Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“Are you sure?” I ask him, hesitant to blow up our lives if he’s not. And even more reluctant to blow hers up with a Riggs-sized grenade.
“Surer than I should be after a one-night stand.”
“You think that’s all it was?” I’m testing him, no doubt about it.
A repeat performance of our one-nighter is probably all Riggs will admit to at this point. That’s his comfort zone. But if I can get him to take a chance, this has the potential of being something greater. Whether that’s all three of us, or more likely, me playing matchmaker and then bowing out gracefully, I don’t know, but I’m willing to play along and find out. More orgasms for all and Riggs not trying to squash himself like a bug beneath too-heavy weights? Sign me up for that all day and twice on Sunday!
Instead of answering directly, Riggs asks a question of his own, the words slow with meaning. “What was it to you?”
I don’t do sweet words. I use dirty, filthy ones, and while I want to say all those things to Kay again, I enjoyed those hours in bed afterward too. The ones where we talked and laughed, and I fed her noodles, sharing them like those dogs eating spaghetti in that movie I watched when I was a kid. I want that feeling again—of lightness, of rightness, of completeness.
I want to see my friend smiling and laughing rustily, like he hadn’t done it in so long that his vocal cords forgot how to make the sound. I want to see Kay, the sad and sassy woman who approached us at that bar, become wild and radiant, owning not only her own pleasure, but also Riggs and me, dick and soul.
I don’t know how to say all that, so I answer plainly, “Everything.”
Riggs nods his head once, agreeing, and then goes so far as to say, “Me too.” Again, two little words, but they tell me all I need to know.
In minutes, Riggs and I have turned our media room into a war room, with both of us posted up in front of our laptops, clickity-clacking away as we try to find someone named Kay, who’s an angel investor, likes scotch, has a ticklish spot on her left hip, takes no shit from anyone, and ghosted us after an amazing night.
Admittedly, it’s not the best list for a Google search, but we’re trying.
We have a map of the city we were in thrown up on the projector screen, measuring out the hotels in the area. Since it’s more in my wheelhouse, I do the charming work of calling the concierge of each one to ask about bar recommendations to see who sends guests to that specific night club. Meanwhile, Riggs makes grunting demands of the club owner, who it turns out is a Devils fan, to see if Kay used a credit card to buy her first round of scotch, but even in his ‘wish I could help’ way, the owner isn’t able to provide any intel. Then, after matching memories of our conversations and figuring one degree of Kevin Bacon might be easier, we focus on finding some business owner named McCormick, hoping he’ll lead us to Kay.
He's ultimately an easier find. With minimal narrowing of the list of local business owners on file with that name, we settle on Ian McCormick of Dayquest Analytics, which is apparently some sort of business optimization firm. He’s searching for investors to grow his company to the next level, or, according to reports, save his sinking ship because he doesn’t understand what his company does any better than I do, which is to say… not at all.
“That’s got to be him,” I declare, and Riggs nods in agreement. “One Kevin Bacon away.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that we work better together, and after weeks of no success alone, in only a few hours of bouncing ideas off one another and scouring the internet like we’re B-movie hackers, we’ve found her.
Not Kay. Kayla.
Not just some random woman who had a bad day at work, but the Vice President of Acquisitions at Blue Lake Assets, the company her father, Charles Harrington, owns.
Not merely the sole girl in a family of boys, but the lone daughter of a tycoon on par with Buffets, Rockefellers, and Vanderbilts.
Not an actual princess, but in effect, American royalty. As in, if her family wanted, they could buy the Devils outright.
Holy fuck. If I wasn’t impressed and a little intimidated by her before, I am now.
I glance over at Riggs, who’s staring at a picture we found of Kayla at some fancy-schmancy gala. She’s wearing a red dress with a plunging neckline, her lips painted to match perfectly, and her hand daintily resting on the elbow of some prissy-looking dude in a tuxedo. Riggs looks like he wants to climb through the computer screen, rip the guy’s head off, and spit down his neck. No matter who Kay… I mean, Kayla… is, there’s no going back now. He’s in too deep, which means so am I.