Most Valuable Playboy Page 5

  What the hell?

  I slam on the mental brakes, skidding away from the five-car pileup of filth I was headed for. Not only am I taking a sex sabbatical this season, I also distinctly remember ridding my brain of all dirty fantasies about my good friend. But the dirty lobe is working overtime tonight, and I need to shut it down. Better to focus on knickknacks, and dickish landlords, and an early bedtime. “We have practice early, so I should call it a night, too.”

  She points her keys at the car. “Do you want a ride home?”

  I cabbed it over here, so I take her up on the offer. I open the door for her, click it shut, then walk around to the passenger seat, reminding myself that Violet and I simply need to segue back to the way we were.

  Inside the car, we’re silent at first, as she grabs roughly at the seat belt. The belt sticks, and she tugs it hard, yanking it across her, her elbow nearly smacking me.

  “Sorry,” she mutters.

  I hold up my hands. “All good.”

  She clicks in the buckle then goes to start the car, but she fumbles the key in the ignition.

  Shit. She’s nervous. And since she saved me, I need to make sure she’s cool with us. I set a hand on her wrist, stilling her moves. “Are you weirded out that we kissed?”

  She wrenches back. “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Okay, then.” I take a beat and try to study her face, to figure out where she’s at. “I guess we’re all good, then?”

  “Of course. We’re always good.” She lifts her keys again as I buckle my belt. “But, kisses are weird,” she blurts out.

  I snap my gaze to her. “They are?”

  “Just since I’ve known you for so long,” she says, as if she’s trying to explain a faux pas.

  “Right, right.” I rub my palms on my pants. “Not because you think I’m a weird kisser?”

  Her eyes widen into moons. “No. You’re not a weird kisser. Do you think you’re a weird kisser?”

  I furrow my brow. She’s talking in circles. She has me all twisted up. “I never thought so before, but I’m beginning to now. Did I kiss you weirdly?”

  “Did I kiss you weirdly?” she counters, tapping her chest.

  And round and round we go. I shake my head. “No. Not in the least.”

  “Good,” she says with a nervous laugh as she slides the key into the ignition, getting it right this time. She backs up, shifts into drive, and pulls forward. “I’m not into weird kisses,” she adds.

  Nor am I. But I am into fixing things with Violet and restoring the order of our friendship. “Tell the truth. You’re into sloppy wet kisses. Like a dog kiss.” I’m not honestly sure what she does want, so humor is the easiest way through this awkward patch. “Admit it.”

  This time, the sound of her laughter isn’t nervous as she rounds the corner of the parking stalls, heading toward the exit ramp. “Oh yes, that’s precisely what I want. Your slobbery kiss.”

  I lean over the console and lick her cheek. A long, wet, slurpy kiss engineered to cut the tension.

  She shoots a what gives look as she turns the wheel. “Okay, that was definitely bizarre, Cooper.”

  We both laugh, then I straighten my tie. “Fine, you think I’m a bizarre kisser. I can live with that,” I say, teasing, since that’s the safest route. I can connect the dots. Violet hasn’t said she liked the kiss. In fact, she’s danced around the topic, sidestepping it in a way that tells me clearly she wasn’t into it.

  There’s a part of me, I admit, that wishes she wanted to hump my leg right now, even though I’d have to turn down humping of any part of my anatomy for the sake of maintaining my season-long streak. But I’m man enough to accept when a woman doesn’t dig me. Hell, if I expect Maxine to get a clue that I’m not ripe for her plucking, I’d better get the hint from Violet that the kiss extravaganza didn’t float her boat. It’s a bummer, but that’s life.

  She slows at the ticket booth, grabbing my arm. “I never said you’re a bizarre kisser. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  But I don’t get a chance to ask what she did mean, because the bored woman at the gate grunts, “Ticket, please.” Violet hands her our validated ticket, and we roll out of the garage.

  Once we leave, my phone lights up like the fourth of July as cell reception returns. My screen bleats with missed calls from reporters, a text from my married friends Chris and McKenna, a slew of messages from Jillian, and even an all-caps text from my mom.

  Mom: WHY AM I THE LAST TO KNOW THESE THINGS? I ALWAYS LIKED HER. YOU TWO WERE SO CUTE AT HER PROM TOGETHER. I’M LOOKING AT THE PHOTO NOW.

  I fire back a reply.

  Cooper: I’ll call you tomorrow to explain.

  * * *

  Mom: I explained the birds and bees to you when you were younger. No need to explain. :)

  * * *

  Cooper: Seriously, Mom.

  As I scroll through the rest of the notifications, I spot a few texts from my agent. Normally, I love talking to Ford, but with the contract overhang, and the anxiety over whether we’re extending the deal with the Renegades, I’m not in the mood this second. Plus, Trent is calling me, and even his name looks pissed off as it flashes on the screen.

  “Hey, man,” I say, keeping it casual when I answer.

  “Why, yes, I would love to meet you for a beer right the fuck now and find out what’s going on.”

  “I can explain. It’s kind of a funny story.”

  “I’m chuckling up a storm,” he says. But there’s no laughter in his voice. Nor in my head.

  6

  Life in San Francisco is comprised of two tasks: finding a parking spot, and everything else.

  Tonight, the pursuit of a space by a curb occupies fifteen awkward minutes. Or maybe they’re not so awkward, since it gives Violet and me something to focus on besides a hot-as-sin, weird-as-hell, I-liked-it-she-didn’t kiss.

  “Try Jackson Street,” I tell her, pointing to the right-hand side of the street. She turns, but our hunt is fruitless since the block is stuffed full of vehicles. She tries Webster, but we’re SOL there, too.

  “Crap,” I mutter.

  “I hate parking in this city.”

  “It’s the worst thing in the world. Literally. Studies have revealed that searching for a parking spot in San Francisco can result in depression, anxiety, and a really bad day.”

  She laughs faintly as she turns onto Clay. “By that same token, finding a spot quickly has been known to cause euphoria.”

  “Better than an orgasm?” I ask, because evidently the word euphoria makes me think of only one thing.

  Even in the dark, a hint of red splashes across her cheek. “I suppose that depends on the giver.”

  “And on the parking spot?”

  She laughs. “Yes. But if you combine the two, it’s like multiples.”

  I clear my throat, reminding myself to cease the flirting. “Listen, I can just go by myself. You have your meeting tomorrow morning.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m sure Trent wants to give me a hard time, too. Better for me to get it out of the way now. That is, if he can focus his attention long enough.”

  Trent is notoriously distracted by his own desire to tell amusing tales, often ones that poke fun at himself. As we turn onto another block, an idea pops into my head. “Do you want to park at my place? I’m not far from here, and I have a two-car garage.” I’m not sure why I tell her that, when she’s parked in it before. The garage was a must-have when I bought my condo a couple years ago. No way was I living in this city without a garage for my Tesla. Even so, I still avoid driving if I can, on account of the utter pain-in-the-ass that is searching for a patch of open asphalt.

  “No,” Violet answers, swiftly. So swiftly she might have set a new record for the seconds required for the word no to fire from her mouth.

  The message is loud and clear. She doesn’t want to be near my place. “It was just an idea,” I say, looking away.

  “It’s just . . .” she begins, then sh
e points to a red BMW whipping out of a spot a hundred feet away. She floors the gas, as if she’s a goddamn snow leopard snagging her prey and guarding it from other predators. She grabs the spot, executing a parallel-parking slam dunk that honestly kind of turns me on. There’s just something about women who are completely independent, confident, and capable that gets my blood going.

  But I refuse to be any more turned on by her, no matter how well she can park or smooch.

  We head into the bar. A huge TV screen blasts a Warriors game, while another carries ESPN’s SportsCenter. Waiters in jerseys boasting their favorite teams circulate with drinks and appetizers. A curly haired guy with a pointy chin stops in his tracks, the beers on his tray nearly sloshing. “Hey, man,” he says with a big smile.

  I don’t know him. I give a quick wave. “Hey there.”

  “Kick ass on Sunday.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  As we walk past the booths, a few heads turn, but I stay focused, and we find Trent and Holly at a quiet four-top in the corner. A few years ago, they started a sports bar in Petaluma where we grew up, and it was so successful they opened several more in the Bay Area, including this one off Fillmore Street. Trent raises a glass of beer and takes a long swallow as I walk over. His eyes never leave me. Why do I feel as if I’m in trouble? Oh wait. I kissed his sister in a ballroom on cable TV.

  That’s why.

  When I reach him, I say, “Am I being sent to bed without supper?”

  He rolls his eyes as I pull out a barstool for Violet. I grab the one next to her. I try not to look at her, but I swear I can see the remnants of my kiss still on her lips. They look redder, fuller. Or maybe I’m spending more time studying them than I usually do. I really shouldn’t, but sometimes once you see something you can’t unsee it.

  Like when you finish off a sleeve of Pringles, stare at the tube, and realize the cartoon dude looks just like Mr. Monopoly. Or, when Jimmy Fallon points out that the raccoon from Guardians of the Galaxy bears a striking resemblance to Paddington Bear. And now I’m thinking Rocket is a bear in a raincoat, a rich board game character once sold snack food, and my best friend’s sister kissed me so passionately I don’t know how I’ll erase the image from my mind when I go to bed tonight.

  Or whether I’ll want to let that memory slip away at all.

  I should unfeel it. Only, it felt too damn good to forget.

  Trent drums his fingers on the table and stares at me, waiting. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  I adopt a serious expression. “Did you know that Mr. Monopoly used to sell chips as the Pringles dude?”

  Trent shakes his head. “What?”

  He’s not the only one flummoxed. Violet furrows her brow, and Holly blinks in surprise. Before I can explain, a blond waitress sporting a San Francisco Giants jersey arrives to take our orders. I opt for a beer, and Violet asks for white wine. When she leaves, Trent asks, “What was that all about?”

  “It’s called taking an order. It’s what employees who wait on tables do in restaurants,” I deadpan.

  Holly laughs. Trent rolls his eyes. “The Pringles comment, dickhead.”

  “The Pringles guy and Mr. Monopoly. Doppelgängers. Google them. Once you do, you can’t unsee it.”

  “Dude, are we playing the unsee game? Because I’m happy to tell you about the time my mom finally figured out I didn’t have a cold when I was fifteen, and she couldn’t unsee that in her mind’s eye.”

  Holly gives him a curious look as she grabs her phone and taps on the screen. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom couldn’t figure out why I went through so many boxes of tissues. She thought I had a cold that lasted several months.”

  Violet arches an eyebrow. “Seriously? How do you know Mom figured out the tissues were for your morning habit?”

  “Because I saw the look on her face when she replaced the box next time. It was sort of like this.” Trent crinkles his nose and curls up the corner of his lips. “She couldn’t unsee the reason why I needed a tissue box on the nightstand.”

  “I feel so bad for your mom,” I say, sympathetically. “And for myself, because now I can’t unsee it, either.”

  Violet shakes her head. “Like I said earlier, boys are yucky.”

  The waitress returns with our drinks. “For you,” the waitress says to Violet, handing her the wine.

  When she gives me the beer, she smiles brightly, pointing to her chest and the Giants shirt she’s wearing. “Don’t let the jersey worry you. My Armstrong one is in the wash.”

  “Thank you very much, Liz,” I say, reading her name tag.

  Liz giggles. “Cooper, you’re so very welcome.” The way her eyes sparkle, I’m pretty sure her you’re welcome translates into you can take me home tonight and do bad things to me.

  Which I have no interest in doing.

  Trent turns to the waitress. “Thanks for the drinks, Liz. We’re all good.”

  And that means I’ve told you a million times not to hit on Cooper when he comes to my bar.

  Liz leaves, and Violet takes a drink of her wine as I return to the subject of Trent’s handy days. “Thanks for ruining my image of Kleenex now, too. Also, why didn’t you just jack it in the shower?”

  He points his thumb at his sister. “Don’t you remember? Violet put a clown head in the shower to get back at me for a prank, and I hate clowns.”

  “Oh shit. That’s right,” I say, as the memory slides into place. “Was that after you put the zombie hand in the toilet bowl to freak her out?”

  Violet takes over. “Yes, and it was the only time he ever put the lid down, so I should have suspected something. Clearly, a clown head in the shower was the only acceptable retribution for an undead hand in the toilet.”

  Holly swats her husband’s elbow. “And this is why you can’t get it up in the shower.”

  Trent rolls his eyes at his wife. “Oh, please. I believe this morning proves I’ve moved on from the clown-head-in-the-shower issue.”

  Violet raises her hands in frustration, giving her brother a pointed look. “I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but shockingly, I don’t want to hear about your shower issues—”

  “I got over the shower issue,” Trent points out.

  “Nor do I want to hear stories about your teenage masturbatory habits. Bad enough I had to live in the same house as you when you were getting it on with your hand.”

  Trent’s tone shifts from strolling down Amused Lane to Seriously Annoyed Town again. “And I don’t like finding out you’re dating him on stage at a beauty pageant.”

  “Him?” I ask, affronted. “I’ve been reduced to a nameless him?”

  “Oh c’mon, hon. That auction was better than a beauty pageant,” Holly says to Trent, then she lifts her phone, flipping between the Pringles dude and Mr. Monopoly. “Dead ringers for each other.”

  “Exactly.”

  My buddy points at me, undistracted by the chips-to-houses revelation. “Fess up. How long have you two been together?”

  Violet scoffs. “Seriously? You bought into it?”

  Trent looks perplexed. “Of course. It seemed totally legit.”

  Violet laughs harder and meets Holly’s gaze. “You could tell, right?”

  Holly shakes her head. But Violet doesn’t let go of her stare. Something shifts in Holly’s expression, as if she’s picked up on a key data point. Girl code, maybe? “Yes, of course I could tell,” Holly says robotically, straightening her shoulders as she nods at Violet.

  “You mean that was all a charade?” Trent asks. “The whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing?”

  I lower my voice. “Look, what I’m about to say is not for public consumption, okay?”

  Trent nods his understanding. Everyone leans in.

  “The owner’s sister has been putting the moves on me. My contract’s up for negotiation, and I don’t need to make waves by being a dick to her and turning her down. So, Violet saved me. That’s all. Case
closed.”

  Trent scrubs his hand over his jaw. “You guys really aren’t dating? You sure?”

  Violet sighs heavily as she lifts her wineglass. “I think I’d know if we were dating.”

  “I have to say you had me fooled,” Holly chimes in, and Violet shoots her another laser-eyed look. Holly quickly amends her comment. “But of course, it makes sense that it was a joke. You love to tell jokes.”

  “Just a joke to help my friend,” Violet says, emphasizing friend, as if she’s trying to imprint the word on everyone’s mind.

  Why do I feel as if they’re speaking in tongues? Like these women are trying to remind each other of what they’re supposed to say?

  But I can’t quite slide one puzzle piece into the other, so I’m left with curved edges that don’t align with round holes. This is why men fuck up relationships. Because sometimes, women make no sense.

  Violet puts her hand on my shoulder. “Our man needed help. I helped him. That’s what we do. We’re a pack. Like when he took me to prom after Jamie ditched me. It seemed only fair.”

  Ding, ding, ding! The bell rings. The buzzer sounds.

  The situation is crystal clear. Tonight’s save-and-smooch was simply the return of a favor from years ago. I laugh quietly, a relieved sound, because I get it. At last, I understand what went down tonight. The kiss was part of the show, and the show was part of the rescue, and the rescue was her long-overdue thank you.

  Even though I wasn’t banking on one. I was simply happy to have helped her when she needed it.

  Her senior prom fell over Memorial Day weekend seven years ago, and I happened to be home from my freshman year of college, visiting my mom. Violet’s date bailed at the last minute, breaking up with her the day before to hook up with another girl.

  Total dick move.

  “Let me take you,” I’d said as soon as I heard.