Getting Lucky Number Seven (11 page)

But now the moment was gone.

I wasn’t even sure it was there in the first place.

Chapter Sixteen

Beck

That was close.

The singing, the laughing, the dancing—
holy shit, the dancing.
I’d nearly dropped the microphone when she’d slid her body down mine. Then she’d popped up and given me an evil vixen smile that made me grateful the lights were so dim.

When I’d told Megan I was about to sing karaoke, she’d snarked, “You must really want to sleep with her.”

I’d assured her she was wrong, but now I needed someone to assure me. If the waitress hadn’t come when she did, I would’ve crossed over the friends’ line and into bad idea territory. While I tried to convince myself the interruption had come at the perfect time, part of me—a big part of me—thought I would’ve rather kissed her and had to apologize if necessary than wonder.

I downed half my beer in one gulp and reached for the food. Nothing like onion breath to make you second guess if kissing was a good idea. Of course, I did have Altoids for situations like these.

No way, Davenport. You’re
not
kissing Lyla.

“Man, these wings are hot,” she said, blowing out a breath. “My lips are seriously tingling.”

I picked up one of the orange pieces of chicken, staring across the room instead of looking at her. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in me like that—it was another reason why I’d let the friendship develop in the first place. She thought I had a steady string of girls, and I did.

Or I used to. I hadn’t so much as kissed a girl since Lyla showed up at my apartment, determined to change her college experience. But at the mall she’d made a point of saying how great it was that we were nonentities to each other, and at the party last weekend she’d reiterated that she didn’t care about impressing me.

I bet I could convince her differently if I did kiss her—I’d sure as hell do a better job than Jeff’s chin licking.

“So, kinda funny story…” Lyla grabbed one of the celery stalks and dipped it in ranch dressing. “When your sister first called, I totally thought it was one of your many women, only I could tell by the sound of your voice that you cared about her. Then, when you said the thing about her being in high school, I started worrying you were dating some jailbait chick.”

“Uh, ew.” I reached for my drink. “I can find plenty of college girls, thanks.”

“Oh, I know. But there was that beat where I was starting to think I didn’t know you at all.”

I lowered my glass and looked her in the eye. “Lyla, you’re one of the few people who really knows me.”

She blinked at me for a moment, and when she bit her lip, I could tell she wanted to ask more.

“Go ahead. What do you want to know?” Unbelievable. One lip bite with eyelash batting thrown in, and I was giving her permission to pry into the part of my life I kept secret.

“Do you have any other siblings?”

“No, thank goodness, because Megan’s more than I can handle most of the time.”

Lyla propped her elbow on the table and cradled her chin in her hand. “I always wondered what it’d be like to have a brother or sister.”

I slid an onion ring through the puddle of ketchup on my plate. “Not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Oh, come on. I only heard one side of the conversation, but I could tell you adore her.”

Cursing myself for opening up this line of conversation, I finished off my beer. I’d order another, but I had to drive later. Which also meant we’d need to sit here for a bit, listening to more mostly awful singing while Lyla asked who knew how many more questions. “Like I said, Megan’s a drama queen, but my parents were gone a lot, so it’s always been us against the world. I feel responsible for her, and lately she’s been getting into trouble. Some kind of teenage rebellion stage, I guess. It always makes me nervous to answer the phone when it’s her, not knowing if it’ll be ‘Hi,’ or ‘Come pick me up from jail.’”

It was the most I’d ever said to anyone in Boston about my family, and it was a relief to talk about, although there was a part of me screaming to shut up.

“Jail? Seriously?”

“Shoplifting,” I said. “More of a prank than anything—not that my Aunt Tessa and I aren’t taking it seriously.”

“What about your parents?”

And it always comes to that, doesn’t it?
I glanced at the woman onstage doing her best Katy Perry impersonation, not wanting to see the pity cross Lyla’s face. “They…” I cleared my throat. “They’re dead.”

Lyla placed her hand on my knee. “Beck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” The note of apology for asking a simple question got to me. Making her feel bad about it was worse than seeing pity, so I dared a glance at her. “Now I get why you don’t talk about them.”

“It’s not just that… Back in Canterbury, we were the family everyone talked about. Whether it was with respect or bitterness or jealousy. Everywhere I went, people would say, ‘Oh, that’s Richmond Davenport’s son.’ When my parents died, people talked about it, asked about it—it was inescapable. I got so sick of people fishing for details, or asking how I felt, or wanting to know what our family was going to do about the company…” I ran a hand through my hair, digging my fingernails into the scalp so I could focus on that instead of the fact that all the air was slowly being wrung out of my lungs. “It was nice to come here where people didn’t know anything about it.”

I put my hand over hers, needing to hold it there and push its comfort deeper. “That makes me sound horrible. That I never want to ever talk about my parents.”

The multicolored lights reflected off her eyes and danced across her skin as she stared up at me. “Not at all. It makes you sound human.”

Without giving it a second thought, I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

If she knew every nitty-gritty detail, she might think differently. Mom and Dad were flawed, but they were good people, and of course I’d loved them, even if I hadn’t told them nearly enough. Everything I needed to do to honor their memory and take over the company like Dad wanted weighed on me. I didn’t want to let him down, even though he wasn’t around to see me anymore.

Occasionally I wanted to wallow in how unfair it was that I had to deal with responsibilities I didn’t want, especially while still dealing with everything I’d lost. I knew there were people out there struggling to pay their bills. People living with cancer. And I was the rich boy who wanted to cry about having to be part of a company that’d ensure my life was always filled with every item I needed and then some. I hated that about myself.

“Do you want to go?” Lyla asked.

The night started out so amazing, the mood light and fun—well, except for my stray thoughts about Lyla’s lips and body, but I’d managed to rein those in. I didn’t want to leave it like this, and I needed more time to make sure the alcohol was out of my system. I thought of her onstage, singing and dancing. “No. I want you to sing another song.”

Apprehension filled her hazel eyes, and I almost took it back, but then resolve replaced it. She gave me a smile I felt all the way to my bones. “Your wish is my command.”

If that were really the case, I wanted to take back the singing request and make a totally inappropriate one about her in my bed, naked and underneath me.

Chapter Seventeen

Lyla

I walked through Whitney’s open bedroom door, stepped over the piles of clothes she had scattered across the floor, and tugged up the neckline of the lacy white tank top she’d lent me. “What do you think? I’m not sure it’s a good option.”

Whitney glanced at me, only one of her eyes rimmed in black—tonight she looked more alt than sorority. “You know, you’ve been showing off your boobs a lot more lately, but I’m still blown away at how well you hid them for so long. I’d kill for your cleavage.”

I flinched at the reference to how much cleavage I had on display—I kept thinking I’d get used to dressing differently and stop feeling a pinch of shame every time I wore something that showed a little skin, but so far, it still loomed there in the background.

“And the white with the leather cuff and black necklace gives you a mix of virginal with the naughty,” Whitney continued, apparently not noticing my shakier-than-I-wanted-it-to-be confidence. “Trust me, guys will go crazy for it.”

For months all I’d wanted was to be looked at instead of looked through, but now I wasn’t sure I cared what the guys went crazy for. My jeans were so damn tight that I wished for my skirts, and I even missed my scarves. Maybe I’d used them to hide, but I missed the bright colors. And their warmth.

“I’d kill for your butt,” I said, hoping it was okay to comment on something like that. “I wish I had more junk in my trunk. Instead it all landed in my hips.”

Whitney laughed. “And I wish I had half as much. I guess we all want what we don’t have.”

“True,” I said, exhaling a quick sigh of relief that we could talk about these things. I’d never had anyone to confide in about my body issues, and it was nice to know that even Whitney—who was so confident and beautiful I was intimidated standing next to her—struggled sometimes, too. “Right now, I’m also wishing I knew how to dance better. I still don’t feel ready for Sexy Dancing on a Bar.”

“All it takes is a little gyrating and hair flipping. As long as you don’t fall off the bar, the men in there won’t be paying much attention to the moves.”

For about the hundredth time this week, I wondered if coming clean about my college bucket list to Whiney had been a bad idea. I’d come home from karaoke, high off the energy of singing and how much Beck and I had laughed. There was the serious moment in the middle about his parents, and I was glad he’d finally opened up a little—hopefully he didn’t regret it. But then we’d gotten back to butchering songs and laughing, and the entire ride home, we sang to the radio, all our cares forgotten.

And even though I totally got that the cheek kiss was just a thanks-buddy-ol’-pal, I’d replayed it as I’d climbed the stairs to my apartment.

When Whitney accused me of looking like I was in a “lust daze,” I’d panicked and insisted it was just the list, which led to me showing it to her, complete with number seven. Now she was on a mission to find me a bar to dance on, and a guy to get lucky with.

The edges of my phone dug into my palm as I swiped my thumb across the smooth glass again and again. I’d fought the urge to call Beck all day. There’d be no finding a guy for number seven if Beck went, and I was sure he had plenty of other, more exciting options on a Saturday night. But he was my safety net. I knew he’d be there to catch me if I fell. Even if it was falling off a bar in these wicked spiked heels Whitney had also lent me.

But I also wanted—no,
needed
—to be strong enough to do some of the list items myself. Or, you know, with the help of Whitney and lots of alcohol. After going from a drink once every few months to a couple every few days, I felt a bit like a lush.

That’s what college is for, right? Drinking, dancing like an idiot. Falling for your hot guy friend and then getting over it by hooking up with someone else.

My roommate finished off her makeup with another coat of mascara, stuck in large hoop earrings, and tucked her ID and money into her bra. “Let’s do this.”

My “Yeah!” came out a little weak, but the important thing is, I followed after her anyway.

Bring on number five!

…

When I noticed Colin, Matt, and the guy whose name I forgot—although the image of him groping Kristen stayed burned in my mind—I stopped so abruptly that Whitney and Kristen barreled into me. Thanks to the extra-tall shoes, we almost went down like bowling pins, but I managed to snag a nearby stool.

“Uh, Whitney, what are those guys doing here?” I asked.

“Well…” Whitney’s apologetic expression didn’t change the fact that the guy who’d called me fugly and boring was on his way over, and now I’d never have the courage to dance on the stupid bar and cross off number five. “Don’t be mad,” she whispered, stepping in front of me. “Matt asked what I was doing tonight, and I couldn’t lie to him. I’m trying to start a relationship with him.”

Right. Not that she’d tell
him
that. It was so stupid.

Said the girl who’s out at a bar with strangers to avoid the guy she likes.
But that was different. Beck didn’t feel that way about me, and we weren’t even close to dating. Colin ran his gaze up and down me, lingering on my neckline, and I fought the urge to flip him off. The surge of angry heat surprised me, but I was glad it’d showed up instead of sorrow or raging insecurity.

I should get Beck to show me how to check someone, the way he does in the hockey rink. It’d be so satisfying to slam Colin into the wall right now.

“Damn, girl,” he said. “Why’d you dress like a nun the night I came over?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed past him, over to the bar. There was a guy sitting on a stool, sipping what I’d guess was whiskey. Ordering a drink and having the bartender card me seemed too intimidating, but I had another idea for getting what I wanted.

My feminist values screamed at the thought, but when you think about it, using whatever tools I had at my fingertips to get what I wanted was really a way of being in control, right? I leaned on the bar, keeping my arms in tight, so that my cleavage was fully on display. “Order me a drink?”

The guy glanced up, and a creeper smile spread across his face. Ew. I’d already committed, though, and even more surprising, it worked. After a few minutes of small talk and my feminist side—along with all of my other sides—deciding not to do that ever again, I had a Long Island iced tea in hand. As I made my way over to the table where my roommate and her gang were, my phone rang.

Beck’s name flashed across the display.

“Hey,” I answered, sure the grin on my face was a giddy, twitterpated grin.

“Hey, I’ve got to talk to you about tomorrow night.”

My heart dropped. He was cancelling movie night again. The outings to cross off list items had been fun, but I missed our low-key nights. “I-I understand. You’ve been spending all your free time with me, and I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”

“I’m not cancelling,” he said. “I just thought we might do something new. The Bruins have a game, and I was thinking of getting tickets. You want to go with me? See how the pros play?”

My heart climbed back up to where it should be, and now it was fluttering on top of all the moving around. “Yeah, that sounds awesome. Can you teach me to yell things? I wanna yell things, but I don’t want to sound stupid. Like when you were playing, I wanted to be all, ‘Smash his face into the glass! Trip him!’ But then I thought those probably weren’t nice things to scream, and I should be giving more game strategy advice from the stands like the rest of the people.”

“I’ll teach you the right things to yell,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “But I like the one about smashing faces into glass.”

“Good to know. How’d your game go this afternoon, by the way? Smash any faces?” It’d started at four, and I’d meant to look up the score, but was sure if I did, I’d end up calling him to either congratulate or console him.

“Did lots of smashing, scored a few points, only had to sit in the penalty box once, and we won by two, so I’m riding a nice high.” That meant smiling happy Beck. Or maybe it’d be closed off Beck like last Saturday’s game—not my favorite, and after our karaoke night, it’d sting a bit if I encountered that version again.

“Congrats. I had no doubt you guys would come out on top.”

“So, what are you up to tonight?” he asked.

The music picked up tempo, more people packed the bar, and according to Whitney, the dancing got into full swing about an hour from now. Plenty of time to get a nice buzz if I could find a way to do so without flashing my assets. “You know number five on my list?”

“Tattoo?” Beck asked.

I pressed my phone tighter to my ear, plugging the other so I could hear better. “That’s six. I didn’t think the karaoke dancing counted for dancing on a bar. So Whitney and I are at this dive off Beacon.”

“Oh sure, leave me behind for the bar-dancing quest. I feel slighted.”

I laughed. “I’ve made a fool of myself plenty in front of you. I thought we both could use a break.”

“You know I’m always here for you, Lyla. Whatever you need. And now I’m worried. Whitney doesn’t strike me as a reliable wingman.” His voice was so rumbly and deep that it took me a moment to catch up with what he’d actually said. I think the way he’d said my name must’ve short-circuited a few brain cells, too. It’d sounded different tonight. More…intimate.

Focus, Lyla. No imagining things that aren’t there.

I glanced at my roommate. She was on Matt’s lap, and they were kissing—nothing too graphic. They were sorta cute actually, and she looked so happy I couldn’t help but be happy for her. Maybe that didn’t make her the best wingwoman, but I knew she wouldn’t leave me stranded, and better yet, she’d dance with me as promised.

I took a big gulp of my drink now that I was thinking about my plan again.
Wowza, the alcohol’s strong with this one.

I swallowed past the burning sensation and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I’m not getting sloppy drunk tonight. I just need enough liquid courage to dance on the bar and get out of here.”

Beck was quiet so long I thought the call had disconnected. Then he said, “Watch your drink at all times. And if you need me, just call, okay?”

“Okay.” I thought about adding,
Or you could just come down here now.
But that wasn’t being strong and independent, and it would make it harder to meet guys who weren’t Beck. Temporary flirty fun, nothing more—those were the terms for the rest of this semester so I could accomplish everything I needed to.

I was smart enough to keep myself out of trouble, and I’d learned the skills I needed to snag the attention of a guy or two.

Keeping myself from being embarrassed?

Well, we’d see about that.