingly, Baz drives me back to Kings Resort himself under the guise of having work to do. We exchanged numbers, and as awkward as it seemed, he made me promise I’d send him a message once I was safely back in New York. What he didn’t know is what I had planned for us.
During the flight, I was silent. Plotting. Making necessary arrangements. If I wanted more insight into the guys and their everyday lives, I needed to find a way to stay in Los Angeles. And to do that meant using my connections to my benefit.
Three Weeks Later
“Are you sure you’ll be okay out there by yourself?” Kat asks.
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth while I zip my suitcase. I struggle, trying to keep the phone propped between my shoulder and ear.
“Yes. I promise. It’s only for seven weeks.”
“That’s two whole fucking months.”
I stifle my laugh. “Yeah, I know that, Kitty Kat. But think of it this way—it’s for my writing career, and this might finally be the big break I’ve been waiting for.”
“I know, I know. I won’t lie—I hate that you’re leaving, but I am excited for you, babe. I just want you to be careful. We’re going to miss you so much these next few months.”
“I promise I will. Look,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear to check the screen. It shows I have an incoming call from downstairs. “I have to get going. The car should be here any minute now. But we’ll talk the second I land, okay?”
“I’m holding you to that, bitch.”
With a laugh and a shake of my head, I end the call and stuff my cell back into my bag. I roll my suitcase behind me and take one last glance over my shoulder at my apartment. I worked hard for this place, but to do what I need to do next, I need to let it go.
For the past three and a half weeks, I’ve been making arrangements. Plotting my way in.
To the girls, I made up an excuse about a writing opportunity that opened for me in LA. Of course, Kat, being the friend she is, had her dad hook me up with a room at the Kings Resort. And even with my frequent messages to Baz, he has no idea I’m heading back to LA. I need it all to look like one big surprise. That’s the only way it’ll work.
I’ve kept in touch with him as best as I could, considering our circumstances. You know, being on opposite coasts. It’s been tough, what with Baz being an exceptionally busy man. Trying to keep him interested in me while we’re thousands of miles apart has been nothing short of frustrating.
You know those messages you share with people, and it’s like talking to a brick wall? Yeah, that’s Baz via text message. It’s so hard to read him, and it’s damn near impossible to tell if he’s still interested or not. One day we’ll message back and forth constantly and the next?
Radio silence.
It’ll stay like that for a few days, then repeat itself. It’s an infuriating cycle.
I wish I could say I wasn’t scouring the gossip sites for more info on him, and just as I suspected, he’s been busy at his new club with a different woman on his arm each night. I have no right to be angry—hell, if I was angry, that might even make me a psycho. We’re supposed to be mortal enemies. The sad part is, I have to keep reminding myself of that little fact every three seconds. Especially when I think back on what sex was like with him.
As I slip into the cab and the driver navigates through the streets, I pull out my cell and scroll through my text messages, finding a semi-frequent thread between Baz and me. The flutters in my stomach at the sight of his name are unwelcome, so I try my best to push them aside. There’s no way that quaver in my stomach is butterflies. It’s just nerves. It’s excitement that my plan—that justice for Madison—is finally coming to fruition. The pads of my thumbs fly across the screen, and I hover over the send button, reading my message over and over again to make sure I’m doing the right thing.
And I am.
Baz is the best way to get information. He’s my only in at this point and the only way to find out what happened. A minuscule part of me also wants to prove Baz’s innocence.
Do I want him to be a murderer?
After giving him my body and sharing an incredible night with him? God, no. I want him to be blissfully ignorant of his friends’ activities. It would mean he’s still a good person, right?
Despite the long list of reasons I should find my answers somewhere else, I hit send anyway.
Me: Dinner tonight?
Ten long, excruciating minutes later, he replies.
Baz: Is this a New York thing?
His response pulls a laugh out of me because no, it isn’t a New York thing. He has no clue what I have in store for him or the rest of the Savages.
Me: No, it’s an “I’m headed to LA for a few weeks, and I thought we could have dinner” thing.
The bubble with three little dots appears, and I watch them jump, waiting for his reply. They immediately stop with no message attached. I bite the inside of my cheek, nibbling anxiously as I debate what to do. There could be a list of reasons he didn’t reply. He could be busy with work. He could be with another woman. Or who knows, maybe the idea of having dinner with me again isn’t as appealing as it was three weeks ago.
I’m just about to say to hell with it and type out another message when my cell vibrates in my palm.
Baz: I’ll clear out The Den for us.
Me: 7:30 work for you?
Baz: See you then, dirty girl.
I swipe my finger across the screen to close out our messages, not even bothering to hide the smile pulling across my face. I tell myself it’s all because my plan is working, not because I’ll be seeing him tonight.
The flight to LA and ride back to the resort goes smoothly. Kat’s father pulled some strings and got me another suite here for the duration of my stay in SoCal. All expenses paid. Which is null. I don’t plan on using the spa or any of the amenities for self-care. I’m here for answers, not a vacation. Or at the very least, that’s what I keep telling myself.