For more than two weeks, I wallowed in my self pity, obsessively watching TV and online polls, all of which showed Rick and Senator Grossman’s campaign winning in both New Hampshire and Iowa. It wasn’t as if I expected Rick’s reason for firing me to be the truth, but it still hurt to see his bold-faced lie played out on national television.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table for the twentieth time since I woke up this wretched morning. It wasn’t enough that I’d just been dumped. I also had to lose my job and kiss my best friend. My mom had been texting me nonstop today. She insisted I needed to get out of the apartment instead of dwelling on my lack of paramour on this day set aside for lovers. Yes, it was Valentine’s Day and the only person who had contacted me so far was my mother. Not even George, who had spent the past two weeks alternating between incessant drop-in visits and texts, had yet to ping me. Though, I couldn’t blame him.
I slid the phone off the table and lay back on the sofa as I held it above my head. The sound of Chris Matthews’s annoying voice blathered on in the background as I read the words on the screen.
George: Did you know that Ivan is seeing that barista from Mozart’s?
My stomach twisted as I realized George was going to ignore the fact that today was Valentine’s Day.
Laney: Nope. On my way to my mom’s for dinner. Chat later?
Yes, I just lied to my best friend. A pathetic lie at that. Going to dinner with my mother on Valentine’s Day? I may as well have told him I was staying home and watching reruns of Sex and the City while gorging on Häagen-Dazs. Needless to say, my lie worked. He wished me a good night and I didn’t hear from him again.
Three hours later, while watching episode ten of Sex and the City’s season two, and polishing off the last bit of a Häagen-Dazs mini-cup, the doorbell rang. It seemed George wasn’t as convinced as I thought he was.
I slammed my empty ice cream cup down on the coffee table and paused the TV just as Big was opening his mouth to say those “three words” for the first time. I quickly pulled my limp locks into a ponytail as I approached the door, ready to let George in and accept whatever tough love he was going to deliver in an attempt to jolt me out of my pity party. But when I yanked the door inward, it wasn’t George standing outside on this cool February evening.
Juxtaposed against a darkening blue sky, his light-brown hair almost looked like a golden halo framing his chiseled face. His brown eyes had that twinkle again, like he knew something I didn’t know. It was Mr. Fuck Me or Kill Me. At least, that was how I’d been referring to him in my head ever since he made that sexist comment to me, after which I slammed my door in his face without so much as a one-word response.
“What do you want?” I spewed at him as my brain simultaneously began to regain consciousness, and I realized I was standing in front of a very hot guy wearing the same pink rosette pajamas I’d been wearing for four days.
He cocked one of his thick, manly eyebrows at me, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he slowly looked me up and down. “Was just wondering why I hadn’t seen you in some weeks, is all. Wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
I crossed my arms over my chest to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. “Everything’s fine,” I insisted, though my face was getting warm. “Is that all?”
His brows scrunched together. “You sure ’bout that? ’Cause you seem to be doing a pretty good impression of Osama bin Laden.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult, Mr. Fuck Me or Kill Me because anything else would require too many brain cells?”
His eyes widened and he let out a sharp puff of laughter. “Ooh… That was savage,” he said, nodding in approval. “Are your comebacks always that sharp or is it only when you come out of hibernation?”
This time I cocked an eyebrow. “My comebacks aren’t nearly as sharp as my shiv. Come inside and I’ll show you.”
He smiled. “My pleasure,” he said, taking a step forward.
My hand shot up, landing on his solid chest to stop him. “You’re not coming in here. Get back!”
He chuckled. “But you just invited me in!” he replied with mock innocence.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t play coy with me. You just insulted me and now you think you can charm your way into my apartment. Are you for real?”
He held up his hands as he took a step back. “Okay, okay. But in all fairness, you did insult my intelligence and basically threatened to slice me open. And despite all that, I’d still like to take you out tonight…if you promise not to kill me.”
“What…are you talking about?” I replied incredulously. “I’m not going out with you. I don’t even know you. Plus, I’m not even dressed,” I said, avoiding the weird tingling sensation in my belly, the feeling that could also be mistaken for burgeoning hope. Maybe there was a reason this gorgeous man had chosen to come to my apartment and check up on me on Valentine’s Day rather than any other day.
He stared back at me for a moment, and I tried not to look him directly in the eye. Because every time I looked into his brown eyes, that anxiety in the pit of my belly only grew.
“Are you a feminist?” he asked, his voice smooth and sexy as if he were asking if I preferred he covered my naked body in chocolate sauce or whipped cream.
“What kind of question is that?” I replied, re-crossing my arms over my chest, wondering if the lack of bra gave me away.
“It’s a simple question. Are you a feminist? Yes or no?”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Of course I am. Why?”
“Because I’m playing a show tonight at The Continental Club. It’s a fund-raiser organized by Feminists for Feinman.”
“Are you serious? Do you really think I’d fall for a line like that?”
He laughed. “It’s true. It’s not a line.” He used his index finger to draw an X over his heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”
The way he spoke this promise in his Texas accent, the same accent I had resisted adopting most of my life, was just too sexy for words.
Cross mah heart, hope tuh dah.
“You support Senator Feinman for president?” I asked, silently thinking that if he said he did support the radical senator from Massachusetts I’d mentally mark it down as strike two against Kade.
“I sure do. Are you telling me you don’t? I figured you’d be fully on board after getting…burned by the other side.”
“Oh, ha ha. Getting burned. How long did it take you to come up with that one?” He opened his mouth to respond, but I continued without letting him speak. “How do you even know who Rick works for? Are you stalking me?”
He let out an even heartier laugh this time. “No, ma’am. I’m actually pretty well up to speed on who’s who this campaign season. Saw your…friend in a Times article about Grossman’s digital game.”
I looked at him as if he were speaking another language. “You’re serious? You really are supporting Feinman? How old are you?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma’am. I’m twenty-six. Are you not supporting him?”
I held up my hand. “Please stop calling me ma’am. And no, I’m not. I minored in women’s studies. It would be a betrayal to women everywhere if I didn’t support our first woman president.”
He cocked his eyebrow again. “Isn’t that the exact opposite of feminism, choosing someone based on gender rather than qualifications?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think you, Mr. Fuck Me or Kill Me, can tell me what is and isn’t feminism.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough. So you want to go see a real feminist onstage tonight or what?”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
“No, ma—” He stopped himself before he could say ma’am. “I mean, no, Miss Laney. I do not give up easily.”
I sighed as I stepped back so he could come inside. “Come on in and sit down. I just need a few minutes to hose off my eau de bin Laden and put on a fresh pair of Birkenstocks.”
He smiled. “I??
?ll braid your armpit hair when you’re done.”
I came out of the bathroom with sweat dripping down my neck after having battled with my hair for what felt like two eternities. In the end, my limp brown locks gave up their fight after being assaulted by a barrage of teasing and hair spray. I managed to get my hair into a somewhat stylish and purposely messy ponytail. It seemed appropriate for an impromptu Valentine’s Day date to see a smoking-hot musician who looked less like a feminist and more like he should be herding cattle—shirtless.
I found Kade standing in my living room, examining the picture in the sea-green ceramic frame on the end table. It was a picture of my mom and me in New Orleans during Mardi Gras a few years ago. It was the only picture I had in my apartment, and only because my mother framed it and placed it on the end table for me. I kept all my photos on my phone or in the cloud. It didn’t make sense to me to have photos I couldn’t take with me everywhere I went.
“That’s my mom,” I said as he set the frame down on the table. “She’s, like, my default best friend, other than George.”
Shit! Did I just tell this super-hot guy that my best friends are my mother and a man?
“George is your…”
“Best friend,” I repeated. “That’s not code for boyfriend. He’s just a friend.” As soon as I spoke the words aloud, a sharp pang of guilt sparked in my gut. Yes, George and I were just friends, but had that kiss we shared a couple of weeks ago changed anything?
Kade nodded in approval at this explanation, which only made me feel even more guilty about my ability to so easily convince him of the innocence of my relationship with George. So why couldn’t I convince myself?
“You look like you’re ready to party like a rock star,” he remarked, his gaze skimming over me, taking in my knee-high boots, skinny jeans, and off-the-shoulder cream sweater.
“Are you a rock star?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he said, flashing me a sinfully sexy smile.
The entire walk through the courtyard toward the parking lot, where my car was always parked next to his blue Chevy truck, I counted each step to keep myself from focusing on how fucking nervous I was.
What the hell did this guy see in me? Why did he care enough to check up on me tonight? More importantly, why was I questioning his interest in me?
I was a professional at attracting men, reeling them into toxic relationships for the entertainment of my fans, but somehow I’d gotten it into my head that this man was different. That he was somehow above me. I hardly knew Kade and I’d already put him on a pedestal based solely on his stunning good looks and a few scathing comebacks.
I needed to get my head on straight. This guy was just like all the others. I couldn’t let myself fall into the trap of feeling unworthy of his attention. Not to mention the fact that the man was my neighbor. He was off-limits as blog fodder. I had to make a pact with myself.
I will not make a big deal about the fact that Kade asked me out on Valentine’s Day.
I will be myself tonight, and if Kade doesn’t like the real me, tough titties.
I will not have sex with Kade on the first date.
I will not have sex with Kade on the first date.
We arrived at the truck and I was not at all surprised when he made for the passenger door to open it for me. I had half a mind to make a comment about feminism and equality and how I didn’t need a man to open my door. I opted instead to accept his chivalrous gesture without any snark.
He smiled as he pulled the truck door open, as if he could see me mentally reminding myself to practice restraint. “You look like you’re ’bout ready to burst into flames if you don’t say something right this moment.”
I looked up at him and my insides turned to liquid as my gaze locked on the silky sheen of his lips. “Th-thank you,” I murmured, hardly able to raise my voice due to the sudden dryness in my throat.
I wouldn’t give Kade the satisfaction of a snide remark, but apparently I also couldn’t hide the jellifying effect he had on me. I had a feeling this was going to be a long night of me trying to reclaim control of my bodily functions.
The truck shifted with Kade’s weight as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Buckle up, little lady. You’re in for the ride of your life.”
I desperately tried to summon up a few drops of saliva, then I swallowed hard as I latched my seat belt into the buckle. “The last guy who said that to me wound up with a special page on my website dedicated to the Wall of Shame.”
I clapped my hand over my mouth. I had just: a) admitted to having a website, and b) revealed that said website had a special place for losers I’d dated. I was getting perilously close to admitting my online identity to a guy with whom I’d exchanged a maximum of ten sentences. What was wrong with me?
He chuckled at my reply and gave me a sideways look that seemed to say he was pleasantly surprised by my response. “You’re gonna have to tell me more about that later.”
“Not gonna happen. Can we go now?” I said, crossing one leg over the other and turning my attention to the bushes in front of the truck to signify that this discussion was over.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, his voice smooth and confident as he slid the key into the ignition. “I’m pretty good at making things happen.”
I turned to look him in the eye. “So where are we going?”
“Continental Club. I’ll be playing in the upstairs gallery. The 68s are playing downstairs.”
My eyes widened. “The 68s are playing? For the fund-raiser?”
He pulled the truck out of the parking space and nodded as he pulled onto the street. “Sure are. You like The 68s?”
I had been following The 68s since they started playing at the Continental two years earlier. I’d briefly considered starting a fling with the hot drummer for the sake of entertaining my blog subscribers, but I decided against it because I loved their music too much. They were basically my favorite Austin indie band, and constantly on repeat on my Spotify app.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could call me a fan. Do you know the band members?”
A smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “You could say that. I used to play with them about eight years ago, before we had a falling out and I went solo.” He turned to look at me as he came to a stoplight. “Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, if you play your cards right,” he said with a smile, but there was something behind the smile now. Was it sadness or desire, or both? Whatever it was, I would figure it out by the end of the night. If he used to be a member of The 68s eight years ago, I had to find out about this “falling out” they’d had.
“So why are you playing the same venue with them if you’re no longer on good terms?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
“Good question, and the answer is politics. Politics divides people and it also brings them together,” he said, turning onto South Congress. “When the organizer, Betsy, asked if I’d play the gallery while The 68s played the club, I thought it was a joke. But apparently, while researching the band through the vetting process, Betsy discovered they had a missing band member—her words, not mine—and she tracked me down.”
“You agreed to do the show right away or did it take some convincing?” I asked, suddenly enthralled by the possibility of a dramatic musical showdown.
“Definitely took a bit of cajoling on Betsy’s part, but she can be pretty convincing.”
A whoosh of jealousy swept through me. “What does that mean?”
He chuckled. “Just means that she knew exactly what to say to get me to agree to do the show. She appealed to my sense of charity, and my support of feminist causes.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “She knew all that just from Googling you?”
“Are you saying you haven’t Googled me yet?”
“How can I Google you if I don’t even know your last name, Kade?”<
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He pulled into a space across the street from the club, at the other end of the block near Gibson Street. “Well, Miss Laney Hill, I’m Kade Masters,” he replied, holding out his hand for me to shake.
I rolled my eyes as I took his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
His fingers were calloused, but his grip was gentle as he gave my hand a soft squeeze. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.”
There they were. The ever-elusive butterflies. Fluttering around inside me in a state of absolute panic. Just a simple touch, a soft squeeze of the hand, and suddenly parts of my body were quivering with excitement.
I pulled my hand back slowly, turning away from him to slink out of the truck. Somewhere behind me, I heard a sexy burst of soft laughter. The sound sent a tremor of pleasure coursing through me. Everything this man said and did had me spiraling into a state of absolute putty. I had to get a grip on myself or soon I would be batting my eyelashes and dropping my handkerchief on the floor.
I tried not to stare at the muscles in his forearms as he yanked his guitar case out of the truck cab.
“Do The 68s know you’ll be performing upstairs while they’re performing downstairs?” I asked as we made our way toward the entrance to The Continental Club.
He turned to me and this small shift in his attention caused us to bump shoulders. “Pardon me,” he said, flashing me that gorgeous smile. “Yes, they do know, though I highly doubt you’ll see any type of reunion, or interaction, for that matter.”
“Why is that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual despite the fact that my throat was thickening with anxiety.
He shrugged. “Could possibly have something to do with my sister being in the group. We haven’t spoken in a while. Family stuff.”
I didn’t respond, keeping quiet as the doorman let us into the club and we made our way up to the empty gallery. He bought me a drink and left me in the gallery while he went down to retrieve an amp and some more equipment from his truck.