“What?” I shake my head, trying to make sense of anything Toni just said, but I was focused on how I acted while meeting Jayme’s parents. “No, it’s not . . . that. What?”

  Toni laughs. “Okay, so not kinks. What did you do, really?”

  She finally seems more serious. I take a slow swallow of my bourbon, thinking.

  “She told me something important, and I was caught off-guard. Really off-guard.” I laugh bitterly. “I didn’t take it well.”

  “What’d she tell you? Is she a sleeper Russian spy?” Surprisingly, she’s not kidding. Toni’s being dead serious.

  “No,” I sigh. “I can’t tell you what it is. It’s her business, her story. But she should’ve told me a long time ago, not let me find out accidentally tonight.”

  “Or she should’ve told you whenever she was damn well good and ready. You literally just told me ‘it’s her story’,” she mimics me, apparently thinking I sound like a whiny toddler, “so you don’t get to dictate when she tells it. You dick-tator.”

  I blink in confusion, trying to suss out the actual advice from Toni saying dick repeatedly because now she’s singing, “Dick-tator, dick, dick, dick, dick-tator. Hey, do you have any hashbrowns? Potatoes sound good.”

  She gets up and helps herself to my freezer, shuffling stuff around. There are no hashbrowns there, but I let her look while I mull over what she said. Somewhere in the craziness that my sister spews might actually be some good advice.

  I set my bourbon down and let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling. “Fuck! I fucked up bigtime, Toni.”

  She claps, the sound echoing off the inside of the refrigerator where she’s now looking for food. There are no potatoes there either. “At least you realized it fast. Go talk to her. Grovel and beg, maybe throw in that toe sucking and see if it does anything for her, and apologize.”

  I scrub at my jaw, the stubble getting rough, and ignore the parts Toni adds in for shock value. “I spent all night outside her place, but they won’t let me in or even tell me if she’s there. I called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message, but she hasn’t called back.”

  Toni sits down on the couch with a bag of chips she found in my pantry. “How desperate are you?” she questions.

  I laugh bitterly. “Scale of one to ten? A fifty-seven.” Toni looks impressed at my level of desperation. “I love her.”

  It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, though I realized it a long time ago, I think. It just took time to come to the forefront of my mind and form into a coherent thought, not only a feeling in my soul.

  Toni licks her fingers ungraciously. “Like love-love? Willing to go to the ends of the earth love? Willing to make a fool out of yourself love? That kinda love?”

  “Yes,” I snap. “But I don’t know how to tell her.”

  “I do.” She shrugs casually as if she’s not holding the key to my future happiness. “If you’re willing to risk it all for her. What do you say, Carson? Are you feeling lucky?”

  “All right, Dirty Harry. What’s this idea of yours?” I ask. I should be careful. Toni comes up with some ridiculous things, but I really am that desperate.

  “First, I have one question. Who’s Dirty Harry?”

  “Feeling lucky?” I repeat, adding a little gruffness to my voice in an attempt at an impersonation.

  “Yeah, like the Google search bar thing,” she explains, a world away from what I thought she meant.

  “Right. Like that.” I nod, feeling old. Trying to stay on target, I ask, “Your idea?”

  “Let me grab my phone, and then you do what I tell you to. We’ll have Jayme back in your arms in no time.” Toni lunges for the end table, smushing the chips and grabbing her phone with greasy fingers.

  This is who I’m turning to for help.

  I think I’m doomed.

  CHAPTER 27

  JAYME

  “I came in like a breaking wall . . . all I wanted was to wreck your balls . . . all you ever did was bray-ay-ayk me.”

  I sing into my spoon microphone from my kitchen counter stage in Taya’s kitchen. So what if I’m getting the lyrics all messed up? Who cares if I’m slurring words and flashing my ass to Taya as she loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher? And who cares if I sound like two alley cats fucking while I do it?

  “Don’t quit your day job, bitch. Damn, you cannot sing a lick, and that’s coming from someone who appreciates a little autotune when needed.” Taya insults me and her own voice, which has never needed a lick of autotune, without missing a beat as she closes the dishwasher door. The slight vibration through the counter tickles my feet, and I dance around. It feels like an Irish Riverdance, but gauging from Taya’s slightly amused eyes, it must look more like I’m trying to kill a cockroach and missing with every step.

  I sink to the counter, my legs askew and hanging ungracefully off the edge, one toward the counter stool and one foot in the wet sink. “Ew, I have a noodle between my toes.” I wiggle the aforementioned foot. “It’s icky.”

  “No, you don’t,” Taya counters without looking. “I already washed down all the fettucine alfredo you didn’t eat.”

  Taya swivels her head, daring me to argue with her. I can’t. I know I didn’t leave a single noodle on my plate. Hell, I might’ve even licked the parmesan cheesiness after I inhaled every noodle. Calories and cheese don’t count when you’re sad. It’s a PR rule. One I taught Taya, and she learned well, given that within minutes of my showing up on her doorstep unannounced and with tears in my eyes, she’d ordered takeout, poured me a mega pint of wine, and helped me out of my formal dress and into an oversized sweatshirt.

  I hadn’t even known she’d be here. I’d planned to just invade her oceanfront home and wallow in my sadness.

  “I fucked up, Taya.”

  “Duh.”

  “Hey!” I pout. “You’re supposed to say ‘no, you didn’t’ so I feel better.”

  “You know I keep it real. That’s why you love me.” She leans back against the island, her arms crossed over her chest as she grins at me.

  “Why are you smiling? Can’t you see I’m falling apart here?” I grab at my sweatshirt dramatically. Or I try to, but my hands slip drunkenly.

  And as my balance is thrown off, so am I. I scrabble to grab the faucet to stop from tipping back off the counter. Thankfully, between my hand wrapping around the gooseneck and Taya firmly grabbing my ankle, I don’t bust my head on the tile floor.

  Upside down, I see Carlo standing in the doorway and wave at him with my one free hand. “Hi, Carlo.”

  I forgot he was here, if I’m honest. But he picked me up from the airport and drove me how he always does. Carlo is one of the few freelancers I work with when I need to travel, and he’s been with me on countless trips to dozens of locations, though he’s based out of Los Angeles. He’s much more than a driver, though. He’s more like a security-bouncer-assistant-jack of all trades. Plus, he never argues when I want to make a late-night drive-thru stop for greasy fries as long as he gets some too.

  He doesn’t smile, doesn’t react in the slightest. He’s the consummate professional. Like me . . . usually.

  “What’s up?” Taya asks him.

  “Just checking in because I heard . . . noises,” he answers tactfully. “Shall I call a plumber?”

  I flip over, wiggling my way off the counter until my feet touch the tile floor. Lying face down over the counter for support, I tell Carlo, “I was singing.”

  “Singing?” he repeats doubtfully.

  Taya snorts. “That’s what she’s calling it. We’re not telling her that she sounds like a donkey giving birth, who’s then been sampled and looped.”

  She makes an awful braying sound and then does some trick with her voice that makes it sound like a DJ scratching a record. It’s eardrum busting. “Hey! I don’t sound like that!” I shout.

  “Mmhmm,” she agrees without agreeing in the slightest. To Carlo, she says, “We’re fine. As for Jayme here, I think I’m going to get her in the tub. She’s got alfredo sauce on her foot, and now, it’s all over my floor.”

  I twist around, trying to see my foot and Taya’s floor. But it makes me dizzy, so I give up and press my cheek to the cool counter. The faint gray swirls in the white are tempting, and I trace one with my fingertip. “I should’ve told him sooner. I was going to. But Mom and Dad showed up before I had a chance. And he was already mad at me because of Archer.”

  “Archer?” Carlo echoes, a thread of concern in his voice. He’s professional and likely does truly want to be on alert for any security concerns, but he’s also not immune to gossip and he’s well aware that I was here a short time ago with Carson Steen, so mentioning another man’s name is a tempting nugget.

  I try to clear my head and speak more carefully. He doesn’t know who my parents are, nor does he need to. I gesture to Carlo with a tilt of my head. “Shh,” I whisper to Taya, a finger to my lips. “He doesn’t know either.”

  “She’s been a bit all over the place,” Taya explains, “but Archer is Carson’s brother. I think.”

  “Yes!” I point at her, glad she got my hint about not telling Carlo about my parents. Nodding wildly, I add, “Correctamundo! Get the woman a prize!”

  “A prize sounds like a great idea,” Taya agrees, taking my hands. “How about a bath, and then you can tell me everything?”

  She leads me out of the kitchen, and I’m reasonably sure I’m leaving a trail of footprints from my alfredoed foot.

  Taya can deal with that since she told me I didn’t put my foot in noodles in the first place, I think bitchily.

  “Bye, Carlooo!” I sing, my excellent voice sounding like an angel’s as it echoes off the hallway’s twelve-foot ceiling. And not at all like a howling wolf. But then, why is he laughing from the living room?

  “Ah-Oooooo!” I yell, and that ricochets even better, making me giggle, so I do it again. “Ah-Oooooo! I’m a she-wolf!”

  In her bathroom, Taya helps me sit down on the wide edge of her small indoor swimming pool masquerading as a bathtub and starts the water. Her tub is huge and deep, and I can’t wait to sink into it and let the water wash away everything that happened. Maybe it can even turn back the clock to last night at the charity event, giving me the opportunity to handle the Archer issue differently and tell Carson my secret. That’s not asking for much from a foot and half of hot water and bubbles, is it?

  “Okay, strip,” Taya orders.

  I balk, frowning. “I’m not getting naked in front of you.”

  Taya barks out a laugh. “You ain’t got nothing I ain’t seen before. And let’s be real, if I wanted your kitty cat, I would’ve already had it.”

  “I don’t . . . I’m not . . . Taya, we’re friends. With no benefits.” I wave my hands in a classic ‘no way’ motion in front of my clenched legs.

  “Exactly,” she explains, slowly grabbing my sweatshirt and working it up as though I might run away. To be clear, I don’t think I could run three steps without eating floor. “Which is why I’m helping you. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, Jayme.”

  There’s a bit of tenderness in her voice, and I’m reminded, even through my haze, that Taya isn’t a caretaker. She’s hard, defensive, and looks out for number one . . . always.

  But she’s taking care of me. Like a true friend.

  “I love you,” I gush suddenly, lifting my arms to help her get my sweatshirt the rest of the way off.

  “You too, bitch. Now drop yo’ drawers and get in the bathtub.”

  I do as instructed and even let Taya hold my hand as I step into the water so I don’t slip and bust my ass. Or my head, which is starting to pound.

  I sit down, sinking into the bubbles up to my chin. This feels amazing, and my muscles begin to relax instantly. I lay my head back, lolling over to find Taya. She’s sitting backward in the vanity chair in the splash-free zone, her arms resting on the back as she watches me with an amused smirk.

  “You look like your video,” I tell her.

  It’s true. After she bought this property, she found an indie filmmaker with a cool style, invited him over, and they spent eight hours filming her singing in various places around the house. The filmmaker turned it into a private peek style music video with some cool overlay effects. Right now, the effects are coming courtesy of red wine, not digital processing, but Taya is sitting the same way she did in the video.

  “Want me to sing for you?” she offers.

  I shake my head, wincing at the movement.

  “Good. Your turn then. Sing like a snitch and tell me everything.”

  I make a sound of displeasure, thinking I should’ve told her to sing so she’d leave me alone in my misery. But the water is loosening my tongue too.

  “The charity event was amazing. But Archer . . .” I sneer his name, even though it’s not his fault. It’s mine, all mine. I’m the one who stepped into family business when it wasn’t exactly warranted, or at least not yet. And I’m the one who didn’t tell Carson about my parents. That blame rests solely on my shoulders.

  “He showed up. I could see from across the garden that it wasn’t going well. I didn’t want people to notice, to realize who he was, but he was getting loud.” My eyes drift closed, but I keep telling Taya what I remember. “Carson grabbed his arm, handling it himself, but Archer knows what buttons to push, where to aim for maximmm-mum-mum impact.”

  I must go quiet because Taya prompts me. “So you stepped in?”

  “Yeah, Carson can’t afford a scene like that, so I did what I do best. I handled it for him.” I snort out a bitter laugh. “Actually stepped between him and his brother and called Archer on his shit. Like I’m some white knight.”

  I wave my hand around, slinging bubbles everywhere. Taya chose her seat well.

  “What did he do?” Taya asks.

  “Called me a slut . . . no, wait . . .” I point a finger, trying to remember. “A whore. Yeah, that’s it. He called me a whore. As if. My hourly rate is way too high for that.”

  “He what?” Taya screeches. “I’ll kill Carson where he stands, slowly and painfully.”

  I open my eyes, looking at her in confusion. “Why? Archer’s the one that called me a whore.”

  “Oh,” she says, settling.

  My eyes drift back closed. “Carson was mad, though. He kissed me. Goodbye.” I don’t have to be sober to feel the sharp stab of that pain again. The way he looked at me so seriously, like he couldn’t believe what I’d done. The passion of the kiss, like he wanted one last memory of something good before walking away. And then . . . “My parents came.”

  “You finally told him. Good for you,” Taya surmises, completely incorrectly.

  I shake my head. “Didn’t tell. Surprise!” I shout, holding my hands up wide.

  Bubbles fling all the way across the room to hit Taya in the face. Taya makes a sound of surprise, and I open my eyes to see her mouth dropped open and her eyes wide, her skin covered with the white foam. I can’t help but laugh and hold my fingers up in a frame around her face. Closing one eye, I look through the frame. “Yeah, girl. That’s the money shot! Kaching-kaching-kaching!”

  Taya laughs, wiping away the bubbles with a nearby towel. “I forgot what a fun drunk you are. But now that you’re reminding me, I also remember what an annoying hungover bitch you are.” After a minute, or maybe an hour—what do I know—she asks, “He didn’t take the parent thing well?”

  “Actions speak louder than words. And I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him about my parents,” I mumble, drifting off.

  I think I snore, or blow bubbles in my sleep, because suddenly, Taya and Carlo are helping me out of the water. I feel a soft robe wrap around me, and I burrow into it, wishing I could hide away from everything in its coziness.

  “Bitch is a lightweight with the wine, but fuck if she don’t weigh a metric fuckton,” Taya grumbles.

  I try to argue, but I’m just so tired. They must get me into the bed because the coziness of the robe becomes a cocoon of smushy softness. “I love you,” I slur.

  “Yeah, yeah. I love you, too,” Taya says. If I could open my eyes, I think she’d be rolling hers.

  “Not you,” I laugh, thinking she’s so silly. “Carson. I didn’t tell him ‘I love you.’ And now it’s too late.” I sigh, giving into sleep now that I’m in such a soft, comfy nest.

  I think I hear Taya and Carlo talking, but I might dream it . . .

  “Have you been online?” Carlo whispers.

  Taya snorts. “No. I’ve been dealing with her drunk ass. Why? Is the world going down in flames already? And look at me with no fucks to give.”

  She sounds snarky and carefree, two things she most definitely is not. Taya worries about everything. That’s why she’s so passionate. Even now, as big as she is and with as much money as she has, she worries it’ll all poof! away somehow and she’ll be left holding the bag. But she plays the bitchy role to perfection, and most people never suspect that there’s a fear of becoming that little girl who was hungry for food and desperate for a hug underneath her barbed, rough exterior.

  “The Carson guy. He’s going viral.”

  “What did the asshole do now?”

  “He’s looking for you,” Carlo says. “Come on, I’ll show you.” The door closes with a soft snick, and I curl into the fetal position.

  But that doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would Carson be looking for Taya? I mean, her ass is fabulous, and now that he’s done with me, I could see why he’d hit her up. But Taya’s not gonna hook up with him. She’s the bestie of BFFs, and there’s a code against shit like that.

  “Fuck you! She’s my Taya. If anyone gets that ass, it’s me,” I grouse to the darkness of my mind and the empty room.

  CHAPTER 28

  CARSON

  “Hey . . . uhm, everyone. I’m not sure how this works, but my sister says you can work miracles, so I need help getting this to Taya.”