Crazy About Love: An All About Love Novel (3 page)

“Four thousand!”

18 MONTHS, 23 DAYS AGO: 2:23
A.M.

I probably shouldn’t drive, but I find myself walking out into a heavy rainstorm anyway just to get away.

“I
think
I
love you
?” I shake my head at the asphalt in the parking lot at Theresa’s apartment building. “What the hell are you thinking?”

I’m
not
thinking, that’s the thing.

Thunder rolls and lightning flashes across the night sky. My keys are slippery in my hand, and no, I won’t drive, but I’m not staying in there. Not where she just stared at me with those wide and confused eyes. Not where I knew after one solid glance that she wasn’t going to say it back.

I hit the unlock button on the key fob, and right after my headlights light up the twenty feet of pouring rain I have to push through to get to my car, a voice echoes across the parking lot.

“Alec! You stop right now!”

I glance over my shoulder. Theresa stands huddled in a rain jacket under the main entryway to her building. She waves me back, and I wipe away some raindrops trickling from my eyebrows.

“Don’t worry!” I call back at her. “I’m not driving!”

Her shoulders lift, then fall dramatically. She kicks off her flip-flops and bolts into the rain after me.

“You can’t leave!” she shouts over the storm when she gets to me. “We can’t…we can’t just leave it like this.”

Her wide eyes plead with me to stay and talk it out, though I really just want to sleep the rest of the night away. But I’m not good at saying no to her, and although she’s shivering and the rain is pounding down onto her back, she plants her bare feet in a stance that I know means she’s not budging.

I shake my head and pull the zipper on my jacket. May as well cover our heads if we’re going to have a conversation in the middle of a downpour.

“Look,” I say, sheltering at least our upper halves. “I told you already. Tequila makes my tongue loose.”

“No.” She looks at me dead on, blinking away a drop of rain. “Don’t try to shrug this off again. You said you loved me four times tonight and took it back, but you didn’t take back the last one till just now.
After
you ran out on me!”

“Well…I…”

“Alec,” she says, and that pleading look is back in her eyes. “Tell me the truth. Did you…did you mean what you said?”

The storm decides on another round of thunder, probably to fill the silence that is now permeating the small cocoon we’ve created for ourselves.

I’m not drunk. I may have been
drinking,
but I feel sober as hell. I can’t seem to get a grip on what I want to say, how I want to say it, because once it’s out there for real, I can’t take it back. And I’m looking at one of my best friends and I love her, and I don’t want to lose her, and I don’t want things to change unless they’re for the better, and I
know
she doesn’t want things changing either. I know she doesn’t want anything serious right now. I know that she’s been heartbroken and hurt recently and that she’s confused about what’s going on between her and her sort-of boyfriend and that this is too soon for her.

I can see it all crumbling around us: my declaration, her not returning the feelings, and then our friends will feel like they’ll have to pick sides, and worst of all, I can’t pick Theresa’s side and she can’t pick mine. We’ll be on opposite teams for the rest of our lives.

I can see it all, know it will happen, and still…I don’t care. She asked me for the truth, and I’m going to give it to her.

“I love you.”

There. It’s out there. I’ve said it and I want to say it again.

“I
love
you.” I take a step closer, drop my arm around her shoulder, and pull her into me. “And I really would love to kiss you right now.”

A small breath escapes her wet lips, warming my chin and neck. I imagine us in a different world entirely, where those words wouldn’t seem so scary to say. Where they’d be natural and playful and she’d tilt her head up to grant me my request.

Another breath hits my chin, this one long and deep, and I adjust the jacket over us so that nothing permeates her thought process right now. Because she’s not saying no. She’s not saying anything, which means she’s truly thinking about it, and that is more than I could’ve asked for.

“I…,” she says, her voice cracking on the small syllable. “I…can’t.” Her eyes quickly flick up to meet mine. “And it’s not you. It’s not you at all. I just…I won’t be able to give you back what you give me, and that’s not fair.”

Even though I knew the answer I was going to get, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear. I thought that living with the secret was rough, but the way my entire soul feels like it’s just been jammed in a trash compactor makes me realize that having the truth out there will make life unbearable. My heart stops pumping, almost as if it no longer has the energy to keep going. I’m used to disappointment. I’ve been rejected in 90 percent of what I’ve set out for. Look at my resume. It’s full of almost-lead roles, almost-scholarships, and almost-loves. I’m the guy who arrives at the train station a second after the train departs. I’m used to the feeling.

At least I thought I was.

A wall of tears forms in Theresa’s eyes, and now I’m the one quickly coming to help explain this away.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I get it.” She doesn’t look convinced, letting out a small indignant noise through her nose and shaking her head. Our eyes still stay connected, though.

“I
promise
you,” I say, “I get it.”

She blinks, and a tear falls from her right eye and mixes with the rain on her cheek. “I don’t want this to change anything.”

“It won’t.” It’s the first lie I’ve ever told her that has flowed so naturally off my tongue.

“It
will,
” she argues, a small smile poking through. “We’re going to be all awkward around each other now.”

“Absolutely we will,” I joke, trying to ignore the pounding of my tired heart.

She lets out a tiny laugh and nudges her shoulder into mine. “I’m terrified of losing you as a friend.”

“Theresa,” I say with all the sincerity I can muster through the heavy disappointment still dragging me downward, “I promise you that won’t happen.” I manage a grin and take a step back to get some breathing space. “You’re gorgeous, but I’ll get over ya.”

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Joking around.”

“Thought you didn’t want things to change.”

“You’re making me laugh when I should be feeling like shit over this.” She swipes at the water collecting on her exposed wrist. “I may not be
in
love with you, but I do love you, and it sucks to say things that hurt you. Making me laugh is so not what I deserve.”

“Trust me, it’s more for my benefit than yours.” Another lie, and it leaves a sour taste on the back of my tongue. I don’t want to ever get used to lying to her.

She reaches out and pinches my stomach, then keeps hold of the material of my shirt and pulls me two steps forward. Her cheek pushes up against my chest and her arms slide around my waist, holding me tight.

These touches are going to cripple me. I stand there, unresponsive, contemplating whether I’m angry at her for throwing easily misinterpreted signals or happy that we can hold each other as friends—that she loves me enough to not play with my head, and is honest about not being ready to give her heart away. I look down at her shaking against my chest. I feel what she’s saying without the words being spoken. She’s honestly sorry that she can’t give me what I want. It only makes me fall deeper and deeper—but that isn’t her fault or her problem.

My tired heart gives out completely, and though I really feel like pushing her off, my arms drop around her shoulders, taking the jacket with them.

P
RESENT DAY

The bid came from the back, and with the lights and so many hands up in the crowd, I can’t get a good look at who just dropped a boatload on my dancing skills.

“Sold!”

The auctioneer in the green tank top signals the DJ to switch songs, and I glance at Theresa, her jaw open in deep shock. I’m unsure what to think of that expression. Does she not think I’m worth four grand, or is she just as shocked as everyone else in the room?

I pull my zipper up only to be booed at, so I smirk and shrug at the crowd before hopping off the stage. Bachelor number twenty quickly takes my place.

My instructions were to head to the back rooms to change, but I’m trying to get through a very handsy crowd to Theresa because I have no clue where the back rooms are. Girls keep touching me, and I love every second of it. I guess those living room sit-ups are doing something. I better keep that shit up.

“Excuse me,” I say as I weave through the crowd. A girl with crazy long pink hair not-so-subtly crushes her breasts into my chest and blinks up at me like,
Whoops!
Then her left eye suddenly loses its lashes.

“Whoops,” I say through a laugh, plucking the fake things from where they landed on my shoulder. “Might want to go fix that.”

Instead of being cool and confident like she was
seconds
ago, she covers her eye and bolts away from me, calling me a jackass on the way. She forgets her eyelashes, and I sure as hell don’t want them, so I find the nearest trash can.

“Hey, bachelor nineteen,” a voice hisses at me, and I find the auctioneer covering her mike and tilting her head. “You’re supposed to be back there.”

I follow her line of sight and give her a wave of thanks. As high as I am on the rare attention I get from the opposite sex, I’d like to put on a shirt.

After one more sweep of the room for Theresa and not finding her anywhere, I shrug and hide in the back. A couple of the guys are talking to each other—well, to be more accurate, they’re
gloating
over their bids. If I was a more outspoken person I’d probably gloat too, but I keep it to myself as I towel off all the oil, deodorize, and yank a white T-shirt over my head and a button-down over that. I’m rolling the sleeves up when bachelor number twenty walks in and does his signature hip thrust.

“Thirty-eight hundred, bitches.” He points at me. “What’d I tell ya? Great spot in the lineup.”

He gets pelted by nineteen sweaty and oily towels from every direction. I laugh and shove my wallet in my pocket.

“Anyone see any butterfaces out there?” a guy with a man bun asks. “Butterface” is a well-known euphemism for a girl who has a great body but a face that leaves something to be desired.
But-her-face
. I haven’t heard the term since I was in high school.

“I think my winner’s one, but I’m okay with it,” bachelor number seventeen says. “Better than who won Harris over there.” He puffs up his cheeks and makes circles with his arms around his middle, suppressing a gutful of laughter. A guy with a wicked back tattoo—I’m assuming it’s Harris—looks over his shoulder and tells him to go screw himself.

Successful, handsome bachelors in their late twenties. I get it now.

“What about you?” the guy on my right asks. “Catch a peek at your winner?”

I shake my head.

“Damn,” he says, pulling a fresh shirt over his head. “I was wondering who just wasted four grand.”

I grin and casually scratch my eyebrow with my middle finger.

“It was probably Rian. I heard she was in the crowd tonight,” bachelor number twenty, the twerker, says.

I tilt an eyebrow at him. “The street artist?”

He nods. “Yep, that one.”

“Well, business must be good if it was,” says bachelor number seventeen.

“Chump change for someone like her.” Bachelor number twenty smirks. “So yeah, probably Rian.”

The door screeches open and my stomach dips. Theresa’s been the one directing us where to go and what to do, so I expect to see her, but instead it’s our green-tank-top-wearing auctioneer.

“Hey, guys. All the winners are at the bar and they have your number. They pretty much have all the say over what they want to do with you until midnight tonight. If you haven’t already by then, you owe them a kiss.”

The guy with the man bun whistles and the rest of us laugh, a few much louder than others. I blame early drinks.

“All right, guys, thanks for doing this. We raised way over our goal thanks to a few of your moves.” She looks right at me. I give her a tiny encore before she chuckles and heads back out. Those of us who’re fully dressed follow right after her.

The bar is still buzzing, and a few of the patrons are up on the bachelor stage dancing. Looks like fun. A month ago I would’ve found Theresa and pulled her up there to do our routine, which was bound to get us a couple of laughs. I’d be in a state of ignorant, pleasant bliss until we went our separate ways and I pulled my hair out trying to get some sleep. Friendship is so easy when I’m with her, and so hard when I’m not.

Tonight, however…tonight is about moving past it all. Jace is right—if it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not going to happen. If only I didn’t have to convince myself of that every few minutes.

A loud commotion turns my attention from the stage to the front door, where a well-built security staff member is escorting someone outside. I can’t even see the patron, only hear incoherent shouting that sounds a lot like Greek until I think I hear my name. But with the music and the dancers and drunk crowd, I’m pretty sure I’m just hearing things.

After the crowd by the door cheers at having the disruptive party crasher sent out, I head to the bar to try to find my winner. Girls are lined up with giant note cards with a number on it. My number is clutched in a very inked hand, connected to a very inked arm and up to an inked neck and playful smile. Her short purple hair drops over half her face, and she flips it back and gives me a once-over.

“Hey,” she says, and I think I recognize her, but I’m not sure. You’d think I’d remember purple hair.

“Hey.”

“Wanna get out of here?” She tilts her head toward the door, and almost subconsciously I let my eyes drift around the room once more to see if I can find Theresa. Ridiculous. I shake my head and silently laugh at myself.

“Yeah…but first, your name?” I ask with a lift of my eyebrow.

Her smoke-painted eyes widen, and her shoulders jerk with the small burst of laughter that escapes her. “You don’t know who I am?”

Shit.
Do
I know her?

Another laugh pops from her dark lips, and she smacks a hand on my shoulder. “Your dumbfounded look is refreshing. And cute.” Her fingers curl into my collar. “Come on. I’ve got a few ideas of what I want to do with you.”

She’s strong for such a tiny girl. I like the aggression, though. It’s stoking the fire of adrenaline running through my veins. It reminds me of the way I feel around Theresa. It’s a high I can’t find by myself. Alone, things are calm, steady, like a blue sky with no clouds in sight. But when I’m around a beautiful, strong woman, the clouds gather and electricity crackles and lights up the sky. It just makes me want to match that intensity. It’s why I always thought Theresa and I would be good together.

Damn…there I go again.

“Give me yours and I’ll give you mine,” she says, dropping my collar and hopping onto the street. Her boots smack the pavement and echo through the small alleyway.

“My name?” I ask, and she nods. “Alec.”

“I know an Alex. She used to be my roommate.”

“Alec,”
I correct with a half smile. “With a
c
.”

“All right, Calex,” she says with a teasing wink. I don’t find it too funny, but I widen my grin to humor her. “You see that over there?” She points a bright red fingernail at the brick wall over my left shoulder. The whole thing is covered in graffiti art, but the centerpiece is a picture of the New York skyline before 9/11.

“That’s one of mine,” she says. “I thought it’d be gone the day after I did it, but it’s been here ten years now.”

“Rian,” I say, reaching out to touch her tag. I suppose some of those bachelors have a few brain cells. Rian’s so famous that she doesn’t need a last name, so I don’t know it. I’m not asking either. “Ten years?”

She steps up next to me. “Yep. I look at this one and cringe.”

“Why? It’s amazing.”

“It’s dark.” She snorts. “And I should’ve used a different color on the Empire State Building. It’s faded so much now.”

I stroke the lines she indicated. The black spray paint has blurred into the brick, making the picture look as if it was seen through frosted glass. Even with the imperfection, it’s a thing of beauty. Like other things, other people, I’m familiar with.

“Why not touch it up?” I ask, letting my hand fall.

She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and reaches into her purse.

“You’ve just picked activity number one,” she says, pulling out a spray can. “Be my lookout, then we’ll get something to eat.”

It’s not exactly what I’d call a fun date, but she paid for it, so who am I to complain?

“Oh,” she says, uncapping the spray can, “you might want to cover your mouth. Don’t want you so high that you forget everything else we’re doing tonight.”

She gives me a grin before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pressing it over her nose and mouth. Her entire stomach is inked as well. I shoot my gaze somewhere else before I remember that I’m allowed to look. She’s obviously cool with it; it’s completely acceptable to check her out. But when I let my eyes drift back to her midriff I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt somewhere in my gut that I like the way she looks, and I’m curious about her tattoos, and I sort of want to touch them. This guilt comes from a part of me that I’ve buried deep, but it likes to make small appearances at the most inopportune times.

“So, your bio said you graduated in the arts.” She sprays a line across the bricks. I quickly look out into the street and scan the area. No one’s paying us any attention.

“Theater arts.”

“An actor, huh?”

A hopeful actor managing a store.
I conveniently leave that part out.

I grin and lean against the opposite wall. “Broadway someday, I hope.”

“I heard you singing up there. And of course saw your dancing.” She lifts a curious eyebrow at me. “Got any other talents?”

The answer gets caught somewhere between my head and my tongue, sort of choking me. Yes, there is one that comes to mind, though I wouldn’t so much as call it a talent as something that I enjoy doing with a partner. A specific partner. When her hands graze mine as we let our fingers dance across a smooth black-and-white plane and we create music together, it’s always better than playing alone. It’s all kinds of music: enjoyable and lighthearted fortissimos and quiet and moving pianissimos. It perfectly fits us, me and my partner, in more ways than one.

Rian looks up at me, still awaiting my answer.

“Piano,” I tell her. The corners of her eyes crinkle with joy, and then she turns her focus back to her own talent. I watch with careful study, desperately trying to put her into my mind and Theresa out of it. But given all the things I’m passionate about including my best friend in some form or another, I start to wonder if that’s even possible.