Stirred Page 5

  I snorted. “How would you know? Have you read her book?” I tried to steal the card away, but Trinitee lifted it from my reach. “Give it back, Trin.”

  “Oh, we’re getting defensive, now, are we?”

  “We aren’t getting anything. You, on the other hand, are annoying. Now give it back.” I held out my hand, trying to appear patient, but secretly bristling inside, and pissed-off because I didn’t understand why.

  “Just wait a sec. Let’s see what we have here first.” She slapped the card on the table between us, the heel of her hand holding it in place so I couldn’t slide it away. She poked a finger at it. “There’s no phone number here, but... Oooo, look at that. Ms. MacLaird’s on Twitter. Shall we have a looksee? We had fun last time, remember?”

  She didn’t bother to wait for my reply before sliding her smartphone over and opening up her Twitter app. A quick tap of her fingers brought up the desired account.

  “Here we go.” Trin took a moment to breeze through some of Eden’s tweets and pics. “A lot of self-promotion here, but…some real engagement, too,” she added with a raised brow. “And with a lot of men, it seems.” She peered at me, amused. “Dude, she’s got stalkers. That could be your way in.”

  I shook my head as I plucked the card from beneath her hand. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You obviously like this gir— I mean, woman,” she emphasized.

  “Because last time we played this game with that guy you liked—the councilman—he threatened to call the cops. Remember?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “He was just spouting off. Though he did send me a shitload of direct messages afterwards. That dude was a very naughty boy, lemme tell ya.”

  “Still,” I said with a shrug, “it’s risky, and I don’t wanna piss-off the wrong person. We’re almost finished with school. It’s not worth it. This woman’s got money. I could smell it on her.”

  “Maybe, but…I saw her, Sean, and she didn’t look the type to get pissed-off by a little gentlemanly attention. And by the way she looked at you, I’d say she was very interested. Maybe all she needs is a nudge in the right direction. If she’s not into you, well, at least you can say you gave it a shot. But you’ll never know unless you try. Even if it’s just a one-nighter like what’s-her-name…” Again, she snapped her fingers.

  “Natasha,” I finished.

  “Yeah, her. That was fun, right?”

  I nodded silently.

  “Though she wasn’t a real redhead,” Trin added. “You know, the carpet not matching the drapes and all that…”

  I raised a single brow and snickered. “You batting for both teams, now, Trin.”

  She shrugged and said, “Research,” all business-like, as if it meant nothing at all, which perplexed me and made me realize I still had a lot to learn about her. “So, this new chick, I think you should go for it. This is your chance. Follow her on Twitter, engage her, and voilà, you’re in. She’s yours. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “To be honest, after what she said in the men’s room, I doubt she’d engage.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but…how would she even know it was you? You don’t have any profile pics, and she doesn’t know your name, right? You didn’t introduce yourself…well, except for sliding your tongue down her throat, I’m sure.”

  “Trinitee,” I scolded on a sigh.

  “Just think about it, Sean. This is just like me and Councilman John. You could do what I did. Your gal’s a little older, so perhaps she’s a lonely housewife or something. Maybe that’s why she writes mommy porn or whatever you call that shit.” She pointed to the card in my hand. “You should buy her book, read some of it, follow her on Twitter, maybe RT some of her promo tweets. She’ll get familiar with your handle and probably follow you back since you’re pimping for her and all.”

  “Yeah? And then what?” I asked, thinking how pointless it seemed.

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, dude. Use your imagination. Maybe ask her a few questions about her work—intelligent ones—so she knows you’ve actually read her stuff and aren’t just some freak jerking off to her photo. Then, once she knows you a little, DM her, compliment her book at first, then get a bit more personal, but slowly,” she emphasized with a raised hand. “Tell her she’s beautiful. See how she reacts. If she gets quiet, apologize, take a step back, regroup, but if she engages, says thank you, acts all embarrassed or whatever, then you’ve got her. She’s yours.”

  “I highly doubt that, Trin. She’s not some horny college girl on the prowl.”

  “Dude, if she jumped your bones back there in the toilet, when she didn’t know dick about you, imagine what she’ll do if you act all interested, tell her she’s hot or whatever. I mean, look at this shit here, Sean.” She pushed her phone under my nose, first scrolling through Eden’s tweets then settling on her Twit-pics. “Check this out. Her Throwback-Thursday pics?” Trinitee shook her head. “She wasn’t much to look at back in the day, but whoa, look at that.” She clicked on one photo and brought up all the subsequent tweets and comments. “She really blossomed, and, apparently, she loves the attention her before-and-afters have garnered.”

  Trinitee shoved her phone aside and looked me in the eye. “Hubris, my friend. Worked like a charm with the councilman. I bet it could work here, too.”

  “I don’t think so, Trin. I’m getting pretty tired of these hook-up games.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a game this time, stud. I think, if you listen, your heart’s already telling you that. Who knows, this could be nothing or it could be the real thing. It’s up to you, of course, but…seriously, Sean-boy, you’ve got nothing to lose. She’s seems open to fans getting friendly. And you have no other way to find her now anyway, so…this is your best way in.”

  “Why the hell are you all up in my love life?” I asked.

  “Because, dude, you’re more fun after you’ve been laid. And this chick might just give you the chase of your life, so you won’t be all belligerent and argue all the time, ‘cause that shit’s getting old, my friend, really old.”

  I snorted at her argument, as well as her ridiculous idea, but part of me, a large part, acknowledged that it was a feasible one, and, like she said, a challenge, one I hadn’t had in a while. God knows, this woman had aroused something in me, and I mean more than just my dick. I’d be hard-pressed to simply let that go and not act on it. She was hot and—judging by the dreamy, faraway look in her eye, not to mention that kiss—she obviously wanted me. This chase, as Trinitee had put it, could be an interesting—if not fun—distraction from the pressure of my final year in school, and I was definitely into seeing where it might lead me. Trin was right; who knows where that could be?

  Of course, Trinitee was wrong about having no other way to locate Eden, but I wasn’t about to show her the other business card. That was my ace in the hole, should I need it. It would provide me with the opportunity to meet her again, face to face, and without seeming contrived. But not until the time was right. I wanted to play a bit first, see if Eden would take the bait. And I was curious what else Trinitee would undoubtedly come up with to see that I got laid. She was weird like that. Always plotting a next move, tinkering in someone else’s life.

  So I shrugged. “All right,” I agreed with a nod. “Let’s do this.”

  “Yes!” she said, her arm raised high. “Dude, I’ve been so bored lately. This’ll be fun to watch.” With that, a huge smile spread across Trinitee’s face. Victory again. And satisfaction.

  I wondered if she ever got tired of winning.

  Yeah, probably not.

  Emmy walked me back to my car, her mouth running non-stop about the three guys back inside the bar, but, when I failed to chime in my excitement, she came to a halt and twirled me around to face her.

  “What’s up with you tonight, Eden? You’ve been so distracted, you barely talked to me at all, and now you’re leaving?” She gave me her best pouty-face and, with both
hands just below my shoulders, a little shake as she dipped her knees and peeked up at me. “Did something happen? Was it that guy, the young hottie in the dining room before we left?” she teased with a devious smile. “You two seemed pretty…I don’t know…intrigued with each other back there. Who is he?” she asked.

  Dropping my gaze to the pavement, I tucked my hair behind one ear and wiggled my arms free. “I don’t know,” I said with a shake of my head. “I mean…his name. I don’t know his name. He’s just…a guy. He helped me out when some douchebag hit on me near the restrooms.” I shrugged. “That’s all. No biggie.”

  My car alarm chirped as I hit the remote button on my key. I pulled the door open and threw my purse onto the passenger seat, crushing Reely’s care package—not that I actually cared anymore, because…fuck her. I snickered to myself as I leaned along the top edge of my window and faced Emmy.

  “No biggie?” she repeated, one brow cocked and her smile rather salacious. “He looked pretty big to me.” She giggled.

  “Emmy, please, I’m not in the mood. I just wanna go home, okay?” I huffed in annoyance, adding, “I’m sorry,” when her pout became real. I walked around the door and pulled her in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek before easing down into the low driver’s seat of my car. “I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”

  She nodded, her smile returning, however tentative. She pointed at me and said, “Details. Tomorrow. Got it? You and the young Mr. McHottie in there.” She closed my door.

  After I started the engine, I opened the window, smiled back, and wagged my fingers at her. “Bye, Ems. Love you,” I said as I pulled away.

  “McHottie! Tomorrow!” she urged one last time.

  “Great,” I grumbled and shook my head at my inability to hide my feelings. Transparency was the last thing I needed, especially now. The thought of facing Declan was already burning a hole in my stomach. I was so not ready to have that conversation. Not yet. Plus, Declan knowing I knew about him and Aurelia would only serve to give him the upper hand, something I wasn’t willing to do. Not now. Not ever if I could help it. I really needed to calm down, at the very least hide beneath a cool exterior, a behavior not altogether foreign to me as far as Declan went.

  First I had to know whether he was even home or not, so I drove back to Madrona and cruised past Aurelia’s bungalow, stopping in front of her next door neighbor’s place and peering down the long, narrow driveway that ran between their houses. There was no Mercedes parked near her garage, but it was hard to tell since the detached structure sat mostly behind her house. I shut off the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition, and grabbed Reely’s crumpled gift bag. It would offer me the perfect cover should anyone discover me lurking about in the dark.

  And lurk I did, practically creeping as I kept to the shadows on my trek down Aurelia’s driveway. I actually pressed my back against her siding and peeked around the corner into her backyard, like some cat burglar in a cheesy movie-of-the-week. Aurelia’s little cherry-red Jag was parked on her new cobblestone courtyard. That car was sex on wheels, or so Aurelia had told me three months ago when she’d earned it as a bonus from her boss, a custom builder she worked for selling upgraded interior finishes to high-end homebuyers. Knowing how much Declan always loved the F-Type convertible, I had a sneaking suspicion he’d given it to her as a gift, which meant their affair had been going on way before he told me he’d gone to Chicago.

  Goddamn them both to hell.

  Satisfied Declan was, in fact, gone, I tiptoed toward Aurelia’s back door and laid the gift bag along the edge of the stoop, knowing she’d find it the next time she left to jump in her car. And that damn car—red as it was, like the ruby Reely wore on her finger—it beckoned me. I heeded its call, me and my car key, which I ground into the crimson paint right down to bare metal as I walked nonchalantly along the Jaguar’s length, front to back. The noise was horrendous, but I was willing to take that chance.

  Maybe she’d put two and two together, the gift bag and the nasty scratch, and wonder if I’d somehow found out about her and Declan. The thought of her nervous squirming made me smile, but I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky. She probably wouldn’t even notice the scar, not for a while anyway, not since it ran along the passenger side and she never let anyone else drive it. And by the time she did see it, she likely wouldn’t figure out it had happened in her own driveway.

  Take that, you stupid, back-stabbing, two-faced bitch!

  Man, that kid at the bar was right. Revenge was sweet, and right then, I felt positively diabetic. But my euphoria proved short-lived as I fretted the entire drive home. I prayed Declan was still out, but knew that was unlikely at this hour, though it was a Friday night, and he sometimes watched the Mariners games down at the 520 Bar on Main Street in Bellevue. My prayers, however, went unanswered as I slipped in through the narrow gap in the eight-foot-high hedge along the front of our property. I drove down our long driveway and pulled into our garage next to Declan’s car.

  “Shit,” I mumbled to myself. After a few minutes to gather my thoughts and take a deep, bolstering breath, I grabbed my bag and headed inside. I left the garage door open and removed my high-heels so as not to make any noise.

  The house was mostly dark, just one dim light on at the desk in the kitchen and another brighter one coming from Declan’s office at the end of the north wing hall. At least he wasn’t in bed, waiting up for me. I could bypass his den altogether and not have to face him at all, then change quickly, jump into bed, and feign sleep if he came in.

  Declan had an early tee time at Overlake Country Club. He’d be up and out of the house by six a.m. to meet his father and two of their chief officers for breakfast before they teed off at eight. Besides, after Ladies’ Night, he wouldn’t expect me up until after nine, so I was in the clear, as long as I could avoid him and slip into bed unnoticed.

  To that end, I quietly stashed my keys inside my purse and hid it under the kitchen desk. From there, I padded in the opposite direction down the south wing hall and into the master suite, where I ducked into the dressing room and changed in the dark. That done, I scrubbed a pre-moistened towelette across my face, applied a dash of moisturizer, and slipped under my bedcovers. Just as I was about to slide my sleep mask over my eyes, the screen on my iPhone illuminated from my nightstand and dinged twice with a notification.

  “Crap!” I howled to myself, worried it would alert Declan I was home. I snatched the phone and hid it beneath the thick comforter and satiny sheets. “Twitter, you can be such a bitch sometimes,” I added under my breath as I returned yet another follow then silenced the phone. But before I could stash it away in my nightstand drawer, a new tweet lit up the screen once more, from my newest follower no less.

  “@EdenMacLaird ~ Started reading Joust. Can’t wait to see how it goes. #amreading”

  Forgetting for one moment all the crap from the last few hours, I smiled and tweeted back.

  “@SeanBennett THX for making the worst day ever that much better IOU <3 :)”

  Satisfied, I stashed my phone away and snuggled in for what I prayed would be a dreamless night’s sleep, but knew would most likely not be.

  “Fuck my life,” I sighed and closed my eyes.

  The next morning, I woke to an empty house. Declan was off playing golf, and Ian had left a note, informing me he and his girlfriend, Gracie, were spending the day kayaking on Lake Union in Seattle. Relieved I wouldn’t need to put my game face on first thing, I dusted off the pot of coffee, grateful Ian had brewed it rather than his father. Declan preferred his coffee weak, even in the dreariest months, something I could never understand.

  I used the remote to turn the local TV news on low, wanting the company, but not the annoyance. I much preferred to get my news via the Internet, so I grabbed my iPad from the counter and sat down at the kitchen table to sip my coffee and see what had transpired overnight. It didn’t take long to get my fill of gang shootings, terrorist bombings, and the threat of pandemic dise
ase.

  “Wonderful. How ‘bout Facebook, instead,” I mumbled to myself, quickly disappointed when it didn’t prove any better. Not that I was surprised. The social media site had slowly evolved into a toxic dump full of hate-filled vitriol and shameless self-promotion, not that I could blame anyone for that last point. I was guilty of the same from time to time.

  “Okay, maybe not,” I muttered with a grimace, adding, “Let’s try Twitter then,” as I opened up the app. I preferred Twitter anyway. Less personal. Not as dangerous. And I could promote to my heart’s content. Or my publisher’s anyway.

  The whole tooting-my-own-horn thing was a somewhat contentious issue with my publisher. They wanted me to expand my platform, reach out and “touch my fans,” they’d said, start a discourse, all of which I was more than willing to do, but, unfortunately, too often, some of those fans took that notion of touching a bit too seriously, so I’d started pulling back a little.

  While I loved bantering back and forth with readers, I didn’t appreciate those who thought my book was somehow a personal reflection of my own lifestyle. Didn’t they realize that I, as a novelist, wrote fiction? Giving my “fans” the benefit of the doubt, my new rule was three-strikes-you’re-out. Meaning, with the exception of the dreaded dick pic, which warranted immediate dismissal, if I’d warned them regarding their first two strikes, after the third come-on, proposition, or stalkerish move, they were out. Gone. Blocked.

  Uh, buh-bye. I don’t need your bullshit, pal.

  Especially now that I had plenty of my own.

  I will admit though, interacting with most of my readers was a real joy. Writers never tire of hearing that someone enjoyed their book. Hell, even the not-so-great critiques were awesome from time to time, as they, one, meant that they’d bought the damn book at the very least, two, had probably read it, and three, their feedback was often quite valuable and taught me how to improve my craft. And that was never a bad thing.