Page 12 of Omega
“Aside from his six-pack and those fuck-me dimples?”
“He used more hair product than I did.”
Layla laughed. “He was kind of a douche.”
“So you just kept him around because he was good at cunnilingus?”
“Yeah, basically,” she said with a shrug.
“See what I mean? You need better standards. I don’t remember you ever bringing around a guy who was…I don’t even know…the whole package, I guess. They were all either hot douchebags or losers who weren’t exactly ugly. It’s like you choose guys intentionally who you know there’s no chance of falling for.”
The humor was gone, now. Layla wasn’t looking at me, she wasn’t laughing anymore, and she wasn’t shooting back at me with a snarky reply. All I got from her was a small shrug. “I told you. Falling for a guy? That’s just not my style.”
“AndItoldyou, you need a new style.”
“Know any other mysterious, available, billionaire sex gods?” She looked at me with a sharp, cutting expression. “And donotsay Harris. We aren’t going there.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it, though.”
“He’s a good guy, Layla. Agreatguy. He’s saved my life more than once. He taught me to shoot a gun. He’s even killed for me. And knowing how well Roth pays, I guarantee you he’s not hurting for money. And he’s good-looking. I mean, I’m with Roth for life, but Harris…well, let’s just say I don’t understand your reticence.”
The scuff of a shoe echoed from above us, and we both craned our necks to look up. Harris stood two decks up, his expression inscrutable, impassive, green eyes glittering. He stared down at us for a moment, then turned and vanished.
Layla smacked my arm. “That’s the second time he’s overheard us talking about him. Or rather,youtrying to fix me up with him. It’s not happening, so please, for my sake, for the sake of our friendship,pleaselet it go.” Yet, she glanced back up again, to where Harris had been standing.
I held up my hands again. “Fine. Not another word from me, I swear.”
“Perfect. Thanks.” And just like that, she was gone.
Was I out of line? Maybe. I don’t know. My friend wasn’t just horny, she was lonely. I could tell that much. She was with me, so it wasn’t the loneliness of being actually by herself, alone, but rather the kind of loneliness that stems from not having someone to share her life with, someone to talk to at night in whispers across a shared pillow, someone to hold her. Despite her somewhat harsh description of her relationship with Eric, I had a feeling she missed him. She may not have loved him, but she’d spent three years with him, lived with him, spent every day in his company, every night in his bed. That meant something, no matter how much she may have claimed otherwise. The way he’d let her go had hurt badly, I could see that much as well.
I ruminated on the deck by myself for a while, and then I heard a quiet footstep, and assumed it was Layla come back to talk. I didn’t turn to look, just spoke facing the water. “Listen, hookerface, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed it. I promise you I won’t bring up Harris again.”
“I’m not who you were expecting, clearly,” I heard Harris say behind me.
“Shit, Harris—” I said, turning with a jump.
He leaned against the railing beside me, a bottle of beer in his hand, an unlit cigarette pinched between the index and middle fingers of the same hand. “It’s a subject you would do well to forget, Kyrie. For her sake, and mine. As she has said more than once, it’s not happening. I appreciate your good intentions, but…no.” His voice was how it always sounded, low but not particularly deep, cool, even, hard. Yet, because I knew him, I could hear a certain tone, a wistfulness, perhaps? A strain of regret, maybe? I wasn’t sure, and with Harris, it was impossible to tell. “A man like me is not the right type for a woman like her.”
“She doesn’t have a type, Harris. That’s the point. The guys she’s dated or whatever…they’re all over the place. Black, white, Italian, buff, skinny, short, tall, and everything in between.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Harris asked, then tilted the bottle to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of beer.
“I don’t know. I just think you and Layla—”
“We aren’t compatible, Kyrie.”
“If you’d asked me a year ago if I thought I’d be compatible with a man like Valentine, I would have laughed at you. And that’sbeforeknowing about his involvement in my father’s death.”
He sighed, dug in his hip pocket and produced a lighter, then lit his cigarette. “You are fixated on this, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“There’s a lot you probably don’t know about me.” He took a long drag, letting it out slowly. “But I don’t consider myself a smoker since I don’t do it often or regularly. It’s a vice I allow myself once in a while.”
I let the silence hang for a while then, by way of changing the subject, I asked, “So when will we be back Stateside?”