Never Say Forever

I watch in fascination as Beth slides a fifty from her purse, pressing it to the other woman’s hand. “That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Fee? She’ll just be at the bar,” she adds, slipping her arm through mine.

“I won’t move from there.” I’m not sure if the strongly-worded retort is for the attendant or my so-called friend. “The main bar.” Just in case there’s more than one. “And you’re looking for a call from Sophia. This is ridiculous,” I mutter, tugging my arm from Beth’s as she propels us forward. All this extra bullshizzle—fifty-dollar tips and ribbons and phones. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“At the bar, I promise.”

“I’m going to need alcohol for this explanation?”

Beth shrugs.

This does not seem good.

18

Carson

The person you asked about has arrived, sir.

Slipping the phone into the inside pocket of my jacket, I try to relax my jaw before my molars disintegrate.

“You’re a grim-faced bastard this evening.” Tucker joins me on the mezzanine, pressing a glass into my hand. “You got a toothache or something?”

“Or something,” I grate out.

“Well, lighten the fuck up.”

“And this is your prescription, is it?” I tilt the glass, the light hitting the single malt, reminding me of Fee’s guileless eyes and the golden ring around her iris.

Guileless or a good actress?

Tucker raises his own glass, the contents water not vodka. “Only madness lies in the bottom of a glass,” he replies with a small quirk of his mouth. He, of all people, would know that.

“Maybe I’m just tiring of all this.” I gesture to the floor below this stylish three-floor residence that’s costing a fortune to rent for the weekend, and the sea who’ve paid to be here. The rich and influential. All here to fuck without fear of opinions, judgment, or consequences.

“Not after the bidding war I just had on my hands. A bidding war I had to cancel.”

“Flattery?”

“Hell, yeah!” he asserts, warming to his theme. “We should make it part of the business. Not an altruistic side gig. Extend the—”

My angry gaze cuts to his.

“Fine.” He sighs heavily. “So we’ll just leave it as it is.” Both our attentions turn to the floor below once again when he begins to speak again. “Maybe you should look at them like I do.” He gestures to the revellers below. “Like they’re dollars in the bank.” Then he takes a swallow from his drink, his expression turning pensive. “But maybe that doesn’t work for you. Maybe money doesn’t turn the rich on.”

“Like him, you mean?” I retort, pointing out the tech billionaire below who tried to talk down the price of membership last year on account of his wife being, in his words, fuck hot. Being rich turns him on, so much so he doesn’t like to part with his money. The other thing that turns him on is watching his wife be fucked by other men. The more, the better, as I recall. Which is convenient given she gets off on that, too.

“Okay, so maybe you should just pick another analogy for them. Like walking orifices.”

Some of them are a little more than that on nights like these. Regardless, I find I have no interest in but one attendee.

“Just . . . stop talking.” I’m not interested in conversation, or money, or indiscriminate fucking. I’m interested in finding her. In discovering if she’s here for anonymous fucking when she wouldn’t have sex with me—on the couch, the floor, my bed, hell, up against a wall. Wherever she may have preferred, I’d likely already imagined having her there already.

Sweet, lovely Fee. The girl all her friends want to protect.

She’s holding out for the one? If only they knew.

Maybe I was too close a call. Maybe she couldn’t risk letting her secret out. And maybe I’m a fucking fool for still wanting her, but I do.

“So you don’t want to talk about your bad mood or the auction. What about the non-qual asshole you asked me to meet before tonight?” Around his glass, Tucker points his finger and thumb gun style at the people below and what is unmistakably Everett’s head of thick, dark hair.

“So he came.”

“Maybe he couldn’t resist my pitch,” Tucker says with a smirk.

“He might not be a frogman, but I hear he was special forces for the Brits.”

“Candy ass,” he asserts with a derisory sniff. “You know there’s only hootin’, lootin’ and parachutin’.”

Tucker is always a little high on Ardeo nights.

“Hooyah, motherfucker,” I mutter ironically. “Where’d you meet him?”

“FiDi,” he replies. “At a diner. We had breakfast.”

“I hope you persuaded him to have oatmeal. He looks like he could do with the fibre.”

“I could say the same about you. You know those anal beads might help you with—”

“Fuck, enough already!”

“Ha. You smiled.” He moves closer, examining my face. “And look, it didn’t crack.”

“Asshole. Just tell me how the conversation went.”