Chapter Eight

Vaughn

“No offense to Dylan,” Matt says as we approach the entrance to The Cabana, “but this place is everything I hate about clubs.”

“Why?” I reach for the simple metal handle on the understated cedar-plank door tucked into the street level of a post-modern office building on Sunset.

“It’s pretentious.”

I open the door, raise my brows, and make a point of looking around. “What makes you say that? The velvet rope? The big-ass bouncer in a headset working the door?”

In fact, there are none of these things. There’s not even a street number or awning to signify you’ve arrived at your destination. You just have to know. Which is why it’s pretentious.

“I don’t need some bullshit exclusivity to feel special.”

Just inside the door, the first hostess spots us and waves us past a small group of people—mostly guys—waiting to pay the steep cover. I lead the way down a narrow hall and toss him a grin. “How about now?”

“Nope. I don’t need a comped cover charge to make me feel special, either.”

The hallway empties out onto something truly special—a huge open-air configuration of wood and glass cantilevered above one of the best views on the Sunset Strip. The night sky and the lights of Hollywood provide a sparkling backdrop to what looks like a rich guy’s patio party. Beautiful people pack the bar, mill on the decks, and lounge on low, oversized ottomans. Those with the means or the connections occupy seating areas of silvered teak and white canvas.

Another hostess appears to welcome us to The Cabana before escorting us across the crowded main deck and up a couple steps to one of the VIP enclaves opposite the bar, but with a prime sightline to the stage. Before retreating she lifts the Reserved sign from the table, points out the bottle service menu, and promises a server will be over soon.

Matt scans the menu and then tosses it to me. “I definitely don’t need an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of Ace to feel special.”

“Lucky for Dylan and the other investors, you’re in the minority.” The place is hopping for a Sunday night, and most of the cabanas are occupied by thirty-something dudes springing for top-shelf cocktails to impress a highly curated guest list of twenty-something girls.

My cabana-mate leans back into the deep-cushioned comfort of our L-shaped sectional, crosses his arms, and stares at the stage where open mic night is in full swing. A comedian from Boston riffs about how everyone here is all sugar-free, soy-free, gluten-free. Back home he couldn’t get a blow job to save his life. Here all he has to do is slap an “organic” sticker across his balls and people line up.

It’s his big finish. Most of the audience groans. A small contingent of Boston’s buddies cheer him offstage like he’s the next Adam Sandler. Matt shakes his head. “What’s wrong with a pool table, a jukebox, Coors on tap, and a couple flat-screens over the bar tuned to ESPN?”

Just then a trio of girls stroll by. One of them tosses her hair over her shoulder and sends him a smile. He sits a little straighter.

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing about this place you like?” I challenge.

“Huh?” His gaze drifts back to me. “All right. Fine. It’s got a nice view.”

“Nicer than what you find at a place with a pool table and the game on over the bar?”

“I wouldn’t say that, but”—something on the other side of the club catches his eye—“it’s a damn fine view.”

I look to see what captured his attention, and my gaze snags on long, slender legs displayed to perfection in a short white lace skirt. Legs my deviant mind has imagined wrapped around my waist more than once. My eyes track upward. Slowly.

Kendall’s hair flows to her shoulders in loose, tumbling waves, the ends skimming the lacy edge of her strapless white top. The white plays up the platinum highlights in her hair and does amazing things for her sun-kissed skin. Although she’s trying to be inconspicuous in her out-of-the-way corner, she practically glows. The girl to her left doesn’t help. Amber occupies that barstool, a flag of color and similarly superior genes in a little red sundress and black cowboy boots. They’re both facing the stage. A quick glance down the bar tells me Matt and I are not the only guys who notice them. An instant and proprietary heat surges through me. In some secondary part of my mind I realize Dylan’s approaching the table, but I’ll catch him later. “Be right back,” I mutter, and head to the bar.

I’m halfway there when she sees me coming. She smiles before she catches herself. Graces me with an uncensored, utterly uncalculated reaction, and for as long as it lasts I feel like the only guy in the room. She locks it down as I move closer and watches me with a cautious look that lets me know I’m still at the audition stage as far as she’s concerned.

“Hey, neighbors,” I say as I draw up beside her, just to emphasize we’re not mere acquaintances. She’s wearing the pendant I gave her, and I see that as an encouraging sign. “An invitation from management has its privileges. We’ve got a cabana”—I gesture toward the spot—“reserved for Team Dixie.”

Dylan’s there now, with Matt, and he waves us over.

Kendall aims a questioning look at Amber, who answers with raised brows that answer, Isn’t this why we’re here?

“Come on.” Taking their hands, I help them from their barstools and guide them across the crowded patio to our cabana. As we walk I realize Kendall’s not wearing a skirt after all, but thigh-skimming shorts in a lacy fabric. A zipper runs from just below her shoulder blades to the small of her back. It’s all one piece. The sporty, sexy look works for her…and me. I imagine us alone on my patio, her hands braced on the railing while I lower the zipper and reveal more of her smooth, tanned back. As long as I’m imagining, I envision she begs me to keep going, and I do—until I reach pale skin never touched by the sun. Then I kiss every satiny inch. I can practically hear her calling my name in a breathless voice.

“Vaughn?”

The voice in question fills my ear now, because I’ve slowed my steps. She has no way of knowing how the soft prompt grabs me by the balls. Matt and Dylan stand as we approach, and I do the introductions.

“Quite a place,” Amber says as she scoots to the middle of the long side of the sectional. “We don’t have clubs like this in Kansas.”

Matt takes the seat next to her, closest to the edge. Dylan drops in on her other side. I settle Kendall into the corner and take the spot next to her.

“We lucked out with the location,” Dylan says as if the space fell into his lap rather than required months of negotiations with the building owners, but I detect a hint of pride in his tone. “If you’re going to open a club in L.A., might as well embrace the things L.A. does best, right? Perfect weather, amazing views, a casual vibe, and—”

“Overpriced drinks,” Matt inserts.

“We can’t all live on domestic beer. Expand your horizons, dude. Besides, when you’re sitting at the owner’s table, drinks are on the house.” Dylan signals a cocktail waitress. “Ladies, what can I get you?”

“I’m a cheap date,” Kendall says. “Just water, please.”

“Same,” Amber pipes in. “I drove.”

I haven’t had a drink since yesterday afternoon, and frankly, a beer sounds good, but Kendall’s refraining, so I say, “Make it three.”

“Water? Seriously? Did I interrupt an AA meeting?”

“I’ll have a beer,” Matt says. “Domestic.”

“He’ll have a Heineken,” Dylan tells the server, and then orders a seven and seven for himself.

Amber asks how we know each other. Matt and Dylan begin tag-teaming their way through the story any one of us could tell in our sleep.

“So Mastermind here”—Matt jerks a thumb at Dylan—“decides we ought to make a break during nap time because the ice cream truck stops at the park across the street every day and we need to get in on that. We can be gone and back before anybody notices.”

“Nobody’s going to notice you have ice cream?” Amber asks.

“We were four. We didn’t think it through,” Dylan acknowledges. “I had five bucks burning a hole in my pocket, and I knew the gate code. That’s as far as I’d gotten. The teachers were chatting, so we snuck out to the play yard and climbed the slope to the back fence.”

“Vaughn was the smallest of us, back then, so he was supposed to squeeze through the fence and then come around to the gate, punch in the code, and spring us,” Matt explains.

“A perfect plan,” Dylan adds.

“Yeah, except I couldn’t squeeze through the fence.”

“You mostly could, after you took my advice and streamlined your wardrobe. I solved 90 percent of that problem.”

“Yeah, a 90 percent solution that left me stuck in a fence, naked.”

“Oh, no…” Amber’s show of sympathy doesn’t quite hide her amusement. Kendall doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.

“You weren’t naked,” Dylan corrects. “You had your Spiderman underwear on. And how is it my fault you lodged that big coconut you call a head between the slats?”

“What happened?” Kendall asks.

“He started to freak, so we tried to work him free,” Matt continues. “I grabbed his arm. Dylan pulled his head, and—”

“And this ungrateful little punk pushes me down the hill,” Dylan supplies, eyes on me.

“You were breaking my neck, motherfucker. I told you to stop.”

“Anyway, Dylan rolls down the hill and ‘passes out.’” Matt makes air quotes around the words.

“I had a concussion.”

“You had a bruise, Humpty. Meanwhile, I’m the last one standing, so I have to man up and get help. A trend that continues to this day, since Mastermind likes to snooze through any accountability whatsoever, and Pretty Boy usually ends up in his underwear with a bunch of ladies fussing over him.”

“You’re the hero.” Amber smiles up at him.

“Always.” He grins back at her.

“Could I trouble you for an act of heroism and ask you to point me in the direction of the ladies’ room?” she asks.

He slides out of the seat. “I’ll show you.”

“Hey, if it weren’t for me, you two losers would never have any fun,” Dylan says as Matt leads Amber away. Then he mutters, “Oh, fuck,” and practically vaults over the table. “Back in a sec,” he says before he cuts through the crowd to a pair of girls making their way toward our cabana. I didn’t even notice them, but very little of what happens at The Cabana escapes Dylan’s notice. For sure not the arrival of two of Becca’s girlfriends who side-hustle as a walking pharmacy. He can’t have them dealing shit in here. Not unless he wants to spend the foreseeable future with vice cops and DEA crawling up his ass. But he’s also smooth as ice, which is why they’re all now standing together laughing. Rather than blocking their path, it looks like he’s just really excited to greet them. The guy can muster up some convincing acting skills when he needs to.

“You know, you don’t have to hang out here with me…”

Very convincing acting skills, apparently. I turn to Kendall. “I’m exactly where I want to be. They’re Dylan’s friends.” I throw him under the bus without hesitation.

The tall brunette beckons me over with a smile and a wave.

“You sure? Looks like they’re your friends, too. I can fend for myself until Amber gets back.”

She sounds indifferent, but her expression doesn’t quite match her tone. The casual smile tries to tell me she’s cool either way, but her eyes? Her gaze clings to me like she’s hoping I don’t leave.

I’m not going anywhere. I rest my arm along the seat back and prop my ankle on my knee. “I’m not Dylan’s wingman. He knows why I came here tonight. Matt knows. I’d venture a guess even Amber knows. You’re the only one who doesn’t seem to know, so I’m going to spell it out for you.”

She holds up her hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations—”

“Kendall”—I take her hand and thread our fingers together—“I came here tonight to be with you.”

Those guileless blue eyes narrow. “Why?”

The one-word question sounds like a challenge, and I’m more than up for it. “Because I like you. Because we’re neighbors. Because members of the Speed Racer Live Action Movie Fan Club need to stick together. There aren’t very many of us.”

“True.”

“And because you bake the shit out of oatmeal raisin cookies, and now I’m driven to see if this thing between us could lead to…you know…”

Golden eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline.

“…chocolate chip cookies.”

A smile accompanied by a little laugh tells me I’ve passed her test. “I guess that might be arranged.”

I know an advantage when I hold one, so I keep talking. “Besides, fate brought us together. Who are we to question the magic?”

She laughs again. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t believe in fate. My aunt’s invitation to house-sit brought us together.”

“And you were available. That’s fate.”

Her smile fades and gives way to a frown. She sighs and pushes a hand through her hair. “Not exactly. More like a chance to—” Her voice cuts off, like she caught herself before she shared something she didn’t mean to.

“A chance to what?” I gently prod. She can’t leave me hanging.

“Think.”

Five little letters can carry some serious weight. Every ounce of it lands in the center of my chest.

“Kendall…”

She pulls her hand free and drops it to her lap. “Sorry. It’s not really as deep and dark at it sounds.”

“Explain it to me.” I may come off like a guy who has no worries, but I know a thing or two about deep, dark thoughts.

“I’d rather—”

“Don’t say ‘not’ because I’m not letting you off the hook,” I interrupt. Somehow we took a left turn into a minefield. This conversation stresses her out, but I want to fix it. I pick up her hand, interlock our fingers again, and hope that simple gesture of support removes some of the pressure. The house lights dim a notch, as if to help me out. No such thing as fate, huh?

“I wanted to be here instead of home for the summer before I start law school,” she says, devoid of emotion.

Ahh. It’s a parental thing. I get that, too. “Say no more.” I squeeze her hand. “And good call. Spending the summer in the city of dreams is the perfect way to blow off steam before buckling down for three years of cutthroat paper-chase.”

She looks at me for a long time, and my gut tenses. I don’t know why, but before I can figure it out her gaze shifts. The server appears with our drinks. Matt’s close behind. When she sets them on the table he drops a twenty on her tray as a tip and slides into his seat. “Where’s our host?”

I glance back to where Dylan stood a couple minutes ago, but the girls are gone and so is he. “Duty called.”

“Duty done,” Dylan says, and bounces up the steps. “Scoot in, bitch. Where’s Amber?”

Matt scoots a couple stingy inches and takes a sip of his beer. “I left her at the head of the line for the ladies’ room.”

“Well, damn. Hopefully she’s back soon. Dixie’s up.”

Sure enough, a smattering of applause breaks out as the spotlight follows a solitary figure to the center of the stage. She sits on the single stool, settles her guitar in her lap, and adjusts the microphone. Then she dips her chin and looks out at the crowd. The light catches her blue eyes. “Oh fuck,” she says with a smile. “Not another girl with a guitar.” The room quiets fractionally and a few people laugh. So far she’s funnier than the comedian.

Dylan whistles loudly and yells, “Go Dix!”

She glances right and then left. “At this moment we’re all tortured by the same questions. Can she sing? Can she play?” The observation earns her a few more laughs. “Let’s put those to bed right now.”

She props the guitar a little higher in her lap and launches into the opening chords of something rhythmic and bluesy. Two quick strums followed by the reverberation of a longer, lower chord, and then a repeat. It’s nice. She can play. A hum of conversation resumes as people comment or try to name the tune. Then a voice ambushes the guitar, and six simple strings can’t contain the rage of longing, lust, and despair Dixie unleashes as she laments the love on her brain. Conversation—hell, everything in the room—stops. All eyes fix on the stage. Her voice is amazing, the kind that raises the tiny hairs on my arms. The kind that could win America Rocks. Her gaze moves downward as she adds quiet, subtle notes from the guitar and proves she’s got talent there, too. Beside me, Kendall whispers, “She’s even better than I remember.”

“She’s great,” I whisper back. Dixie owns the shit out of the song and the room. A few people break the quiet of a pause with whistles and claps, but quickly quiet so we can hear everything she’s got. Her fingers dance over the guitar strings and motivate some couples to do the same.

Kendall gently sways in her seat. My mouth finds her ear. “Dance with me.”

She shakes her head before she stammers. “That’s okay.”

“Okay?” I gesture to myself. “Five years of dance lessons, Kendall. Hip-hop, ballroom, and for reasons I’ll never understand, tap. Trust me, it’s way better than okay.”

Her teeth press into her bottom lip, a second passes, then another, before she nods. She’s still reluctant, but I’ll do my best to take care of her. I pull us to our feet, lead her down the stairs, and wrap my arms around her waist. With no good alternative, she props her arms on my shoulders and clasps her hands at the back of my neck. She’s a little stiff at first, but I find the beat and move us to the slow tempo. She falls into rhythm with me after a few seconds, and her body relaxes against mine. The heels put her at an ideal height. Our hips line up. Her breasts rest against my chest. I press her a little closer, because I can’t resist, and she doesn’t resist, either. She stares at my throat for a while but finally tips her head back and looks at me.

The song flows around us, and the room disappears.

“Hey,” I whisper as I run my hand over the bare expanse of her shoulders.

She shivers. “Hi.”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Last year I helped set the record for the longest Conga line. I was in Miami for a shoot and nearly 12,000 people Conga-ed.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “How fun, but not very secretive.”

“It’s a secret from Dylan and Matt. If they found out, they’d give me shit forever.”

She chuckles. “I’ve never been in a Conga line, but I am pretty good at the moonwalk.”

I grin. “I’m going to need proof.”

“Maybe someday.”

“I’m adding it to my Summer Adventures with Kendall list. Chocolate chip cookies and verification of moonwalk skills.” This girl brings out the easy, unworried side of me, and I like it.

She lets out a breath. “I actually haven’t danced since high school.”

Before I can ask her why, the last notes fade, the lights come up, and the room erupts in applause. Dixie smiles, says “Thanks” into the mic, and strides off the stage.

Kendall pulls her phone from the pocket of her shorts and bites her lip as she reads the screen. “Amber wants me to meet her outside. I better see what’s up.” She sends me the beginnings of a see-you-around smile.

“I’ll go with you.” I make the proposal over the noise of the standing ovation—like everyone in the place is endorsing my suggestion—and take her hand to lead her through the press of bodies. Amber will need a minute to work her way through the crowd, and I’ll get some time alone with Kendall. Maybe enough time to convince her to let me drive her home? And maybe, once she’s in my car, I can convince her to let me do more? I’m getting way ahead of myself, I know, but my chest still tingles from the weight of her breasts, her fingers feel right threaded through mine, and the sway of her hips as she walks the darkened hallway to the exit makes me imagine her walking into my bedroom. She turns and gives me a shy smile over her shoulder, and I wonder if she overheard my thoughts.

Or maybe she’s having thoughts of her own? I’d love to know what’s going on in her mind. I want her, but it’s more than a knee-jerk physical reaction to long legs in short shorts, or blond hair streaming over bare shoulders. I want her. The girl who brags about moonwalking but hasn’t danced in a while, who can make a split-second decision to rescue a neighbor, but needs the entire summer to think. The girl who’s off to law school in the fall.

But she’s here for now, and if she put me at the top of her Summer Adventure list, I’d happily dedicate the next few months to making her very glad she did.

Will she let me? Her eyes find mine as I hold the door open and she steps out into the warm Hollywood night. I think she might. Not because I’m the guy on the Times Square billboard. She saw past the illusion of picture-perfect Vaughn Shaughnessy about five seconds after tackling me, and for some reason she’s still looking. As we move toward the sidewalk, she slips her hands into her pockets and brings her shoulders up toward her ears in body language that says, So…here we are. I want to talk about where we could go.

We move to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid blocking the door, but it’s not quite ten p.m. on a Sunday night, so the sidewalk is pretty much ours. A young guy in a red vest loiters by the valet stand, staring at his phone. His eyes drift up to check Kendall out.

I don’t blame him. She’s fucking luminous. Gold from the streetlight rains down on her hair and gilds her skin. Yet another unfamiliar territorial impulse takes root in my gut. I want to punch this jerk just for looking at her.

Instead I give in to an admittedly unevolved urge to stake a claim. I close in, crowding her until she’s backed up against a parking meter, and I’m blocking her from his view.

Something winks at me from just above the tempting line where flesh disappears beneath lace, and my focus drops to the diamond in the center of her pendant. I trace my fingertip along the chain, touching the smooth skin of her chest at the same time, sending any bystanders a clear, if not strictly truthful message: this is mine.

Kendall shivers as my finger draws closer to the pendant nestled in the vulnerable little dip demarking the start of her cleavage, and I know without glancing at her that we’re both watching my progress. I’m sure she’s got something on beneath the silky top with its delicate lace edge, but whatever it is doesn’t hide much, because her nipples rise against the fabric. Her breath comes out in an unsteady rush. My throat tightens as I fantasize about scraping my tongue over one of those stiff little peaks. Imagine the sensation of her nails scouring my scalp. Savor the vibration of her soft, appreciative moan.

I cup her jaw and tip her face to mine. Her eyes stay lowered and locked on my mouth. Her hands come up to wrap around my wrists.

“Kendall?”

“I…I can’t.” She closes her eyes and turns her face away. “I’m sorry.”

I rest my forehead against her temple for a second and let the disappointment subside to acceptance. Then I take a step back and put my hands in my pockets. “Sorry wasn’t what I was going for, but, since you are, the apology should probably be my line. Did I misread—?”

“No.” She meets my stare squarely. “It’s not you. It’s…me.” As soon as the cliché leaves her mouth, she groans. “Oh, God. Erase. Rewind. Delete. I can’t believe I just said that.”

“Said what?”

We both give a small smile.

“It really is me. I… It’s complicated, but you didn’t do anything wrong, and you definitely don’t owe me an apology. I had fun tonight. More fun than I expected, thanks to you. I guess I got a little swept off my feet.”

“Then we’re even,” I joke. “You swept me off my feet before we even said hello.” Immediately I wonder why I opened my big mouth and mentioned the fucked-up first impression I made.

“It’s not often I get to show off my superhuman strength.”

I appreciate her returning the joke, but beneath all the banter, I’m confused. What makes the attraction between us complicated? Because the way she was looking at me and responding to my touch? Nothing about that felt complicated. I’m trying to find the right way to ask without coming off like some douche who can’t take no for an answer when the club door swings open with a whisper, followed by the unsteady clomp of boots on concrete.

“Hey. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I turn to see Amber searching through her tiny purse for her valet ticket. Her face is pale and coated with a sheen of sweat that’s left the hair at her temples damp and her mascara smudged.

Kendall moves around me, all thoughts about our moment seemingly gone. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Amber lets out a breath and hands her ticket to the valet. “I’m okay. Just got overheated in there and”—her eyes dart away—“a little queasy. This is what I get for eating day-old pizza for lunch.”

“I’m sorry,” Kendall says.

She waves away her sister’s concern. “I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you I’m heading home. There’s no reason to cut your night short, though, if you’ve got another way home.” Her gaze jumps to me.

“I can drive you both,” I offer, because I hate the idea of Kendall slipping away from me with all the unanswered questions like a roadblock between us. All I know for sure is she’s definitely not sticking around. They may not be the closest siblings on the planet, but she’s not staying while Amber heads off on her own, looking like death.

“No.”

The word comes out in stereo from both sisters, loud enough to be heard over the purr of Sally’s Jaguar pulling to the curb.

Amber offers a wobbly smile. “I know it’s only a couple miles, but I don’t know if my stomach’s going to cooperate for the entire drive. I really, really don’t want to be the girl who throws up in front of Vaughn Shaughnessy.”

“You wouldn’t be the first—”

“I’ll drive us home,” Kendall insists. She’s in guardian angel mode as she walks to the driver’s side and holds out a tip for the valet. But this time it’s her sister she’s looking after.

I help Amber into the passenger seat, close the door, and then lean in the lowered window. “Feel better soon.”

“I will,” she promises.

I glance over at Kendall. “Good night.”

“’Night,” she says around a small, apologetic smile before pulling away.

I stand there, rooted to my spot, watching the car’s taillights disappear into the stream of traffic on Sunset. I’m not sure what just happened between us, but one thing is crystal clear. Kendall’s not playing hard to get.

She is hard to get.