I examine the smile he’s wearing. It’s different, and I realize what it is. “You’re proud of her.”

  “Hell yeah, I am. She’s earned it.”

  “She’s a lucky girl,” I tell him, thinking of my own brothers. They might drive me crazy sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

  His eyes bore into mine. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

  We are not talking about our families anymore, but moving into talking about us is even more dangerous territory. “Carson,” I start quietly, “I don’t know if—”

  He cuts me off with a press of his finger to my lips. When I go quiet, he traces my bottom lip slowly, relishing the texture of my lips. “I want to kiss you. I understand if you don’t or if the risk is too much for you. But I want you to know that I want to taste you, explore you. I want to see if this could be something.”

  His words terrify me because they’re echoed in my body. My head is screaming ‘danger, danger, danger’, but even so, I’m considering it. I’m not impulsive, not with what I do day in, day out. Yet, I find myself covering the small space between us to press my lips into his. He must sense my hesitancy because he simply sips at me gently, continuing to build the heat that’s been burning since I walked through the door of his father’s office and laid eyes on him.

  His hand weaves into my hair, tugging the strands gently. I gasp, the sound igniting us. He slips his tongue past my lips, and I meet him eagerly, but he takes his time learning me, teasing and nipping my lip to discover what I like. I’m not sure I even know anymore. I just know that I like him.

  The shock of bright lights shines through my closed eyelids, and I jump in surprise, breaking the kiss. I cover my squinting eyes as Carson looks over his shoulder, hissing at the brightness. The car passes us, returning us once again to the quiet of the night as the engine’s roar is hidden by the next curve in the road.

  Our eyes meet, mere inches separating us, but where only moments ago, we’d been on a path to something hotter, now there’s an intimacy that feels good. Comfortable and hot, but not insistent and urgent.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  In response, Carson traces my bottom lip with his thumb once more. “Will you watch the sunrise with me?”

  That’s not what I expected him to say. I don’t know if I thought we’d go right back to kissing or talking or if he’d offer to take me home. But we let the quiet of the night envelop us as I snuggle into Carson’s side, his arm wrapped around me.

  We stay like that for hours, not saying much as we stay in our thoughts. And together, we watch the sun rise. I decide that maybe walking mountain trails sucks, but being on the edge of a cliff, both literally and figuratively, with Carson is a stress relief I didn’t know I needed.

  CHAPTER 8

  JAYME

  It’s way too early for my phone to be ringing, so I ignore the ridiculously loud beep-beep-beep completely. For three rings I let it just buzz, and then I remember who I am and that avoiding a call isn’t something I can do. Shit hits the fan for my clients at all hours.

  Fumbling, I reach for my phone. “Mello,” I mumble without looking at the caller ID.

  “What the actual fuck, bitch? Were you gonna send me to voicemail? I don’t think so.” Taya’s voice is sharp and accusing, and even through the phone, I can sense her head swiveling as she reads me down. “That is not what best friends do.”

  She’s right, and thankfully, giving me shit as a friend and not as a client. Or former client, I guess, because though I met Taya when I was helping her professionally, she’s been my best friend for a lot longer at this point. She’s the wild to my structure, the free-wheeling to my safe and sound, and the wrecker of my best laid plans. Like going to the Americana Land offices today.

  Getting home after sunrise is something I haven’t done since college, but this morning, I feel blissfully buzzy after the late night with Carson. I told myself, and Carson, that I’d take a catnap and be in for a day’s work as usual.

  This call will likely change that.

  “I know, Taya. I wouldn’t dream of skipping a call from you. I’d be too afraid it was your one call from jail and you’d end up stuck there without bail. All because I was sleeping in for once.” I let my voice go deep and sad, as though imagining her imprisoned overnight and it being my fault.

  There’s a long beat of silence and then we both burst out laughing.

  “I take it you’re not in jail, then?” I venture.

  Taya makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “No, not this time, which you’d better be thanking your lucky stars for. But what’s with the sleeping in late? That’s not like you.”

  Before I can answer, she squeals. “Ooh, were you out late working? Who fucked up so bad they’ve got you pulling an all-nighter? Let me pull up Twitter.”

  I hear her long nails clacking away, likely on her laptop, as she searches for dirt that she would never find if I’d done my job correctly.

  “Why do you assume it was work?” I tease. She snorts, her laughter growing to the point where it’s almost offensive. “Hey, it’s not always work.”

  “Stop. Stop. You’re killing me, bitch.” She sobers, or tries to, at least. “Okay, okay.” She breaks down in a small fit of giggles again. “It wasn’t work. It was . . . book club? A charity gala? Something bougie like that with finger sandwiches or some shit?”

  I pause, the words right on the tip of my tongue. I shouldn’t say anything about Carson to anyone, even my best friend. Especially since this is a convoluted mix of professional and personal. But if anyone would understand, it’s Taya.

  I first met her three years ago when she burst onto the music scene virtually overnight. And suddenly, her coming-up story was something she needed to overcome. Her music agent called it ‘rough edges’. The truth is, Taya grew up nearly feral, scraping for every cent and fighting for every day she got, sometimes doing some shady things just to get by. I helped her face her history head-on, creating a narrative that she controlled so that she wasn’t blindsided by interviewers trying to shock her into a reaction they could label as ‘rage’ or ‘fury’. And if there’s one thing Taya is good at, it’s surviving, whatever it takes. And somewhere in that process, we became thick as thieves and both shared way more than we typically do with people.

  “It wasn’t anything like that. It was . . . something else.” She knows me well enough to hear the telling weight in that pause.

  “Errk. Do not say another word on the phone, Jayme. I’m calling because I need to see you today, so you can tell me in person when we’re sure there are no bonus listening ears.” The warning is threaded through the words, a sign of how far she’s come since those early days when she said what she wanted and everyone who didn’t like it could go to hell on a speeding super slide of lava, right up their ass. And yes, that’s a literal quote from Taya to one interviewer she didn’t like.

  But while I’m proud of her progress, I can’t see her today. I have to go to the Americana Land offices to help Carson with our planned approach to fixing things. “Taya, I can’t.”

  “Did I ask? No, I did not. Because it wasn’t a question.” Her biting tone softens slightly, which is honestly more concerning. “I need to see you today. I need your help with something.”

  Shit. Professional or personal, I can’t tell her no.

  “Are you in town? Or close, at least?” I say hopefully. Maybe I can do a quick visit with her, help with her drama, and then hustle to the office to help Carson? I’m already replanning my day and resetting my goals I hoped to accomplish before crashing into bed tonight.

  There’s a knock on my apartment door. “Taya?”

  “Open up, bitch.” She starts laughing, knowing she’s got me by the short hairs. Not that I have any. My waxing appointments are pre-scheduled on a routine, the same as my nails, hair, and lashes.

  I scramble out of bed, tripping over the blankets and stumbling heavily. Somehow, I manage to stay vertical as I run through the living room. Right as I’m about to open the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  “Shit,” I hiss, realizing I’m nearly naked in just my bra and panties. Matching ones, of course. Not that I planned that just in case when Carson showed up last night. I grab a blanket off the couch, wrapping it around myself like a towel and tucking the tail in between my breasts.

  Taya knocks again, more of a bang this time. “Now, Jayme. Before someone sees me out here and decides that we’re having a lover’s spat and contacts TMZ.”

  I yank open the door. “Shut up! You can’t say things like that!” I snap, horrified that Taya’s going to ruin all the hard work we’ve put into making her seem like a stable, normal person even though she’s totally not. I pull her inside, her feet shuffling in her furry slides and her smile wide. “What the hell?”

  “Chill. Ain’t no one to hear me on this floor.”

  Frowning, I glance out into the hallway in confusion before asking her, “How do you know that?”

  She’s regained her composure and is enjoying having information that I don’t. “Myron told me,” she says airily, waving a hand as though it’s no big deal.

  But it definitely is.

  “Myron is paid very well to not share things like that,” I argue as I shut the door.

  “And I’m Taya,” she counters, knowing the power her name carries. “And your best friend, which he’s well aware of. Don’t worry, he’s not telling tales to any Joe on the street. He knows I’d kill him . . . if you or your dad didn’t get to him first.”

  I can’t argue that, and sensing that she’s won, Taya struts to the kitchen, helping herself to my coffee maker. As she passes me, I realize she’s wearing the infamous TikTok leggings that make her butt look especially fabulous and a matching tie-dye, neon yellow crop top. I need to check her accounts and make sure she’s not posting anything too risqué, though that line for her is pretty far out.

  “Be right back,” I tell her, hustling down the hall to get dressed. Slipping on soft cashmere joggers and a short-sleeved top, I take a quick minute to call Carson.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he answers, and I can hear his smile.

  “Hey, Carson. I had something come up this morning and won’t be able to make it in until later this afternoon,” I tell him sadly.

  “Oh.” It’s the smallest syllable but contains as much disappointment as I feel.

  “I know.”

  From the kitchen, Taya calls out, “Snap-snap, Jayme, or I’mma start helping myself to whatever I want.”

  Shit. I need to hurry. Taya quite literally means she’ll pocket whatever she finds interesting. She’ll give it back—she always does—but in the meantime, I won’t have a salt shaker, the candle holder on the coffee table, or my car keys.

  “I have to go, Carson. I’ll come as soon as I can, but in the meantime—”

  He cuts me off. “Don’t worry, I’ve got things here. I am a marketing genius, despite recent evidence to the contrary. I’ll work on the bullet points we laid out.”

  I sigh in relief. “Thanks.”

  “Hang up the phone, bitch. Your ass is mine now,” Taya sings from the doorway, two cups of steaming coffee in her hands.

  “You good?” Carson growls, not used to Taya’s style.

  I laugh at the protective streak that pops in him as Taya sets one mug on the nightstand. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”

  He still sounds hesitant but says goodbye before hanging up, and I do the same.

  “Okay, first my crisis and then I want all the deets on . . . that,” Taya tells me, waving a long-nailed finger toward my phone. She kicks her slides off and climbs into my bed, making herself at home. “Your coffee is sweet and creamy, just the way you like it. Mine is black with a shot of Fireball.”

  I make a face of disgust. “How do you drink that? Especially at this time of day.”

  She sips it easily and shrugs. “You do you, I’ll do me—bitter, hot, and spicy.”

  Not awake or rested enough to argue effectively, I pick up the coffee she made for me and climb back into bed, wishing I could sleep for another hour or two but knowing that’s not going to happen. Not with Taya already gearing up.

  “Hit me.”

  Taya smiles, enjoying making me wait. “Do you remember the time we went to lunch and that guy came up and touched my hair?”

  I choke on my coffee. “Oh no, please tell me you didn’t.”

  The story she’s reminding me of was one of those very public spectacle rough edges we dealt with. Taya and I were out to lunch, minding our own business, when a guy came up and started gushing over Taya’s long, bright blue braided hair, saying she’d make a gorgeous model. Without asking, he reached out and petted her hair, wrapping a lock around his finger. Taya had flinched back, shouting in shock and anger. The guy hadn’t expected her loud ‘don’t touch me, asshole’ and had balked as if he’d had some right to touch her. He’d stammered, trying to explain that he was complimenting her, and before I knew what was happening, Taya had ripped her wig off, exposing her natural short hair, and started smacking the guy with it, the blue braid becoming a whip. His high-pitched screams could’ve been used for a horror movie soundtrack, and it wasn’t until I’d threatened to call the cops that I’d gotten either of their attention. The guy had wanted me to call the cops at first, thinking I was calling on Taya, but he’d changed his tune really fast when I mentioned that he'd assaulted her first and she had every right to defend herself. “That’s right, asshole. Keep your hands to your muthafuckin’ self,” she’d said.

  The video had gone viral, and while there’d been plenty of people on Taya’s side, she still came out looking like an aggressive, fists first, questions later sort.

  Hopefully, nothing that drastic has happened. Again.

  “Yeah,” I say warily. “I remember.”

  “You are not gonna believe this shit, girl. That dick-weasel had the audacity to send me a DM on Insta! Talking ‘bout how he’s some bigshot photographer now and would love to do a shoot with me. Like I didn’t tell his crazy ass to leave me alone last time and he didn’t try to get my record company to pay him off for his ‘pain and suffering’. Ooh, I could make him suffer through some pain . . .” she growls, her eyes bright and her fist punching air as though the guy is right in front of her in my bedroom. Somehow, she doesn’t even spill a drop of coffee as she fights the imaginary guy.

  “Are you serious? What’d you say?” I demand. I’m already cycling through options on how to spin this because I have no doubt that Taya ripped the guy a new one and pissed in the old one. It’s her style.

  She pins me with a look, smug arrogance nearly wafting off her in waves. “I told him to fuck off and that if he contacted me again, I’d have legal after him so fast he’d wish I only beat him with my wig.”

  I blink. That’s . . . not what I expected. Actually . . . “Taya! That’s great progress, girl! You didn’t threaten him with bodily injury or use rude insults. Or put him on blast. You used your resources . . . namely, legal ones. I’m so proud!”

  She preens, flipping her hair, silver and black curls today, over her shoulder. “I knew you would be.”

  I can’t believe it! But wait . . . “You said you needed my help with something. What else is there?”

  She digs her toe into my thigh, punishing me for something but I don’t know what. “You broke me, Jayme. All my piss and vinegar is gone, replaced with some snotty ‘call my lawyer’ bitch. I’m mad at you.”

  But she doesn’t sound mad. She seems proud, if not a bit confused, by her reaction to the wannabe photographer’s message.

  “Taya, you’re not some snotty ‘lawyer’ type bitch. You’re a woman who’s well aware of what requires her attention and what doesn’t. Delegating out the shit to the people you pay to handle it is what you’re supposed to do. You are Taya-clap-Fucking-clap-Simmons-clap. You don’t need to waste one second of your day on some pissant like Elliott Jones. You have better and more important things to do.” This is a Taya-brand pep talk, a specialty I developed when working with her that later became how we communicate as friends.

  She stares at me for a minute, taking in my words before looking into the depths of her nearly empty coffee mug. She mulls it over and then nods to herself. “You’re right. I can pawn him off and not give him another thought. Hell, I didn’t even remember his name or I wouldn’t have clicked on the DM.”

  I smile at her conclusion, amazed at how far Taya has come. There were days when I truly thought I wouldn’t be able to save her from herself. She wanted to fight everyone and everything, as though the whole world was out to get her, even when people wanted to help her. But she’s different now. Not in the way she worries about, but in a more mature way, but still one hundred percent Taya.

  “Speaking of other things I need to do . . .” She sits up in the bed, crisscrossing her legs in front of her as she sets her mug on the nightstand. “I need to pump you for information about whoever’s keeping you out till all hours of the night and that you have to call in the morning like he’s your keeper. But mostly, who the hell is making you smile like you were doing on the phone earlier?”

  Before I can start to argue, she holds up a finger, her long nail threateningly sharp. “And don’t you dare try to tell me it’s nothing or I will slay you like one of RuPaul’s drag queen walkways.”

  She undoubtedly will, and honestly, I could use someone to help me sort the mess of thoughts swirling in my head. “This goes without saying, but this is just between us.”

  Taya gives me a wry look, as though whatever I’m about to tell her is nowhere near as juicy as the other secrets we’ve shared and waves her hand to tell me to get on with it.