Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Read online

  Zombies are not sexy, but my laugh grows faster, climbs higher, until it takes over my chest, gripping me in a quick convulsion.

  Dammit.

  Maybe the hot auburn-haired zombie didn’t notice.

  But she sits up completely, points at me, and grins in epic satisfaction. “You laughed, North. Admit it, or forever be known as Laser Tag Liar.”

  I clench my jaw, wanting to deny it. But I won’t do that. The gods of sports hate cheaters more than they hate commissioners and all-star games.

  I give in with a long, frustrated groan. “Fine. I’ll admit it. I laughed for maybe one nanosecond. But only because you’re such a drama queen, King.”

  “Come on, North. Admit it was funny.”

  “Fine. It was a little funny, you going all undead.”

  She pops up and shimmies her sexy hips. “Wait till you see my vampire. That’ll lead me to victory too.”

  “You haven’t won yet, cocky vampire.”

  She flips her hair off her shoulder in a sassy little move that I can’t look away from, because . . . that hair, that face, and most of all, that confidence. “Oh, but I will. Now, get your ass back out there, North, so I can take you down. Because I’m the only one who can.”

  There is some truth to that.

  The woman is a sick competitor, with a fearless heart and a ferocious appetite for victory. She makes the most of her second life in the arena, darting, dodging, and firing at me relentlessly.

  We go mano a mano for ten, close to fifteen minutes. And in this final shoot-out, her team against mine, there are no mulligans. It’s a fight to the finish, ducking down hallways, turning through tunnels. As I prowl around a dark corner, searching for my nemesis, she steps out from the shadows, aiming straight at my heart.

  Cold. Ruthless. Determined.

  She fires.

  I’m dead. Just dead. Game over.

  I curse, but fair is fair.

  “Good job, killer.” I drop my gun and offer her a hand, since that’s what you do when you win or when you lose.

  “I humbly accept your courteous adoration,” she says in her most gracious voice as we shake.

  I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t really say it was adoration.”

  “Now, now. We both know it was.”

  “I’ll let you have your delusion,” I say as we pick up our pistols and return them to the check-in counter. I gesture to the bar adjacent to the arena. “Want to join the crew, King?”

  “Let’s do it,” she says, and I sweep my hand out for her to go first.

  Because I’m a gentleman—and a wise gentleman always seizes the chance to enjoy the rear view.

  Teagan’s ass is just so damn yummy, and I’m an ass man.

  Wait. Nope. That’s not entirely fair to her breasts, which I very much enjoy checking out too. But asses are easier to ogle. So I do that for a few seconds as she exits the game area. I do it knowing the ogling will go nowhere. Knowing, too, that she’s got so much more going on than a delicious form. I enjoy her company too, so I don’t feel guilty about enjoying the sights when I can.

  Some of our friends are waiting for us outside the arena. With a victory dance, Teagan smacks palms with her laser-tag teammates—first with my good buddy Logan, then with Bryn, Teagan’s bestie and the reason we’re celebrating here today. Bryn recently opened her own consulting firm. She’s signed deals with a few marquee clients, so today’s laser-tag-plus-karaoke-plus-beer is on Logan as we toast to his woman’s career success.

  “You brought it home for our team, girl. So proud of you,” Bryn tells Teagan.

  “I’m all about teamwork. And beating Ransom,” she says.

  Bryn smiles, sporting the happy look that Logan seems to put on her face constantly. Logan and Bryn met a year ago and are kind of ridiculously in love.

  Which, come to think of it, is how I’d describe all my good buds these days. Logan, Oliver, and Fitz—all with hearts in their eyes, dopey grins on their mugs, life partners by their sides.

  Logan pats Teagan on the shoulder. “I, for one, am glad you took down this competitive bastard.” He deals me a satisfied smirk. “Ransom has tried to destroy me in Ping-Pong far too many times, so I’m stoked someone can pummel him in laser tag.”

  I snort-laugh. “You deserve to be pummeled in Ping-Pong, Logan.”

  “Why? Why do I deserve it?” Logan fires back.

  “Everyone who plays me deserves it,” I say as we head into the bar. “I don’t hold back in any game. Balls to the wall is the only way to play. If you can’t handle the heat I bring with a paddle, you need to get away from the Ping-Pong-table fire.”

  Teagan cuts in, laughing. “You do know that sounds racy on ten million levels, Ransom? From the balls to the heat to the paddle.”

  I wiggle my brow. “That’s what she said.”

  She parks her hands on her hips. “Way to steal my punch line.”

  “Guess I just beat you to it.” I set up the opening for her favorite zinger. Until very recently, the woman has dropped in that’s what she said with such gleeful abandon that it should be her nickname. Or it could, if it weren’t such a—ahem—mouthful.

  That, and she’s made a resolution to stop saying her catchphrase, claiming it was going to get her in trouble at work. It’s been a blast trying to trip her up, but she’s a tough one to crack.

  Like now, when she shoots me a saucy grin and resists with a shake of her head. “I’m not going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Are you sure?” I say, egging her on. “A ten-foot pole might be fun—with the right person.”

  “You two and your innuendos,” Bryn puts in. “Grab a table while we snag some beer, okay?”

  “Will do,” I say as the lovebirds go place our orders.

  Teagan and I snag a high top, while a familiar voice fills the bar with a mostly in-tune warble. On the low stage by the karaoke setup, my teammate Fitz belts out “The Time of My Life” in a duet with Summer, Logan’s twin sister.

  Huh.

  They’re not too shabby, but still deserve ribbing.

  “Way to go, Kenny and Dolly,” I shout.

  “Donny and Marie have nothing on you two,” Teagan seconds. Leaning toward me, she echoes my thoughts too, saying, “They’re not half bad.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hidden talent, maybe?”

  “I’m convinced everyone has one,” she says, and there’s some truth to that. I suppose we all have something we’re good at.

  We watch them for a little longer. Fitz pretends he’s singing the love song to Summer, but he keeps making eyes at his fiancé, Dean, who moved here from London last year. Dean’s a few tables away with his friend Leo, laughing. It’s some kind of private joke, I’m guessing, since Dean and Fitz have plenty of those.

  Good for them. They’re also ridiculously in love. All around me, every-damn-where, my band of brothers is toppling. Single soldiers have become fallen warriors, losing their minds to the siren call of love, leaving me the last man standing.

  Well, I’ve already been there, done that, have the battle scars to prove it. I have no desire to repeat the experience.

  But having fun? Bring it on. Light and easy? That fits with one of the top-tier items on my do-and-don’t list. Do be more chill.

  “Best karaoke duet ever?” I toss the question to Teagan, staying on the train I like to travel with her.

  She stares at the ceiling, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “‘Endless Love’ is pretty good.”

  “For the cheese factor, right?”

  “Of course. So much cheese, you could make a sandwich.”

  “‘Endless Love’ is pure cheddar. But ‘Islands in the Stream’ is a classic duet too. A little schmaltzy, but easy for mere mortals to sing.”

  She nods, eagerly agreeing. “Unlike, say, ‘Shallow.’ Why do people even attempt to duet that song?”

  I hold up stop-sign palms. “Don’t look at me. I would never attempt to follow Gaga and Cooper.”

 
“Those are some words to live by.” She snaps her fingers, eyes lighting up. “I’ve got it! ‘Summer Nights.’ That’s the best karaoke duet ever.”

  I sing, ask her to “tell me more, tell me more,” and she shimmies her shoulders, providing the harmony.

  “We’re a good duo,” she says. “Maybe that’s our hidden talent.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t think you can trick me into being your teammate. You and I—we are competitors. And I still have a laser-tag score to settle with you.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  When the tune ends, Summer and Fitz leave the stage, Summer going to join her husband, Oliver, who’s chatting with Dean, while Fitz makes a beeline for our table, pointing at me, eyes furious. “I heard the news. You choked in the arena,” Fitz says, shaking his head in disappointment. “You brought our team down.”

  I shoot him a what gives look. “Dude, you were eliminated in the first round today. You’ve been out here singing ‘Electric Avenue’ for the last thirty minutes.”

  He fires off an indignant look. “I did not sing ‘Electric Avenue.’ I would never sing ‘Electric Avenue.’”

  “Guys, stop mentioning ‘Electric Avenue,’” Teagan chimes in, covering her ears for a second. “You’re going to give me an earworm.”

  “Exactly,” I say to Fitz. “Now you’ll have T’s earworm on your conscience, along with how you did nothing for our team. I was the only reason we lasted that long.”

  Teagan hums, tapping her lip-glossed mouth, which is distracting, I admit. Hell, the way her finger presses to her lips is a double whammy. Now I’m thinking of lips and fingertips.

  “I don’t know,” Teagan says, giving me a naughty look. “That’s not what I heard about how long you last, Ransom.”

  I dole out a sharp stare. “I have excellent stamina.”

  An eyebrow arch is her answer, and then she throws a saucy question at me. “Do you though?”

  “Don’t make me prove it to you,” I say, as if I don’t want her to take me up on that.

  Wait. I don’t. I swear, I don’t.

  Brain, remember your mantras: Love sucks, and friends with breasts do not get to be friendly with your body.

  Fitz raises both hands like he’s about to take off. “Well, I think that’s my cue to make myself scarce.”

  Teagan pats the table. “Don’t be silly. Stay, Fitz. We always talk like pigs.”

  “I am very proper,” I say, all hoity-toity. But I say to my bud, a little hurt in my voice, “Also, I can’t believe you’re hounding me for not winning laser tag, which is more than I can say for either of our sorry asses on the ice a few weeks ago. That second round of the playoffs was brutal.” I shake my head sadly.

  “Low blow, Ransom,” Fitz says. “It’s devastating to come so close, but not close enough.” But the truth is, he’s not terribly sad that we missed out on the Stanley Cup Finals. All his postseason energy is on his guy. Fitz is marrying Dean next weekend, and he’s pretty much the happiest man I know.

  As for me? Not making the finals definitely still stings. But days like this and time with friends make the loss hurt a little less. I’m hoping the ache disappears completely before the charity gala this coming weekend. I have a bet with some of my frenemies who play for the Yankees that our hockey team will beat their fundraising total, and I intend to do my part to decimate the Bronx Bombers, because that’s what we do—that’s how we are. Because my teammates don’t back down from a dare—especially one with our charities benefiting from the competition.

  Logan and Bryn return with beers, so we toast to Bryn’s new business. After a long pull, Teagan tenses, then reaches into her back pocket. Grabbing her phone, she slides her thumb across the screen, peering at it closely. She looks up apologetically. “Email from a board member. I know it’s after hours, but . . .”

  Bryn shoos her away. “Answer it. I know it’s important.”

  Teagan rises. “I’ll do it in the hall, so I can focus.” She pats my shoulder, squeezing it, and says to the crew, “Don’t let Ransom sing ‘Summer Nights’ without me, or I will make him sing ‘The Boy Is Mine’ with me instead.”

  I should fire off a quip or a snarky reply, but when my eyes drift to her hand on my shoulder, I’m kind of transfixed by her touch. What would it feel like if she wrapped that hand a little tighter? Maybe roped that other one up into my hair?

  Mmm. Yeah, that’d feel fantastic.

  Or hey, how about I do that to her?

  Whoa.

  Hold on.

  Where the hell is my brain galloping to?

  That’s hell no territory.

  I blink away my wild thoughts. “Your threats don’t scare me, King,” I say, serving up the trash talk. “I’m secure enough in my manhood to sing ‘The Boy Is Mine.’”

  “Fine. Then you and I will need to lay down some karaoke bets when I return from the ladies’ room.” She sashays away, and I watch her as she goes. The whole ensemble—snug jeans, pink Chuck Taylors, a light-blue tank top—is doing things to my head. Add in the spring in her step and the flip of her hair, and they’re activating all kinds of neural pathways.

  Ones that had definitely been buzzing before but seem to be crackling faster and stronger today.

  Maybe because of how she looks in that shirt? Or maybe it’s her lips? But then, her hair is invitingly lush too.

  Hell, she’s just insanely attractive. As in, one of the hottest women I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And that’s saying something, because my life has never lacked for attractive women. I’ve enjoyed an embarrassment of riches in that department.

  Lucky me.

  Trouble is . . . Teagan is a friend and only a friend. We run in all the same circles. Teagan and I are too tangled up in each other’s lives.

  In short—our friends are our team, and you don’t bang a teammate.

  I shuck off thoughts of Teagan in bed, something I do so frequently these days I could earn an Olympic medal in it.

  But I could use some practice being subtle, judging from the wide-eyed, knowing way that Fitz, Logan, and Bryn are staring at me when I return my gaze to them.

  I take a guilty gulp of my beer, like I’ve been caught with my hand in the liquor cabinet. “What?” It comes out more defensive than it should.

  Bryn gestures in Teagan’s direction, a duh look in her green eyes. “We need to talk about that.”

  “About what?” I ask, playing dumb.

  Fitz taps the table. “About the way you stare at Teagan.”

  Busted.

  “I was thinking of strategies to defeat her next time in laser tag,” I lie.

  Bryn snorts. Logan cackles. Fitz rolls his eyes, then says, “Listen, man. It’s time for an intervention.”

  “An intervention for what?”

  “To help a brother out,” Fitz says. “Sometimes a man needs a kick in the pants. Consider this your kick. You and Teagan should go out.”

  “I have to agree with him. You’re two peas in a pod,” Logan seconds.

  Bryn nods excitedly. “Yes. You guys practically finish each other’s sentences.”

  “And,” Fitz says emphatically, leveling a serious gaze at me, “she’d be good for you.”

  I tense at those words—good for you. I know what Fitz is getting at, but he’s treading on dangerous territory. If he so much as mentions my ex, I will shut down. I don’t need to hear her name. Not ever again. Fitz only knows about her because I finally served up the whole sorry story to him a few months ago when I needed to get it off my chest, unraveling the pathetic tale of the way she pulverized me when I asked her to marry me.

  Then I said, Let us never speak of her again.

  So I slam that door and take a simpler way out. “Look, Teagan’s great, but I don’t mix pleasure with friendships. And we’re all friends, so . . .”

  Undeterred, Bryn wiggles her brows. “And you’re also both fun. You should have fun . . . with each other.” She steeples her fingers, takes a bea
t, and draws a preparatory breath. “So, here’s my idea.”

  Bryn lays out a plan, a simple one, where as soon as she says it, the potential is obvious—potential benefits and potential amusement. Some of my favorite hobbies include besting my buddies and giving away money. Her plan involves both.

  And damn, it’s brilliant.

  So brilliant it kind of pisses me off that I didn’t think of it first.

  But I didn’t, so I give Bryn deserved props.

  “That’s kind of genius,” I say.

  “You just need to get Teagan on board,” she adds.

  Fortunately, convincing people is one of my unhidden talents, so I’ve already got some ideas. “I can do that.”

  Fitz’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “And I guess you’ve realized that, this way, you could potentially beat the fundraising pants off the Yankees, the Knicks, and the Giants, and nab that grand prize award at the gala. Because we all know how competitive you are.”

  I nod in acknowledgment. “The most competitive.”

  Bright red hair snags my gaze as Teagan returns to the bar.

  It’s game time, and I need to go set up a play.

  2

  Teagan

  Here’s the thing New York City has done to my generation.

  It’s made us connoisseurs of quirky Sunday Funday events and propagated them to every day and night of the week.

  Fancy midnight mini-golf? You’ll find it in Manhattan.

  Jonesing to make your own cheese? Why not make some wine with it too? You can definitely do both in Brooklyn.

  You can even have a party where you make mittens, cover them in glitter, then compete to eat as many cupcakes as you can while wearing your new mittens. Head to Queens for that messy fiesta.

  The city is a mélange of millennial activities. Some are eye-roll inducing, but they’re not all pointless. We have all experienced our fair share of shit in our lifetime—some more than others—so sooner or later, we desperately need some fun to drown out the drumbeat of bad news.

  An oddball outlet for stress has become necessary for mental health.

  Including mine.

  That means, tonight, we don’t stop at laser tag.