Wild in the Windy City Volume 3: New Year's Eve Edition Read online

  “Mama won’t be a pumpkin until after the shoe fits.”

  I have no idea what she means. It’s all innuendo for “she won’t hook up until after I’m safely on my way home.”

  My eyes scan the edge of the crowd, a mix of tuxedos and ball gowns, club dresses and guys in dress shirts and skinny ties. I don’t recognize anyone, but I didn’t expect to. Once again, I feel out of place, and I raise my glass to my lips, letting the bubbly burn my esophagus. People dance before me. It isn’t that I don’t dance, but I’m not going to work my way into the crowd and do my groove thing alone. Instead, I sway a bit as the music plays some techno-beat tempo I don’t know. Those gathered are pumped up, the energy almost contagious, but I’m not catching on as my eyes travel over the heads of people.

  “Hello, Chicago!” an announcer calls out as the thumping chant dies down, and the crowd roars in response. “We hope everyone has a good time tonight. Eat. Drink. Be merry. For tonight, a new year begins.” The crowd continues to react. “We want to recognize a few people tonight.” The announcer makes introductions of news crews, pointing out cameramen and women, and I stand on tiptoe to see the local celebrities, and then my gaze catches on a distinct hairstyle—a swoop of hair, like a singular wave—over a male forehead.

  It couldn’t be, I tell myself as I strain for a better look, no longer listening to the introductions until a spotlight narrows in on him. The older man next to him is distinguished looking while rugged, like a former rock star or something, and I narrow my eyes in hopes of a clearer view. Despite the rest of my princess getup, I still wear my glasses, but I can’t decipher if it’s him. And with the eruption of the crowd, I don’t catch the name.

  Then he turns, holding up a hand to shield his own glasses for a second before offering a wave.

  The crowd clears a little bit around him, like a retracting coil, and then people fill back in, rushing him a bit. The silver fox next to him uses his body to shield the star who offers a few selfies with willful women.

  I lower to my heels after standing on tiptoe and tip back the rest of my glass of champagne. Feeling bold, I push through the crowd, taking a couple of knocks from elbows and bumping into shoulders. Even in the strappy heels, I’m still shorter than most people, but I continue to press through the crowd, keeping him within my view.

  I don’t need to talk to him. I just want confirmation. But something draws me to them—him and his bodyguard—and a growing collection of women, hovering like fleas on a dog. I’m almost to them when a zealous dancer raises his hands in the air in response to the music and then lowers them too quickly, slamming his elbow into my head thus pitching me forward. Collapsing into the brick back of someone, the grunt I release causes the offender to turn.

  “I’m so sorry,” a nice-looking guy with the typical dress of the evening—rolled sleeves and a skinny tie—says to me, holding his hand on my head like I’m a child. My eyes sting as liquid fills them. If you’ve ever knocked your head into an open cabinet door or lowered under a table and lifted too quickly, you know how it smarts. He wraps his other arm around me and draws me to him like we’re familiar, and I lean into him a second, willing away the tears while the top of my head throbs. Then he twirls me as though we’re dancing, and my eyes collide with someone else.

  The brick back I fell against now faces me.

  And although I can’t see his eyes behind the lenses clouded from the bright lights, I know they are moss green, dreamy and narrowed in on me.

  My well-meaning head-knocker releases me, and I turn away from the confused expression on Jared’s face. Deciding I need some air, I rush from the room as best I can through the wall of bodies. The number of attendees feels as if it has doubled until I find the hallway where people stand much farther apart in small groups or lingering couples. Seeing the sign for a restroom, I detour there for a moment.

  Slipping into a stall, I dab under my eyes even though I have no idea if my makeup is smudged. Tears leaked from the sting to my head, and I step back for the mirror. My mascara remains in place. Next, my fingers gingerly probe my skull. There’s a knot where I was hit, but my hair is still intact. If only my heart felt the same.

  What is Jared doing here?

  If the champagne tonight doesn’t give me a killer headache, the knock to the head will, along with all the memories rushing my brain. I’m done, I decide. I can’t be here, knowing he’s in the same room as me. In the same city, the same state. I’ll text Marine to let her know I’m heading home and handle her wrath in the new year. I giggle with the pun as I exit the bathroom, only to stop the moment I’m outside the door. Pacing back and forth across the way is a man I’d recognize anywhere.

  “Jared?” I whisper, afraid to call attention to him or, rather, draw attention to myself. He stops walking as if he heard me and turns in my direction. With one giant step, he stands before me.

  “Lexi.” My name is an exhale of relief and curiosity as if asking what are you doing here while I wonder the same of him. Only neither of us speaks for a moment. We just take each other in, our eyes colliding and holding before his release me and travel down my body. “You look beautiful.”

  The words snap me out of my haze of admiration. He looks beautiful with the familiar rumpled wave and the studious glasses. The modern tux throws off my memory of him, though; the one where he’s wearing only gray sweats, exposing tattoos which ink his arms and a trail of hair on his waist leading lower.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, sounding just as breathless as when he said my name. At the same time, he asks, “How’ve you been?”

  Scratching at the back of his neck, he sheepishly looks left, and I wonder if the answer is obvious. He’s just used the bathroom, and he’s waiting on a date.

  “We don’t need to do this,” I mutter, giving him a nod and turn to walk away when he reaches for my arm.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Would you believe I lost your number?”

  I stare back at him, blinking at the glare of light across his lenses. Like I said, we don’t need to do this, but instead, sarcasm reacts. “Why would you keep it?”

  “Lexi,” he breathes out another release of lung-filled air, mixing with my name in confusion. My question is serious. He’s a rock star. It would make sense for him never to call me again. Just because we had the best sex of my life doesn’t mean it was earth shattering for him. “Dammit.”

  The muttered curse draws me back to him.

  “It sounds so lame, but Petty…he fucked up my phone and deleted your number.”

  “And you didn’t have a way to retrieve it,” I add. Sarcasm isn’t a pretty tone on me. The truth is, I don’t even know if retrieving a lost number can be done, but I figure I’ll save him the rest of his story. Holding up a hand, I shake my head and offer a weak smile.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t?” His brows pinch as his eyes flicker to each of mine. Seeming to recover himself, he adds, “It’s a terrible excuse. All of it sounds weak, but I’m…I’m glad to see you. What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t I just ask you that question?” I tease, but humor is missing in my tone. He’s still holding my arm, his thumb rubbing at my skin, numbing the area under his touch in the best of ways.

  “I’m here on business. We want to listen to a potential warm-up band. See the vibe they give and watch how the crowd reacts.”

  I pause a moment, tilting my head. I’m the first to admit I don’t follow modern music, so I ask, “Isn’t that something you can watch on a video or something?”

  “I volunteered,” he answers, looking sheepish once again. He steps up to me, closing the distance between us. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  These are words every girl wants to hear, and I want to believe him, but I just don’t.

  “Another unlikely story,” I say, holding his gaze while I laugh, trying to force humor into the sound. He nods, pursing his lips.

  “Where’s your date?”
>
  “On page seventy-five, waiting for me to come home, which is where I’m headed.”

  Jared laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t go. Come have a drink with me.”

  It’s a weak pickup line with nothing reminiscent of raindrops falling on us or bargaining deals for midnight.

  “I can’t,” I say, realizing I might have romanticized the entire night I had with Jared Kane once upon a time. I turn to leave, but he follows my pivot and blocks my path.

  “Don’t go,” he whispers, a plea within the request, and my shoulders slump while my belly flips. I can’t do this again. “Just one glass of champagne.”

  I exhale.

  “I want to be home before midnight,” I warn. I’m not ringing in the new year with him so I can live another one wondering where he went. I will not fall for his charm, that slow smile, or the fact I know what his treasure trail feels like under my fingertips. I will not let Jared Kane bruise my heart again.

  He chuckles at my abrupt reminder of the theme for this night and the memory of that night.

  “Deal,” he says, reaching for my hand and the instant we touch, I know the deal I’ve made with myself will never stick.

  Jared

  Holy shitballs. It’s Lexi.

  She’s really here, holding my hand, letting me guide her back to the ballroom. My mind races, but I stop my steps, and she collides into me.

  “Sorry about that,” she mutters, but I spin to face her.

  “Mind telling me your last name this time,” I tease, so when I search a million-plus libraries, I’ll have a bit more information.

  “O’Malley,” she states.

  “Is Lexi your real name?” I tease again but hesitate. Maybe she gave me a false name the first time, but then I recall her roommate offered her name—Lexi, the librarian—and I misunderstood and called her sexy. The name fits, though, because damn, she looks good in this dress.

  “Alexandra O’Malley,” she states. “I know, the names don’t fit together. My mother was Egyptian, and my father Irish.”

  “So Lexi…?”

  “Nickname. My dad thought Alexandra was too pretentious for a bar owner’s daughter.”

  I nod, and then tuck her hand into my elbow. It’s an excuse to draw her closer to me as we reenter the ballroom. Tommy waits near the door.

  “Where the fuck did you go?” he admonishes in his rough Southern drawl. Without acknowledging his question, I reply, “This is Lexi.”

  Tommy’s eyes widen, and then he laughs. “Well, I’ll be…nice to meet you, darlin’.” He steps forward and brushes a kiss to her cheek. I’d punch the old man if I didn’t know this is his style. He’s always a flirt even with a beautiful wife like Edie. Thankfully, I know he’d never act on anything. He loves his woman too much, and he tells us all the time.

  My bandmates and I are close, so they know all about my time in Chicago. I never meant to share it with them, wanting to keep something for myself, but they made me spill when I was uncharacteristically drunk one evening. I hated myself the next day more for my admission than the hangover. I just wanted something for me and me alone that didn’t become property of the entire band, like most of my memories.

  Tommy draws back, and Lexi looks up at me, stunned a bit at the forwardness of my manager.

  “And we are just grabbing a drink,” I announce, giving him a look. I don’t need babysitting, old man.

  Tommy’s eyes narrow. “You’re the one who wanted to come,” he admits. It’s true. I volunteered as tribute although I didn’t need to be here. Lexi was correct. I could have listened to a tape and watched a video. But something drew me here, something made me hopeful that I wouldn’t spend another year wondering about her.

  “Just one glass,” she interjects, and Tommy chuckles again, shaking his head.

  “Band goes on at ten,” he states. “I’m leaving before midnight.”

  With that, Lexi laughs, and I smile at the inside joke.

  “Behave,” Tommy warns although I’ve hardly needed the warning over the years. I’m the quiet one, the nice one, the one picking up pieces and trying to keep us in perspective. I’m the one who fits the least and wanted the band the most. It’s all backward just like a lot of things in my life.

  I guide Lexi to the bar and order us each a glass of champagne. I’m not typically a fan of the stuff, but I’ll take it tonight just as I’ll swallow down anything this girl allows me. Her wrath. Her attention. Her time.

  When the bartender hands me the two flutes, I pass one to Lexi.

  “To midnight,” I say, tapping her glass with mine.

  “To piña coladas,” she states before tipping back her glass and taking a hardy drink.

  “Thirsty?” I tease after a long sip from my own flute. Her eyes watch the roll of my throat, and I wonder what she sees. Does she remember her mouth on my neck or mine on hers? Does she feel all the places my lips traveled on her silky skin like I feel hers ghosting over mine? The memory of that night haunts me in the best of ways.

  “It’s warm in here,” she responds, leaning in to holler over the music.

  “Mind if we step out? I hate feeling like I need to shout at you.”

  Lexi shakes her head, and I reach for her hand again before realizing it feels like the people have multiplied. I move her so she’s before me, and collectively guide us with my hands on her hip through the crowd. Once we break free of the door, it’s like we both take a breath and laugh.

  “It’s crazy in there.”

  “People all excited about a new year,” Lexi states.

  “It’s a new beginning,” I say, but my voice falls flat, and her head tips once we stop near a staircase.

  “You don’t sound very excited.”

  “Am I supposed to be?” Is that what’s expected of me? I never do what’s expected. Just ask my father.

  You’re such a disappointment, he’d said. I shake my head, hating how the holidays bring forth unwelcome memories.

  “You okay?” she asks, the concern in her voice sounding genuine. How I wish someone did worry about me.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing. So tell me about you, like maybe where you work and what you’ve been up to? And how about giving me your number again?”

  “Why?” Lexi giggles, but her face lights up. “Really trying to get it all in at once.”

  For some reason, I find the comment sexual, like the suggestion of a thrust, and I want this girl again. I want to remember how I felt when I was in her, when we took our time because that was her request—making love at midnight—like the song said.

  “I don’t want to lose any time,” I answer. If I only have her until midnight, there’s so much I want to learn about her.

  “Okay. I work at Northwestern University in the special collection’s library. I haven’t done much more in the past year than work, and my number is…” She pauses. “You got a pen? You might want to write it down.”

  I pat my pockets, but I don’t have anything to write with. A couple walks near us, and I reach out, asking them for a pen.

  “I have a marker,” the woman says and hands it over to me. Imperial Sports Associates. “Keep it,” she says.

  I hand the marker to Lexi. “Write on my arm. I’ll add it to my tattoos,” I say, pulling up my sleeve. Lexi laughs, trying to find a clear spot of skin. “Here.” Feeling desperate, I untuck my shirt and bare a patch of my stomach to her. She can etch her number into my abs. Only she stills, her eyes lowering to my exposed belly, and I watch her throat roll. Dammit, I’m acting like an idiot, like a little kid or something.

  Slowly, I lower the raised shirt. “Sorry… I…”

  “No,” she says a little too breathy and quick. “It’s all good. I’ll write it there.” Her hand comes to my skin, and I flinch under her touch. Her fingers retract, and she giggles.

  “Sorry, your hands are freezing.” She said she was warm in the ballroom and her face was pink, but was it all ploy to get me out here? I don’t need to consider the th
ought for a second. Lexi isn’t like that. She isn’t impressed with my musical success. Hell, she didn’t even really know who my band was, and we didn’t talk music that night. We talked about books. One of my favorite books.

  She blows on her fingertips, and I close my eyes. Sweet Mothertrucker, don’t do that, I want to cry, and then I want to cry out I have a spot she can blow because my dick nearly weeps with desire. Her fingers return to my skin, and my eyes pop open as she tenderly presses, concentrating as she writes on my abs. I want to toss the marker and keep her hand against me, but instead, I hold still, even holding my breath, as the numbers curl and form.

  “You know that will just wash off, right?”

  I reach for my phone in my jacket pocket. “Which is why you’re going to put it in my phone as well with your full name, birthdate, and social security number so I can find you if anything happens.”

  She laughs. “You’re really taking this to the extreme. What other digits do you want?”

  My eyes narrow as they scan down her body. I’ll take all her measurements, her shoe size, and the infinite number of times I’d like to enter her again.

  Instead, I laugh in response, dismissing my own crazy thoughts. She hands me back my phone and the pen, and then we still. I stare at her, and she looks away. I’m messing this all up, and the intensity surrounds us. Tipping back the last of my champagne, I set the glass on the ground and draw Lexi to a stair.

  “Mind if we sit?” She’s dressed in a full ball gown, and I realize after I’ve made the request that she might not want to sit on the carpeted treads. Her eyes shift to my glass. One drink, I had said, but I’m not ready to let her go.

  “Do you ever read poetry?” I ask to stop her from making an excuse to leave and hoping this is a way to ease the tension around us. Books were a connection for us before. Please let it be the connector again.

  “Sometimes. I like Robert Frost.”

  “Robert Frost?” I mock. “He’s so rural,” I tease and thus begins our conversation on poets.