Mister Dick, page 11
She frowned. “What the hell are you thinking, Boyd? Echo is toxic. You know that.”
“Echo is Echo.” I shrugged. “This isn’t what you think.” Hell, to be honest, I didn’t know what this was about, other than getting Echo all to myself and exploring some things. Music, for one. Her body for another.
“A million dollars?” She made a sound close to disgust. “Don’t you think that’s overkill?”
“It’s for charity.”
“Um, did you forget who you’re talking to?” She shook her head and gave me a look that said, You’re fucking crazy. “Charity is writing a check and going about your day. Or volunteering at an animal shelter if that’s what you need to do. This is next-level stuff. A grand gesture of epic proportions. When did you fall for her crap again? I thought you were smarter than that.”
I like Georgia a lot. Had since the first day I met her. But I wasn’t doing this with her. I knew if she thought I was interested in Echo, in the way that I was interested in Echo, she’d be in my face the entire weekend. I didn’t have time to deal with her shit and mine. ’Cause trust me, there would be shit, and lots of it.
I was about to tell Georgia to butt out when she moved closer and put her hand on my arm. “Boyd, all I’m saying is that—”
The screen door banged open once more, and the girl in question appeared.
Echo stood there dressed in a simple white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, the loose kind that hid her curves, feet shoved into an old pair of Birks. Her hair was tied back, she didn’t have any makeup on, and the look in her eyes would castrate most men. Yet all I could think was, She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’d come here determined not to let her get under my skin. To teach her a lesson and break her control. To make her see the things she was blind to. And yet…
The air thickened with something hot and heavy, and I damn near choked on it. How in hell did the girl turn the tables on me without opening her mouth? I needed to get my shit together, and I needed to do it fast. No way was she controlling this situation I’d started that night at the charity event. I just needed a moment to get my game plan in order.
She leaned against the large white pillar, her expression now bored, her tone of voice more so as her eyes landed on mine.
“You might want to move your truck.”
“And why would I do that?”
I visualized the mental eye roll taking place inside her head as she picked at an invisible piece of lint on her jeans. “Because the guesthouse is out back.”
“My plan for the weekend doesn’t include the guesthouse.” My response caught her by surprise, and her head whipped up.
“Well, that’s my plan.”
I disengaged myself from Georgia and took the steps up to the porch. I had to give it to Echo, she didn’t give an inch, and I was okay with that. The girl smelled like honeysuckle, and the fever in her eyes told me she was worked up something good. I smiled down at her.
“Are we talking the guesthouse located at the very back of the property?”
“Is there another one I don’t know about?”
My smile widened. “Seems kind of far. Would be a pain in the ass for you to serve me all the way out there.”
“Serve you?” She practically snorted.
“Isn’t that what I paid for? A weekend at Live Oaks, all my needs catered to by you?”
“And here I thought you were helping out animals in distress.”
“Oh, I am, Echo.” I was dying to taste her mouth. “But there’s more than one kind of animal, don’t you think?”
She exhaled. A soft sort of thing that tightened up every single muscle in my body. I was wired. Electrified. Drunk on the thought of her. And I could tell she felt the same, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Suddenly exhilarated, I smiled, and she took a step back, a wary look in her eyes. This weekend was going to be epic. I just had to play it cool. Didn’t want to show all my cards right away. I had to make Echo believe she was the one leading the charge. She had to make the first move.
“My bags are in the truck.”
“And?” Echo’s reply was sharp.
I grabbed the charity program from the front pocket of my jeans. It was creased now and had been folded several times. Carefully, I opened it up and found the winner.
“Says here, a weekend in the Bayou with Echo Mansfield at your beck and call.” I grinned at her. “Congratulations. You’re officially my beck-and-call girl.”
“That is not literal,” she spat.
I took that last step that brought me inches from her face and bent down so that my lips were a whisper from her earlobe. “Pretty sure one million cold ones says that it is. Unless you can’t handle it? Do you find me irresistible? Is that it?”
She pushed at me, and I took a step back, loving how her eyes spit fire. “I can handle a hell of a lot more than you.”
“Good to know.” My heart banged like a bass drum inside my chest as a shot of adrenaline rushed through me. “Grab my bags, will ya? And take them to my room.” I paused, eyes on her mouth. “Pretty sure you remember which one it is.” I turned around and motioned to Georgia. “Your mom in the kitchen?”
Georgia looked from me to Echo and then joined me on the porch. “She’s making your favorite. Fried chicken and grits.”
We moved past Echo, though I paused at the screen door. “Be careful with the guitars. They’re worth a small fortune.”
I didn’t see her flip me off as I headed inside. Didn’t see the way she stood there frozen, hands clenched into tight fists and eyes flashing fire. I didn’t see how she slowly rolled her shoulders and then jumped off the porch. Or how a slow, calculating smile touched her face as she approached my truck. A smile that deepened when she grabbed my bag and slung it over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A smile that lingered when she reached for my guitar cases.
If I had? I would have been prepared, because it was definitely game on.
The only question was, who the hell would win?
17
Echo
Boyd Appleton was going to drive me over the edge. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. He’d been here for all of ten minutes, and already I was about as cool and collected as a worm dangling on the end of a hook, staring down into the eyes of a very large, very hungry, fish. I told myself I could handle him, told myself he didn’t mean anything, but then his body unfolded from his truck like he’d practiced it at least one hundred times, and put a dent in my plan to ignore him. To treat him like he was nothing. As if the cabin had never happened.
But then I watched him pull up. Watched him slide from his truck and stretch his arms and lock them behind his head, making his T-shirt ride up enough to get a glimpse of all that manly, yummy skin. Instantly, my body reacted. I got all hot and flushed and anxious. Seriously. My heart took off and for like, a minute, I thought I was having a heart attack. I was no better than a dog in heat.
The truth of it was that Boyd was a walking billboard for the kind of male perfection women fantasized about. He was sexy as hell, with a killer smile, a body made for sin, and had just the right amount of bad boy tossed in to keep a girl on her toes. His kind of male perfection was the kind I craved, and that was unfortunate. For me.
Then there was the other problem. The more immediate problem. Plain and simple, the man got what he wanted, and right then, he wanted me. I got it. Even though my first instinct was to deny up and down there was anything between us, that was a lie. There straight up was. But it was chemical. There was no emotional bond, and there could never be one, because that would be a disaster.
And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about what if. What if I gave in? What if it was good? What if this wasn’t a game for him? What if…what if…what if. I had to stop doing the what-if thing because I was going to go crazy.
It was just that on one hand, I wanted him. I wanted him on his back, me on top, with Sympathy for the Devil on the turntable. I wanted him behind me, in front of the mirror, both watching each other as we came. I wanted his hands on either side of my face, his eyes on mine as he rocked into me.
Again, this was unfortunate.
And then there was the Georgia factor. I knew the two of them were friends. I also knew she’d give up her firstborn for a shot at Boyd. She’d run out there like the little puppy she was, and even though I knew he wasn’t interested in her, I mean, come on, his body language alone screamed it, the two of them together woke the big old purple beast inside me, which is never good. The purple beast made me do stupid things.
Jealousy and Echo were never a good combination.
Therein lay my problem. Boyd was good at throwing me off my game, and that scared the shit out of me because I needed to be on point when he was around. Our attraction wasn’t rocket science. It was a whole bunch of things tossed into a jar and shaken and then stirred. I needed to figure out a way to get control of the situation or I was screwed. And not the good kind of screwed. The kind where he was naked and inside me. Nope. We’re talking the kind of screwed that would see him stomp all over my heart and leave it bleeding in his wake when he headed back to wherever the hell it was he’d come from.
This went back to the emotional-bond thing. It could never happen, because if he ever found out what I did back then, how I alone was responsible for breaking up our parents, he’d toss me aside like yesterday’s news and I wouldn’t blame him one damn bit. His mother had really loved Axel, and their divorce had been rough. I knew that now, and trust me, if I could have fixed it, I would have. But my dad was a dog, and he moved on pretty quick, and Boyd’s mother was in between divorces and, as far as I knew, in still love with my dad. At least that’s what Harmony told me once.
These thoughts gave me all kinds of anxiety as I dragged Boyd’s crap up to his room, which was inconveniently across from mine (or convenient, depending on your take. I choose the latter). It took two trips to bring up his stuff, and after I set down his guitar cases beside the duffel bag, my eyes traveled the room before landing on the double bed. Everything looked exactly the same as that summer, and a shiver rolled over me. Three walls were midnight blue, with one white accent wall. The trim and double windows were white as well. The bedding was blue with white shells, and there were pictures on the walls from some of Dad’s performances, as well as a big ugly painting of a ship at sea.
But it was the bed that held my interest. God, how many times had I snuck into his room that summer? How many times had he been naked and ready? I thought of the stolen kisses, the hurried hands, the groans and whimpers that never made it past our lips because we had to be quiet. I thought about how that summer I arrived at Live Oaks, a somewhat naïve teenager, and had left a young woman. Though a jaded young woman with a broken heart and a mind-set that would haunt me for years. And all of it I could lay at the altar of Boyd Appleton. If he hadn’t tossed me aside like I meant nothing, then I wouldn’t have done what I did.
Stop blaming everyone for your actions. Take responsibility. I heard my therapist’s voice inside my head and told her to go to hell.
By the time I finished my trip down memory lane, I was pissed. I marched my butt across the hall and paced my bedroom for a good five minutes before snatching up my cell. My immediate reaction was to call Harmony, as she’d always been my go-to, but then I swore and slid over her number before calling Lyric.
Harmony still wasn’t talking to me, and though I thought she was being totally next-level asshat about the New Year’s Eve thing, I guess I couldn’t blame her. I just hoped she’d get over it sooner rather than later, because whenever I had a crisis, she was the girl who talked me down from the ledge. And right now, the damn ledge was more dangerous than ever because the stakes were that much higher.
Lucky for me, Lyric had stepped up lately in a big way, but dammit, she wasn’t answering her phone. I sent a quick text. Told her I needed her. That I was probably going to do something really stupid.
No reply.
I sent one more text. Help?
Still no reply.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stilled. My eyes glittered, my cheeks were flushed, my nipples poked through my T-shirt, and my hair was a mess around my shoulders. God, I was in trouble. My cell nearly slipped from my fingers, but I caught it in time, eyes frantic as I scrolled through my contacts. But then I saw the answer to my problem. A buffer. A shield. A moat to my castle.
I didn’t wait, because I knew that if I actually took the time to think about what I was doing, I’d realize just how bad an idea this was. I hit number three in my contacts and waited. And waited. And freaking waited some more. Just when I thought the call would go to voicemail, it picked up.
“Hey.” The voice was distracted.
I swallowed hard. Was I really going to do this? “Remember when you said you owed me one?”
“Christ, Echo. Really?”
“You said I saved your ass, and if ever you needed the favor returned, you’d oblige. Those were your exact words.”
There was a pause.
“Fuck me.”
“I need to collect.” I tried not to sound pathetic and whiny but wasn’t exactly sure I was successful.
“Level of need?” The tone was terse, and I made a face at that.
“DEFCON level one.” More silence. I thought I heard whispered voices and strained to hear.
“Where are you?”
My eyebrows shot up at that. Seemed someone wasn’t paying attention to the media as of late. But then, should I be surprised at that?
“Live Oaks.”
“Hold on.” The reply was sharp, and I winced, thinking that maybe I should just hang up, forget I made the call, and take my lumps like a champ. But then my cell crackled. “I’ll be two hours.”
And that was that.
I took a long shower and spent extra time on my appearance. The cool thing about being Echo Mansfield was that over the last few years, I’ve had access to the best hair and makeup people in the business. I’d learned a trick or two, and it didn’t take much time to hide the bruises under my eyes, or to make my eyes dramatic and enticing. A little liner here, the right amount of shadowing there, and I became the sultry Insta queen my followers were used to. I took a quick selfie and posted it to my account along with a cheeky caption, and then got dressed.
I didn’t want to overdo it—sometimes less is more—so I chose a simple pair of wide-legged black silk pants that hung low on the waist, a plain black sleeveless T-shirt that might or might not have showed my belly button, and slipped into crimson silk flats. The shoes were a gift from Harmony the last time she’d been to Japan, and the embroidery across the top was exquisite. I’ve loved them since I first laid eyes on them because it was a thing of beauty when comfort and fashion blended so seamlessly. If Harmony and I were still talking, I’d take a pic and send it to her.
God, when had my life become such a mess?
I’d straightened my hair, and it hung down over shoulders like a golden shroud, and as I eyed up my reflection with a critical glance, I was pleased. I looked cool as a cucumber, and with my ace in the hole showing up in twenty minutes, I was good to go. I grabbed a long silver chain as well as matching silver studs and then, with a quick spritz of Fantasy (I’ll always be a Britney Spears fangirl), headed downstairs.
I assumed everyone was in the kitchen and decided to help myself to a drink from the front room, which was where Dad kept his bar. A bucket of ice was already there, placed on top of it, and I quickly made a vodka and soda and tossed in a slice of lime. I’d taken exactly one sip when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I knew I wasn’t alone.
Boyd stood just in the doorway, wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in. His T-shirt might have wrinkled, his jeans looked worse for wear, but seriously, the man could have been dressed in rags and no way would that hinder the X factor, or whatever the hell it was he possessed.
It was game time, and I was up by one and he didn’t know it. I smiled but said nothing.
“Looking good, sweetheart.”
Okay. The thing about being in the lead is that there’s always the chance you’ll blow it. I tried to keep my smile in place, and hoped I was successful. He was way too confident for his own good. And “sweetheart”? He knew I hated when he called me that.
I took a moment. Got my shit together.
“Well, I had to post to Insta. It’s been a while.”
“Twelve hours is a while?” He moved toward the bar and rooted around for a beer, found one, then opened it and leaned against one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. His jaw was shadowed, his hair slightly askew, and his eyes glittered in that way that made my body react instantly like the traitor it was. It took a lot of effort to keep my cool, but I did, sipping my drink nonchalantly and moving a few feet away.
“I have to keep my fans happy.” I was light and airy, affecting an attitude I knew bothered him.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you happy?” His voice was too low. Too intimate. And it pissed me off. We weren’t supposed to be here, in this place, talking to each other like lifelong pals. Or lovers. He wasn’t taking the bait, and I hadn’t had enough alcohol to deal with anything other than animosity.
“Why are you doing this, Boyd?” I surprised myself by asking the one question I probably shouldn’t have. “Why did you come?”
“Why do you think I did?”
“I think you want to get back at me for rejecting you in New York.”
He shrugged, all nonchalant, like we were having an everyday conversation. “Sounds about right.”
I knew it. And knowing I was right kind of gutted me, which was stupid. This was how it should be between us. How it had to be. Me doing something hateful, and Boyd reacting with the intention of getting even.
“But you’re dead wrong.”
Surprised, I watched him carefully. “What’s that’s supposed to mean?” I was almost afraid to ask.
He rose and moved toward me, a predator on two legs, and didn’t stop until he invaded my space. God, the man smelled good. Boyd’s woodsy scent filled me, but it was his nostrils that flared. His eyes that flattened. His breathing that was ragged. There were some heavy-duty pheromones floating around the room, so heavy I could reach out and pluck them from the air.
