Stone Cold, page 16
“Call me crazy, but I still believe in finding that one person and spending my life with them. I love the idea of sharing my life with another person, knowing their nuances and idiosyncrasies, having little inside jokes, traveling the world together, making our own traditions and building a life all our own. People say life is short, but I disagree. I think life is long.”
“Couldn’t agree more on that last part, but I’d rather spend my long life alone than with the wrong person.”
“Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll both find the right person someday.”
“Sounds like exactly the kind of thing a romance novelist would say.” He shoots me a wink and nudges his shoulder against mine.
“I’ll hold my breath if you hold yours.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Forty
Stone
* * *
Jude’s been living in my house for five days now.
Five.
Long.
Days.
Every night when I get home from work, I’m held prisoner to his pent-up ramblings about Stassi. By now, I’m quite certain there isn’t a damn thing I don’t know about the woman, from her elaborate eleven-step skincare routine, to her emotional PMS tendencies, to her mother’s affair with the Spanish tennis instructor. He also has the audacity to say that according to Stassi, they don’t even know if Sutton is her full-blooded brother or a product of an affair her mother had twenty-five years ago. Never mind that we still haven’t discussed the way he handled the whole best man line-up swap situation.
I let it go in an attempt to be the bigger person, but it still stings when I think about it for too long.
“She wants four kids, Stone,” he says, half-slurring since apparently he’s been hitting the bottle since noon. “Four. Do you know what that’ll do to our sex life? When we first met, she said she wanted maybe one. And now she wants four. She’s already picked out their names and everything. It’s like I’m not even part of the equation—I’m just some sperm donor.”
He slams the lid of the laptop he’s been using to work remotely all week, and then he digs inside the fridge, grabbing another beer. I’m not one-hundred-percent sure, but the clothes he’s wearing today look an awful lot like the ones he was wearing yesterday.
I place my hand over the beer bottle he’s yet to open, and I gently maneuver it away from him.
“Go take a shower. Shave your face. Put on some clean clothes. And then go for a walk to clear your head,” I say. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“By the way, I called your dad. He’s flying in first thing tomorrow.”
“Why the hell’d you do that?” Judging by the twisted expression on his face, I’d say he’s none too pleased.
“Because it’s someone else’s turn to try and talk some sense into you. I’ve been trying for five days and I’m not getting through. If anyone can, it’s him.”
Chapter Forty-One
Jovie
* * *
It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from Stone, so I shoot him a text Saturday afternoon.
ME: Hey that new indie movie came out on Prime … it’s the Bryce Dallas Howard film where she’s stuck in a dark room and she has to figure out who put her there before they’ll let her out. It looks really good and Monica won’t see anything that might remotely give her nightmares, so … you want to come watch?
STONE: When?
ME: Tonight?
STONE: Paul just flew in today. Called him in for backup with Jude.
ME: Oh, damn. Is it that bad?
STONE: Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting to have a roommate this week.
I can’t help but wonder if Jude’s wedding has been called off? But I can’t bring myself to ask. It doesn’t feel right.
ME: How long is Paul visiting?
STONE: No clue.
The weight of disappointment sinks into my bones, deflating my posture and my energy.
STONE: Maybe I can come over tomorrow afternoon? I figured I’d get Paul on the same page and then give them Sunday to themselves.
ME: That works!
The disappointment that resided in me a moment ago has now evaporated into something lighter, like a ripple of excitement in parts of me I didn’t know existed. I pull up my favorite radio station on my phone and get a bit of housework done. This energy needs to go somewhere, might as well put it to good use.
A sink of dishes and three loads of laundry later, I’ve barely put a dent in my day—or my energy levels.
But this time tomorrow, he’ll be here.
This time tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Forty-Two
Stone
* * *
I spot Paul’s tangerine hibiscus shirt and khaki cargo shorts from a mile away outside the security terminal at the airport.
He waves when he spots us, flashing his blinding white smile which has only become more vivid with his leathery Florida tan.
“How are my boys?” he asks, giving us side hugs a moment later. “Good to see you, good to see you. You guys hungry? I’m famished. All they gave us were these little bags of pretzels. My god, you can’t even feed a mouse that kind of shit.”
I chuckle. Paul hasn’t changed at all since the last time I’ve seen him. In fact, I don’t think he’s changed at all since the day we first met.
The three of us head to Paul’s favorite seafood restaurant—some hole in the wall in south Portland that serves all-you-can-eat clam chowder and some of the best crab cakes on the coast (according to Paul).
An hour later, our bellies are swollen and Paul orders another round of drinks before sinking back in his chair, rubbing the remains of his former six-pack stomach, and saying, “All right, fellas. Lay it on me. What’s going on here?”
I zone out while Jude gets his dad up to speed. I’ve heard the story a million times this week already.
Dragging his palm along his five o’clock shadow, Paul presses his lips flat, nodding, listening, digesting.
“You messed up big time, kid,” Paul says when Jude is finished. “But the question is, do you even want to fix it? Because I get the sense you’re accepting that you messed up rather than taking responsibility for it. Big difference. If you accept something, you wash your hands of it.” He claps his hands together. “But if you take responsibility for it, you own it, you apologize, and you learn from it and you make it right. Have you tried to make it right with Stassi?”
“She won’t take my calls,” he says. “And she changed the locks on the house.”
“She shut you out,” Paul says, squinting.
“Yep,” Jude picks at a straw wrapper, plucking it to bits.
“Can you blame her?” Paul asks, tossing his hands in the air.
“I think she’s overreacting a bit,” Jude says. “Locking me—”
Paul sticks his hand up to silence him. “Nope. Wrong. That’s where you’re going wrong here, son. You’re not the victim. She is. You’re crashing at your friend’s place but she’s sitting at home looking at all the reminders of the life you two were building together while you were going behind her back looking up an ex-girlfriend.”
Jude reminds me of a scolded child, the way he refuses to meet his father’s pointed gaze.
“Have you apologized?” Paul asks.
“Many times,” Jude says. “Over text and voicemails. Email too. She wants nothing to do with me.”
“You talk to her parents? Are they aware of what’s going on?” he asks. “I’d think they’d want to know since they’re the ones forking over the cash for this big fancy wedding.”
Jude buries his face in his hands. “If they are, they haven’t said anything. I’ve been working remote all week just to avoid going into the office in case her dad knows.”
Paul whacks him on the back of the head. “The hell’s the matter with you? I thought I raised you to be a man, not some damn spineless pansy.” He leans across the table, his finger pointed in his son’s face. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get in your car, you’re going to drive over to your house that you own, you’re going to bring a bouquet of pretty flowers, and you’re going to sit outside that door until she lets you in. I don’t care if you’re sleeping on concrete tonight, you’re not leaving until she sees that you’re still in this. That you still give a shit.” His gaze flicks across the table to me. “Stone, back me up here.”
“Agree. That’s exactly what you should do,” I chip in.
Jude is quiet for a beat. “But what if I don’t want to? What if I’m having doubts too?”
“What are you saying?” Paul’s eyes grow wild and animated.
“I don’t know if I want to go through with the wedding,” Jude says, almost mumbling.
“Christ.” Paul throws his napkin over his dinner plate and flags the server to check on our round.
I steal a glance at my phone. Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.
While Paul gives Jude another lecture, my mind wanders somewhere else completely, and I can’t help but wonder what Jovie’s doing tonight … and how much I’d rather be wherever she is than here.
Chapter Forty-Three
Jovie
* * *
I close the blinds and make my living room dark Sunday afternoon, my best attempt at emulating a movie theater environment.
Stone will be here any minute, and I haven’t stopped peeking out the window for the past half hour on the off-chance he shows up early. Not that he’d show up that early, but you never know.
I check my reflection in the bathroom, making sure my top knot is messy enough for a casual Sunday afternoon hang while also ensuring I didn’t overdo it on the makeup. A little something to shape my brows, a couple swipes of curling mascara, and a pinch of strawberry lip balm is all I’m wearing. There’s a fine line between looking decent and looking like I’m trying too hard.
It's funny—all the times I hung out with Jude and Stone together in the past, after a while I stopped worrying so much about how I looked. Living with roommates has a tendency to do that. Stone’s seen me at my best, but more than that, he’s seen me hungover on a Saturday morning, makeup streaked beneath my eyes and hair in a tangled mess, looking like I’m knocking at death’s door.
How times have changed …
I’m heading back to the living room when there’s a knock at my door. My heart lurches into my throat and an anticipatory flash of heat singes my cheeks. I wasn’t like this the night of the concert.
“Get yourself together,” I whisper out loud while straightening the hem of my white v neck top before tucking half of it into the waist band of my black leggings. Clearing my throat, I get the door and greet him with an overly zealous smile. “Hey!”
He lifts a six-pack of beer in one hand and an orange bag of peanut butter M&Ms in the other.
“You still like these, right?” He lifts the candy.
“They’re my favorite …”
Jude could never remember which M&Ms I liked, so he’d always show up with a random flavor. Sometimes it was peanut. Other times it was some limited edition version like brownie or pretzel. Rarely did he get it right, but I always gave him props for trying.
Stone nailed it on his first and only time.
“Thank you,” I take the candy to the kitchen and he follows me in. “I’ve got the movie queued up, just going to make some popcorn …”
He places his beer in my fridge, and while it’s a little move that might mean nothing to anyone else, I take it as a sign that he feels comfortable around me.
I place a bag of Orville Redenbacher in the microwave and fix myself a vodka and pineapple juice.
Three minutes later, my apartment smells like the inside of a movie theater and we’re seated side by side on my sofa, each of us sharing half of the middle cushion after I teasingly insisted that it was the best seat in the house.
I click the play button on my remote and settle back, a bowl of popcorn sprinkled with peanut butter M&Ms in my lap.
An eerie song plays over the opening credits, haunting and melodic, and Bryce Dallas Howard’s character, Tallulah Givens, wanders the winding sidewalks of a university campus at night. She’s in a rush to get wherever she’s going, and every few steps she peers over her shoulder as if she’s worried she’s being followed.
From the corner of my eye, I steal a glimpse at Stone—ensuring he’s just as entranced as I am. He pops a couple of kernels into his mouth, his gaze focused on the disconcerting scene playing out on the screen.
The music crescendos before stopping altogether … just in time for someone off screen to snatch Tallulah from behind.
I gasp.
The screen cuts to blackness.
Tallulah wakes in a dark room, her footsteps echoing and her voice bouncing off the walls as she cries for help.
We see nothing but the whites of her eyes.
I place my hand over my heart, which is ricocheting in my chest at a hundred miles per hour. For a moment, I almost forget I’m sitting in my living room with Stone, our thighs touching and the faintness of his masculine cologne mingling with the buttery tang lingering in the air. For the next ninety minutes, I hardly blink. I’m nothing but startled gasps and a bundle of nervous energy. In the final scene, when the lights flick on and Tallulah’s captor is revealed to be the wife of her college professor, I almost toss the remains of my popcorn across the room.
“I knew it,” I say. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I had a hunch …”
Stone chuckles. He always used to tease me about how involved I got when it came to watching movies. He’d always say he could tell a movie was good if I was behaving as though I were actually in the movie instead of merely watching it.
A projector fills the walls of Tallulah’s room with images of her and her much older professor in compromising positions; him plowing her from behind as she’s bent over book-covered desk; another of his head between her thighs as she melts into his leather office chair. A third video shows her riding him, her milky breasts bouncing without a care in the world as her face showed a sultry concoction of pain and pleasure.
In the final scene, the locked door swings open and the wife lets Tallulah go. As she sprints through her college campus, she sees the videos playing everywhere—projected against the campanile, along the side of the library. Her body is on full display and she stands in horror in the middle of it all, thick tears streaming down her ruddy cheeks.
She ruined the wife’s life.
The wife ruined hers.
“That’s so messed up,” Stone says when the end credits roll. With his arm splayed along the back of the couch, he tips his chin toward me. “It’s funny how you’re all about your romance books, but you watch stuff like this.”
“Movies are different,” I say. “I can appreciate the element of surprise in a good film.”
Rising from my spot, I carry our popcorn bowls to the kitchen.
“You want another beer?” I ask.
“Sure,” he calls back. “I feel like I need a cigarette after that last scene …”
I laugh. “That was certainly unexpected.”
I’m not sure if it’s the plethora of sex scenes blasting across the screen a moment ago or if it’s the abundance of vodka coursing through my veins, but I’m suddenly feeling very … awake … down there.
Then again, it doesn’t take much to get me going these days. The last person I slept with was Jason and that feels like a lifetime ago at this point. Pretty sure it’s a barren wasteland these days, tumbleweeds and all.
I hand Stone his beer and take the seat beside him, pulling my legs up and angling my body toward him. For a fraction of a moment, I find myself studying his chiseled jawline before visually tracing the curve of his shoulders as they round out to his generous biceps. Dragging in a slow breath, I briefly imagine him ripping my clothes off, taking me right here, right now, on the sofa. Having his way with me like one of the dukes or viscounts or earls I’ve written of a hundred times before.
Shaking my head, I snap myself out of my silly reverie.
“Did you ever finish that book?” I ask.
“I did.”
“And?” I lift my brows.
“Ten stars.”
I laugh through my nose. “Usually it’s a five star rating, but I’ll accept ten. Ten’s good.”
“Are all of your books usually that … explicit?” he asks carefully.
“Oh. God. Yes. Bodice rippers all the way. Go big or go home.”
“They look so innocent on the outside, the bright colors and pretty costumes. I was expecting something more … frilly?”
“Pro tip, those are usually the dirtiest ones.” I give him a wink and reach for my pineapple vodka.
“Is that what you like? What you’re into? Bodice rippers?”
“In books or in real life?”
“Either.”
My cheeks flush with warmth. I’ve never discussed this subject with anyone except my agent and editor, and then it was only from a technical and marketing standpoint.
“Love them in books,” I say, “never experienced it in real life. It turns out most twenty-year-old guys get all their moves from Porn Hub and not from the pages of Regency romance novels.”
“That’s a shame.” He drinks me in, and even though we’re in the darkness of my dimmed living room, I’m overcome by the undeniable heat of his spotlight.
“Isn’t it?” I agree. “There’s something inherently sexy about a man who wants a woman so badly he can’t contain himself. A man who has to have her at any cost, a man who wants to touch her so badly he physically aches. And then there’s that magical moment when he realizes she feels the same … that she wants to give herself to him in the most carnal way … there isn’t time to mess with a million buttons and corsets and layers of fabric, slips, and petticoats and bloomers … he has to have her.” A dreamy sigh leaves my lips. “When he rips through that layer of protection, that armor—which is what it is essentially—and gets to the inner essence of her, the most private parts of her are exposed. That’s when he can finally have her and she can give herself fully to him.” I fan myself. “God, my heart’s pounding just thinking about it.”
