Page 17

TWELVE

Jolie

“ I could get real used to this,” Ginger said as she stood along the balcony of the second floor of the club, looking down at all the people grinding below.

While she danced in place with the club’s signature pink drink in her hand, the straw bounced, and the booze sloshed against the sides of the glass.

“Get used to what?” I took a sip of the same cocktail, the mixture sweeter than I normally liked, but all the women in here were drinking one, and I’d wanted to see what the hype was about.

“This.” She twirled her finger in a large circle, and I could tell she was including the ceiling, which was as decked out as the rest of the interior, the VIP room we were in, and the dancers shaking their asses below.

“Everything about this place is beautiful. Even the people—I don’t think I’ve seen a single one who isn’t gorgeous.

It’s just”—she shrugged—“my vibe—what can I say?”

She was definitely right about the club.

The entire inside was done in only black and white—a design as eye-catching and attractive as the people she had just described, especially the ones who were dancing in cages that hung from above.

There were mirrors everywhere, so I couldn’t tell if I was looking at a reflection or if there were really that many people in here.

She rubbed her shoulder against mine. “And I kinda love that we’re out, together, on a Friday night, having all the cocktails. It’s been a while since we did this. Things have been a bit … stressful.”

I sighed. “You can say that again.”

Now that I really thought about it, this was probably the first time we’d gone out, just the two of us, in about a month. Up until a few days ago, I’d been working nights and weekends to prep for all the change that was coming.

She wrapped her arm around my upper back and hugged me against her side. “But we’re over that stressful hump.”

The sound that came out of me was a laugh, but Ginger knew I didn’t find this funny. “Are we really? Because I feel like we’re still climbing toward the peak and we’re nowhere even close to being over it.”

“Listen, I’m drinking out of a glass that has boobs.” She held it in front of me so I could see, even though mine was identical. “Let’s spend tonight focusing on the good rather than the upcoming anxiety we’re about to face.”

I smiled, lowering my head to look at my hand. One of the first things I’d noticed when the bartender gave me my order was the shape of the glass—how it dipped and curved and jutted out, resembling a woman’s body.

When I glanced back up, I raised my brows and said, “We both have anxiety?”

She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, knowing my locks never stayed. “Part of a bestie’s role is taking on the other person’s anxiety. So, yes, by default, I’m taking on yours, which means we both have it.”

Anxiety.

I hadn’t anticipated having it this bad—or at all.

Because I had a plan.

I was going to graduate from college. Ginger and I would stay in the same apartment we had rented our junior year and keep it until we could afford something larger, however long that took.

I was going to work full-time for my dad in his Boston office, and instead of him comanaging my accounts, they would become mine, and I would take on several others.

The graduation part had happened.

But nothing else went according to plan.

And it all started that day my dad called me into his office, dropping a bit of news that completely came out of nowhere.

News that had rocked my entire world.

My hand went to my chest. “Is yours right here? Your anxiety, I mean.” I pushed harder against it. “Because this is where I feel it. It’s burrowed a hole, and it won’t stop digging.”

She circled her fingers around mine. “That means you haven’t had enough to drink. You need to down these”—she tapped my glass—“until that feeling is gone.”

My head fell back, and I tried to breathe. When I couldn’t, I said, “And tomorrow, when I wake up and it’s still there, what do I do then?”

She smiled. “We do it all over again.”

I made a face as I thought about what that hangover would feel like. “Horrible plan.”

“I know. But it’s all I’ve got.”

I slid my hand over the top of my hair and bunched some into my palm. “What the hell am I going to do about Monday?—”

“Oh my God.”

Ginger hadn’t cut me off because she was tired of hearing me groan. What told me that were the way her eyes were going wide and how her mouth was hanging open. An expression then grew across her face, like she’d just witnessed an alien land behind me.

“Ginger?”

She quickly downed every last drop of her drink, which she set on a nearby table as fast as she had shot back the liquor, and she put her hands on my shoulders. “I need you to listen to me.”

“Ginger, you’re freaking me out. What’s wrong?”

“Do not move. Do you hear me?”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“But why?”

“Jolie, you’re not listening—you’re talking—and I really need you to listen.

” She took a deep breath, her behavior getting stranger by the second.

“You’re going to put your drink on the table beside us, and then you’re going to give me your hand, and we’re going to walk across the front of this balcony until we reach the stairs, and at the bottom, we’ll sneak out the back—if there’s a back. If not, we’ll slip out the front.”

“Huh?” I searched her eyes.

She nodded toward my hand. “Come on. Drink up.”

“Why are we leaving? I thought you loved it here?”

“I do.”

“And I thought you were going to have me keep downing these”—I raised my glass—“until my anxiety was gone?”

“Plans have changed. We’re going elsewhere to make that happen.”

“Why?”

As her chest deflated, she briefly closed her eyes. “Just trust the process, okay?”

“Seriously, what has gotten into you?”

Every time I shifted or looked over my shoulder, she would mimic me and try to block me or shake me to keep my attention on her.

“Is there something behind me you don’t want me to see?”

I attempted to turn, but she did everything in her power to stop me.

“I don’t understand what’s happening—” I didn’t let her control my movements this time, and I peeked in the direction she was trying to have me avoid.

Oh God.

Now it made sense—why she had been acting that way.

My entire body froze.

Except for my heart.

That was beating to the point where I could feel it in my throat.

A wave of redness was covering my skin, not just my cheeks—I was positive I was flushed all the way down to my toes.

And the air—it was gone from my lungs.

Beck Weston.

Here.

And only feet away from me.

My eyes were already locked on him, but they dipped, taking him in, remembering, but also getting an immediate refresher.

His trimmed, well-groomed beard—since preseason was just starting next week, he had months and months of growth ahead of him.

Those talented lips. His riveting hazel eyes.

His thick neck, a gold chain dangling just below it, and his muscular chest, covered in tattoos, which were hidden by a black button-down.

His shirt was fitted enough that it showed the outline of muscles in his arms and the flatness of his stomach.

But it was his face I couldn’t stop staring at. A face I’d seen in my dreams. That I’d looked at on social media. That I’d watched on TV.

That I’d stared at from the stands when LA last came to Boston and played in our arena.

“Ginger …” I whispered.

“Babe, I know.”

I didn’t know where she was standing—I was far too focused on Beck—but I heard her directly in my ear.

“Turn around before he sees you and it’s too late—” Her voice cut off when he glanced in my direction and zoomed right in on me. “Fuck. He’s spotted you.”

I tried to swallow the anxiety—a layer much thicker than I had been feeling minutes ago—but I couldn’t. It was there. Building. And getting worse by the second.

“What do I do?”

I couldn’t think, never mind try to make a decision.

“There’s nothing you can do. He’s headed toward you right now.”