The Copper Valley Bro Code Series: Volume 1, page 24
And not just because why would I ever be interested in a random guy who insulted me on Twitter? I need to get a grip on my breasts.
Not literally, of course.
I look at Mackenzie. “Game’s back on.”
“Oh!” Her eyes dart wildly between the game and the underwear ape. “Um, are you good luck for the Fireballs?”
“I’m rarely bad luck,” he replies with that schmootzy charm. Yes, schmootzy, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. Schmootzy can’t be trusted. He’s a schmaltzy schmoozer with the swoon factor on his side.
Officially outside the circle of trust, no matter what promises are lingering in that summer sky in his irises as he studies me entirely too closely.
He’s not here to apologize because he feels bad. He’s here to apologize because he’s getting bad press.
I hate that I can’t trust people to just have good intentions. Maybe he does have good intentions. Maybe he was raised with the Southern manners everyone in Copper Valley seems to have, and maybe he’s honestly sorry, and maybe this has nothing to do with people burning RYDE underwear in the streets and him trying to save face.
I want to believe he is.
But I have too much experience with Hollywood to believe it.
My best friend is looking between all of us now. She’s mostly ignored the ape’s girlfriend, but Fireballs baseball is not something to be trifled with, and I know she’s sizing them both up to decide if they’re good or bad luck.
“How often do you watch?” she demands.
“Few times a summer,” Beck says while his girlfriend gives the subtle not often head shake.
“Gah! Ack. Okay. Okay. We can try this, because it’s not like we have a lot to lose. You. Sit. Right there. You. Stand by the plant, but don’t look at the cat. Looking at the cat is bad luck. Every time Sarah pets the cat while the Fireballs are playing, they lose.”
Meda rolls her mismatched eyes from her perch atop the flowery upholstered rocking chair.
Beck Ryder takes my normal seat.
His girlfriend dutifully stands by the overgrown ficus where Mackenzie insists she go.
And my possibly traitorous but mostly superstitious best friend pushes me to the couch next to the man I tasered a few hours ago.
“Stop freaking out,” she tells him when he goes tense and eyeballs me again. “Sarah put her taser away hours ago, and we’re only allowed happy thoughts when we’re watching the Fireballs.”
“I really am sorry,” he says out of the corner of his mouth to me while he glues his eyes to the TV, like he’s afraid Mackenzie’s going to yell at him if he disrupts the game, but they keep darting to me like he’s equally afraid to be this close to a psycho.
Legit fear.
Maybe he’s smarter than his billboards and Twitter feed make him look.
“It’s fine,” I murmur back, because I don’t want to talk about it, and my mouth is getting a little dry, and he has really long fingers that are fascinating me, and also, Mackenzie will probably say it’s bad luck to talk.
Some days I can’t remember how she so thoroughly insinuated herself into my life, but she accepts me for the weirdo I am, and I’ve never had to break up with her because she wanted to meet my parents—and yes, I have been through that heartbreak—so the least I can do is return the favor and humor her scientific luck experiment.
Yes, I realize science and luck are not related, but there would be this huge gaping hole in my life if she ever quit coming over to watch baseball with me.
“I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of publicity,” he says, “and if it’s overwhelming, my team’s happy to help you sort through the mess. Since it’s my fault.”
I snort. Don’t have a lot of experience. He has no idea.
“I’m not just blowing smoke,” he insists. “I fucked up. You shouldn’t have to pay for it.”
He smells like Earl Grey tea in a snowy cabin. Bergamot and a thick wool blanket. It should be suffocating in June, but it’s making me crave a trip to the mountains.
“Some other celebrity will get caught stuffing the sausage in a pig next week and this will be completely forgotten,” I reply. “It’s fine.”
“Quit being an idiot and take advantage of him,” Mackenzie hisses. “Oh, oh, oh, run! RUN!” She leaps to her feet and pumps a fist in the air as Jose Ramirez gets a single for the Fireballs.
Meda yowls and darts for the stairs to my converted attic bedroom.
Ryder’s girlfriend stifles a smile and scrolls on her phone.
They’re a publicity stunt, I decide. Because he’s all up in my chili, and she’s not even batting an eyelash.
“The Nature Center could really use some funds for updated playground equipment,” Mackenzie muses as she sits back down and grabs a handful of popcorn as if she isn’t ratting out my favorite weekend project.
“Done,” Beck says. “Which nature center?”
“Sshh,” she replies, waving a hand at him.
Darren Greene’s up. Left-fielder. Her not-so-secret crush who strikes out more often than he gets on base these days.
“Which nature center?” Beck whispers to me.
I shush him too, because I don’t believe in blackmail, even when the blackmailee is volunteering for it, but especially when he smells this good and are his long thighs really all muscle, or is it another trick of the soft denim wrapped tight around them?
His girlfriend is frowning at me again, but I ignore her, because Greene hits a single that advances Ramirez to third.
“Sarah!” Mackenzie shrieks as the camera pans to Cooper Rock stepping up to bat. “BATHROOM!”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I say to the underwear ape. “Seriously. We’re cool. Go away.”
I’ve never been so grateful for Mackenzie’s undying belief that me going to the bathroom is good luck for the Fireballs.
Because by the time Cooper Rock is done at bat, Beck Ryder and his sexy body and bright blue eyes and delicious smell will be gone, and my life will be on its way back to being normal.
5
Beck
As soon as Sarah disappears around the corner, I glance at Charlie next to the weird leafy plant thing. She’s being uncharacteristically silent through all of this, which means she’s either decided there’s no use in trying to stop me, or she’s getting an idea.
She’s half the brains behind most of my operations—okay, probably like seven eighths, really, which is why I pay her so much—and we’ve worked together so long that I can usually read her, but today, I’m clueless.
Obviously.
It’s been a long time since I’ve reached out to a person in the hopes of just apologizing only to be told to go away.
Most people want my money.
Or a shot at some residual fame.
Or there was that one time I was asked if I could baptize a rabbit, but I try not to think about that.
But Sarah just wants me to go away.
It’s odd.
Charlie wanted to dial in the PR team before coming over, but for once, I overruled her, because this isn’t supposed to be a PR stunt.
I just wanted to apologize. The right way.
I look at the blonde—Mackenzie, I think Sarah said her name was. “Ah, thanks for the hospi—”
“Bathroom,” she hisses at me. “Go on. You too. And she really really really wants to save the giraffes, so go grab this last chance by the balls.”
I knew about the giraffes. Charlie did a breakdown of @must_love_bees’s tweets and blogs after my groveling phone call to Vaughn, and it’s pretty obvious that I’m lucky I didn’t get my ass stung off too after she tasered me, and also that I probably should’ve shown up with a giraffe named in Sarah’s honor if I wanted her to accept my apology.
Not that she has to accept it.
It’s just weird how quickly she’s dismissing me.
Not because I’m as awesome as I let my family think I am, but because I’m rich and famous.
Kidding, I swear. Fuck.
No wonder I got myself in trouble on Twitter.
“Go on,” Mackenzie shrieks.
I leap up and head around the corner that Sarah disappeared to, planning to just hang in the hallway out of sight and leave her alone, except the bathroom door is right there on the other side of the wall, and it’s open and Sarah’s inside lounging with her hip propped against the sink, head down over her phone, and there’s no way to avoid the fact that her entire body tenses while her eyes slowly lift to watch me.
Her eyes are so dark. Like I can’t tell where her pupils are in the middle of all that dark chocolate, and it makes me want to look closer. Or just fall in. Swim there for a while. Work on my backstroke. Or any stroke.
Fuck, I’m getting tight in the jeans.
Her jersey is so baggy, it’s hiding her body almost all the way down to her knees, and there’s something oddly familiar about her.
Or possibly that’s a lingering side effect from the taser.
“Mackenzie sent me,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m harmless, just in case she has another weapon. “For luck.”
I think.
She heaves a sigh that makes her breasts lift, and I get a familiar stirring down in the family jewels.
Convenient.
Not.
She’s not wearing makeup, and I know at least a hundred women who would kill to have her eyelashes.
Or at least wrestle in Jell-O for them.
Most of my acquaintances aren’t actually lethal. Learned a long time ago how to avoid those types out in Hollywood.
“I thought I was sending my sister a private message,” I say into the silence, because it’s getting awkward, and I don’t like silence.
I like to talk.
Or be talked at.
I’m not really picky. So long as it’s not silence.
“I’m sure she appreciated your concern for her loins,” Sarah replies dryly.
“She just got engaged to my best friend. I’d tell him the same.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Yeah, Wyatt hit the lottery when he moved in next to—wait. You don’t mean he’s lucky because he’s my best friend, do you?” I give her the kidding smile.
She doesn’t smile back, but she doesn’t roll her eyes either. Just watches me like I’m a science experiment she stumbled onto without knowing what she’s supposed to be testing.
“OH MY GOD HE HIT A HOME RUN!”
I jump at Mackenzie’s shriek. Sarah hits a button on her phone, and the sound of a toilet flushing fills the air. “It worked?” she calls.
“SARAH! HE HIT A HOME RUN!”
“You have an app that plays flushing toilets?” I ask her.
“Do not ruin this for me,” she hisses.
I hold my hands up in surrender again. “Of course. I know not to make Taser Lady mad. Your friend likes Cooper Rock? He’s a good buddy. Could get you a signed ball for her.”
Now she rolls her eyes so hard her lashes flutter, and there’s more stirring in my cock.
“I don’t want your money or your fame or your connections,” she says. “We’re fine, okay? Go away.”
“I just…wanted to make it up to you. People are shits, and you were trying to do something good, and I fucked it all to hell because I’m a dumbass who doesn’t know how to send a private message on Twitter.” I trail her back to the living room, realizing belatedly what’s weird about the room.
There aren’t any pictures.
Every house I own is filled with pictures of my family.
Okay, yeah, and of me, but it’s just funny to watch people jump when they come face-to-face with one of those cardboard cutouts of me in my underwear or the five of us from back in the Bro Code days.
Huh.
I should get Wyatt a cardboard cutout of himself. Ellie would love that.
But the point is, everybody I know has pictures of family somewhere.
Sarah doesn’t.
Not in her living room. Not in the hallway. Not in the kitchen—yeah, I’m peeking.
Whoa.
Is she all alone in the world? An orphan? Abandoned? Abused?
Shit shit shit.
I fucked up hardcore, and I suddenly want to grab her in a hug and promise her she doesn’t have to ever be alone again.
Mackenzie’s slumped happily on the stiff upholstered couch, a goofy grin on her face. Charlie looks at me, and I shake my head, because I have this feeling hugging Sarah would only result in one of my nuts finding a new home somewhere between my intestines.
Time to leave the poor woman alone.
At least for now. Maybe in another six months or so, I can casually drop by, we’ll have a good laugh, I’ll offer to make her some sweet tea—oh, yeah, sweet tea, and cornbread, and bread pudding, and cinnamon rolls, and—and I need to stop thinking before I start drooling.
But she’s my sister’s neighbor. It’ll be hard on Ellie if I don’t make this right.
“If you change your mind—” I start.
“I won’t.”
“Beck will donate a million dollars to the conservation charity of your choice if you let us interview him apologizing to you on camera,” Charlie announces.
I start to shake my head at her again—I’ve tormented Sarah enough, and I’m not interested in pissing her off more—when I realize both of the other women have frozen.
Mackenzie’s jaw hits her collarbones.
And Sarah just went a shade of white that resembles bleached summer clouds. But she doesn’t let being pale stop her. She spins on her heel and narrows those dark eyes at me. Feels like I’m watching a demon being summoned, and it’s fucking hot as hell.
Or maybe I need to cool it with the Buffy reruns.
“Does your girlfriend always spend your money for you?” she asks.
“Girlfriend? Oh, he wishes,” Charlie says with a chuckle.
“Charlie’s my executive assistant,” I tell Sarah. “And yeah, she pretty much does. Usually very smartly.”
“Except today.”
“No, today too. Happy to donate to any and all of your favorite causes. Make it two million. I can say sorry bigger.”
“How often does he have to buy himself out of trouble?” Mackenzie asks Charlie.
“Couple times a year,” she replies cheerfully. “This job is not boring.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
“Here’s the situation,” she says to Sarah. “We have a charity deal that’s hanging in the balance. With all the negative press—yes, yes, rightfully deserved—we’re worried that it’s going to fall through, because his partner isn’t too happy with being associated with us right now. You’re not obligated to accept his apology. You’re not obligated to forgive him. But it would be doing a great service to kids all over the nation who would stand to benefit from our new foundation. All we’re asking is if you’d work with us to smooth over his lapse in judgment and poor social media skills.”
“Hello, guilt trip,” Sarah says.
“It’s a million fucking dollars,” Mackenzie squeaks at her.
“Two,” I correct.
Swear on the underwear that made me richer than god, Sarah goes so pale she could star in a vampire show.
Mackenzie’s not watching the game. She’s just sitting there doing a mouse impersonation. Nose twitching, little squeaky noises slipping out of her lips when she’s not forming real words.
Sarah’s eyes bore into mine. “Contract?”
Smart lady. I like it. “Twenty-four hours. Or overnight. I can get a rush job.”
“Probably sooner,” Charlie offers.
She licks her lips. Swallows so hard I can see her throat working. Her eyes are getting shiny, her chin is wobbling, and whoa.
She’s afraid of cameras.
Maybe she’s not an orphan. Maybe she’s part of a government experiment gone wrong. Or in witness protection.
I open my mouth to call it off, to tell her I’ll send five million wherever the hell she wants, she doesn’t have to get on camera with me, when she cuts me off before I can utter a syllable.
“You’ll talk about the giraffes.”
Didn’t see that coming, but at least it wasn’t a taser this time. “If you’re sure you want to do this.”
“Not just tonight, but in every interview for the next two weeks and anytime a reporter mentions my name.”
Whoa. She’s not fucking around. “You know I’m just a stupid underwear model, right? Lot for a guy like me to remember.”
“I want it in writing.”
“We need the apology video ASAP,” Charlie says quietly. She’s got that hint of sorry laced in with the you’re running out of negotiating room tone down solid. “The sooner, the better for all of us.”
“So the video before the contract.”
“I’ll make a phone call and get our legal team on it right now. But if you want your lawyer to look over it—”
“Not necessary. I speak Hollywood.”
Unease crawls over my skin, and I see it reflected in the flinch in Charlie’s mouth.
Not witness protection or a government program gone wrong, then.
Not that I really thought those things were a possibility. Mostly.
Sarah blinks away the shine in her eyes and crosses her arms. “You can use my first name only, and we do the video tonight. Right now. Mackenzie will record it. When I have the contract, you can have the video.”
Not exactly unreasonable. I shoot another look at Charlie, who gives a small nod.
“It might take a few hours for hair and makeup—” she starts.
“No hair. No makeup.” Sarah slides a look at me. “For either of us.”
“Sarah,” Mackenzie hisses. “At least let them do your makeup.”
She shakes her head and leans over to pull out a drawer in the carved bureau along the wall between the kitchen and living room. “Phones, tablets, and computers all in here, and we can get started. Except mine. We’ll use my phone.”
“Beck,” Charlie says, a warning coloring her tone, and yeah, she’s right.
This might be a really bad idea, and we might get taken for a ride.
