It might have been the fact that I’d hopped up a little, caging my rack in my arms to put it on display. Oldest trick in the book.
I told you — I was absolutely shameless.
With drinks in hand, I gave the bartender a smile, and the girls and I headed away from the fray to look for a table. A group was just getting up, and we swooped in like birds of prey just ahead of a pack of bitter chicks wearing painful-looking shoes.
I sipped on my tequila — it was chilled: I’m not that hard — looking around at the mass of people, soaking it all in, as “Pretty in Pink” by The Psychedelic Furs played.
And then time stopped, and the crowd parted like the universe wanted to point right at him.
It was Blondie from the ice cream parlor.
The music stretched out, people slowing under the red and white striped fabric, the naked bulbs of the carousel painting him in golden light. He stood right there like he’d been placed in that spot just for me, tall and beautiful, his skin tan and smile bright as he laughed at something his twin had said.
I almost fell out of my chair. There were two of them. My insides turned into raspberry jelly at the thought of what kind of damage they could do to a woman.
But my eyes found Blondie again — his twin was wrong somehow, which was bizarre in itself because they were identical. From where I sat, they were night and day. There was something about Blondie, some vibe that hit me even more now than it had at the ice cream parlor. He felt … familiar. Something about him I couldn’t quite place caught me, something in the line of his profile and the curve of his lips. But I was certain I’d never seen him before — I remembered all of the Adonises I’d met and arduously logged them in my mental bank of spank.
He was tall and jacked with a smile like a lightbulb and hair like spun gold. It was a little long, curling around his ears, and I wondered if it was soft, wondered what it would feel like between my fingers as I rode his face like a pony.
I didn’t realize I had slipped off my stool and was walking toward him — I had locked onto him like a goddamn target — until he met my eyes, froze for a split second, and then walked toward me like he was caught up just as much as I was.
I should have known right then that I was in big Blondie-sized trouble. But I couldn’t seem to find a single fuck to give.
The pinup girl from the ice cream shop had the reddest lips curled into an irresistible smile, and my feet, which had been moving entirely of their own accord, didn’t stop until we met in the middle.
I knew her somehow, but I couldn’t place her and wondered if it was just that I’d been thinking about her since I saw her a few hours before.
Shock and awe, man. She was standing there in front of me like a dream, but up close and personal where I could see her. In a split second, I’d catalogued everything about her — her gold septum ring, the black gauges with tiny cat ears, the curve of her plump red lips, the shine of her hair, and the tattoos across her chest, her shoulders, her arms, her thighs. I wondered where else she was tattooed and found myself smiling down at her, imagining the answer.
“Heya, Blondie,” she said slyly. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me.”
One dark brow rose with one corner of her lips. “Who says you know better?”
I chuckled as my eyes combed over her face like it was the first face I’d ever seen. She was so familiar to me, but I’d have remembered the purple hair, the piercings, the tattoos. That smile.
I blinked.
I knew that smile.
“I’m Penny,” she said, extending her free hand.
I took it, my smile spreading. “Bodie.”
She showed no recognition at my name — when she had known me, I’d gone by a nickname. Her eyes were on my lips, and I realized fully that she had no idea who I was. I wondered if I’d really changed that much from when she’d seen me last, realizing I had. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. And earlier she’d had on big sunglasses, on top of being far enough away that I couldn’t tell it was her. Eight years had changed her too, but only the colors of her feathers. Everything else seemed exactly the same.
I considered telling her, but dismissed the thought. Because there was really only one thing to do: fuck with her until she figured it out.