Hour by Hour (Games & Diversions #2) (2 page)

But I’m no victim; I’m a willing participant, eager for more—and I need to see…

I need to see if our one night was a fluke—if it’s been worth a month of waiting.

I stop before I re-enter our office building, looking down at what
used
to be my dick.

Is that what you’ve been doing?
Waiting for
her
? You useless piece of shit. I can’t believe you.

It was just sex. She’s not even your type.

And besides, if you haven’t forgotten…
we
don’t even like her!

***

ELENA LEXINGTON

You don’t even fucking like him
, I repeat to myself.

You met him. You kissed him. You sexed
him.

End of story.

You thought he was a prick—he
proved
himself to be a prick. What more do you need to know?

Besides… the sex can’t be as good as you’re remembering it. It just can’t be.

FOUR orgasms?

I count on my fingers.
One… two… yup.
I mean, no.
That
can’t
be fucking right.

Can it…?

Damn
.

I kick a packed box, grabbing my hair into a tiny bun.
If only I could get this fucking
dick
out of my head—the man
and
his member.

It’s bad
enough
that I’ve been thinking about both of them for the past three weeks; now, I have to see them in several days.

Wait…

Not
them.
Just him.

I don’t want to go anywhere
near
the other one… for the most part…

Lukas doesn’t deserve an encore performance with me—not after the way he’s acted. And I have
no
intention of giving him one.

In fact,
the only encore he might get is another slap in the face. Please, God—
let it come to that
.

Still…

Kat doesn’t know what we did; Ana can barely hold it in, and Foxx’ll probably rip Lukas a new one if he knew.

The less drama at Ana’s party, the
better
.

I’m going to try to get through this graduation party without putting my hands on Lukas at all—in every sense.

My cell phone rings while I shuffle a moving box around. When I see that it’s Linda, I pick up the call. I nearly drop it by mistake when I hear the shakiness in Linda’s voice.

“Elle?” she says.

“Hey, it’s me… Linda, what’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know what’s going on,” she stammers. “It’s j-just that I, uh… someone, uh…”

“Linda, spit it out.
What
?”

“It’s Hercules!” she blurts.

“
Hercules?
” I ask, bewildered. “What happened to Hercules?”

Hercules is my black-and-white Chihuahua. He’s been my pet/best furry friend since I bought him a few years ago. I purchased him from a local animal shelter—the
same
shelter where I met Teddy, my now-defunct ex.

I’ve been letting Linda doggy-sit Hercules while I take care of a few things. I can see now that getting a person who doesn’t own
any
animals might have been the wrong move.

“I let him run around in the front yard,” Linda continues. “I had just let him loose. I was only behind by a couple of seconds.”

My blood runs cold.

“Linda, where is he? Tell me where my dog is…”

“He’s fine. He’s
here
. He disappeared for about, uh… a day.”

“A day?!”

“
Or so
…” she says, ignoring my hysteria. “But when he came back… he had something on him…”

“God, Linda. Thanks for the notice…” I wait silently. “Well, what was it?”

“A note,” she says gravely. “A
nasty
note attached to his collar.”

Talking to Linda today was like pulling teeth.

“Linda, please.
Tell me what it said.
”

“It said that…‘a bitch like you doesn’t deserve him’.”

The note shocks me into a hush. I fall silent, letting my eyes roam around the room while I think about just what the
hell
is going on, when it dawns on me.
Teddy
.

He always did believe that Hercules was half his, and on top of that, he
had
threatened to take him.

I guess he got stoned and pissed enough to do something about it.

He took my dog. For a whole fucking day.

And who knew that tree-hugging hippies like him used such language?

I thought only miscreants like me had that sort of foul mouth.

He’d never talked like that around
me.
In fact, he was quite…
docile
—almost to a fault.

Maybe I’d underestimated him.

He managed to get his hands on Hercules within a span of a few minutes—faster than I thought was
possible
for most spaced-out potheads like him.

I didn’t even know stoners like him could move so quickly.

And to make matters worse… I
never
told him that Linda was taking care of Hercules—which means he must have been watching
her
… or
me
.

The prospect causes an unsettling chill to run down my spine. I go into rescue mode.

I figure he won’t dare be seen at my house after pulling some shit like this.

I tell Linda to get my hidden spare key and instruct her to take Hercules back to my house where they can safely hide out in relative peace from Teddy’s watchful eyes.

I swear to God, if he
ever
puts his hemp-rolling, flower-picking, tie-dye shirt-making hands on Hercules again, I will break every freaking finger he has.

I continue to shake my head while Linda recounts the rest of the story. Who would have known that Ted was capable of such a thing?

My hippie ex-boyfriend—a foul-mouthed, potential dog-napper?

God, was I wrong about him…

Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.— Jack London

LUKAS

There’s a special silence that resides in the communities of the rich—a sort of natural serenity that sits beside them, eats at their tables… sleeps in their beds.

It’s an essence of peace that can only accompany power, and the rich buy it like property.

Calm is their neighbor.

Calamity was mine.

And despite the differences in our upbringings, I never felt like I wasn’t at home in Foxx’s house, never felt like I didn’t belong—even when the noise of the city streets stuck to my clothes like the smell of smog or smoke.

Not until tonight.

As I drive up the lighted entrance into Foxx’s estate, I feel almost self-conscious—as if I’ve brought the noise with me and I can’t shake it out of my clothes.

The white pillars that frame the house nearly shine with an ivory gleam. The banner by the front door says “Welcome.”

Strange
. This is the first time that I feel nothing of the sort.

I’ve been to this house a thousand times… but never under these circumstances.

Not when I know that there’s at least
one
person there who isn’t looking forward to my entrance. Not when I don’t know what awaits me.

It’s always been the three of us: Foxx, Chris and me. Thieves aspired to be as thick as we’d become.

But now the balance was being upset.
Foxx is building his own family.

And it’s never been more evident than it is now—as I walk up the polished cream steps to what
used
to be a second home… to bear gifts… at his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s blowout.

I knock on the front door, not knowing if the other sister-in-law is lying in wait to knock my head off of my shoulders.

The door opens quickly and I am pulled into an embrace before I know what’s happening.
Kat
.

“About time you came,” she grins, releasing me. “We were afraid that you weren’t going to show.”

I almost say my first mind’s thought.
I was out, steam-pressing the city sounds from my clothes because if I didn’t, you might see that I really don’t belong.

I don’t say it.

Instead, I grin widely, shaking my head. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She nods knowingly at me, looking curiously at my face as my eyes wander over her long wavy hair.

A blood-red light covers the walls from floor to ceiling. It enshrouds everything in front of us. It’s like walking into a photography dark room, and it gives the house a supernatural feel—both spooky and sexual.

“What’s with the lights?”

“What?” Kat innocently replies, doing a three-sixty on her feet. “Oh,
these
? They’re cool, aren’t they? They’re meant for the party.”

“They’re
meant
for a sex club.”

Kat gasps, looking back up at the walls beside me. Foxx appears almost out of thin air, rubbing her arms from behind.

He reaches in to slap hands with me, but when he steps back, he glares.

“Don’t listen to Griff, baby. They’re
party
lights.”

I scoff at Foxx. “Yeah, this will be one
hell
of a party. All of Ana’s friends will step into the house and think they’ve wandered into some type of orgy-fest. They’ll think it’s the best party they’ve ever been invited to.”

Foxx nearly knocks me all the way into the kitchen to avoid causing Kat any more panic.

I sit on a nearby stool as he pours a drink for me into a red Solo cup. He grabs the liquor from a locked cabinet, and I see why once I take a look around at what’s left out for the “kiddies.”

Soda, light beer, and fruity wine coolers.

Sissy shit.

I don’t take a sip of the vodka until Foxx sits down beside me.

“Seriously, Foxx?” I say, nodding upward. “The lights?”

He laughs, bowing his head. “I know, man; I know. Kat thought they were cool for the party. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

“Or the balls.”

Foxx throws a swift elbow to my ribs, nearly knocking my stool over.
Ouch.
Fuck.

He scoffs. “Yeah, right, Griff. If I didn’t have any, there’s no
way
I could survive this relationship. Man, these Lexington women, I tell ya…
Even Ana.
”

He shakes his head, laughing, letting blonde strands of hair fall forward.

“Nah, Kat’s tough… but she’s not
Elena
-bad.”

I stiffen, pulling my cup mechanically to my lips before taking a forced swallow.

Great. I had to get with the sister that has her own
level
of ruthlessness.

Foxx checks his watch.

“In fact,” he says. “Elena
should
be showing up with Ana sometime within the next hour.”

I take a look around. “Well, where are all the kids? The students?”

Foxx stands from his stool. “Don’t worry; this place’ll be
packed
with them before you can blink. Kat told me that the entire school might just show up. I think I may have even heard a radio announcement go out about the party…”

He shakes his head, tilting his own drink to his mouth before freezing the cup mid-air. He sits it down instead of drinking it.

His smile drops.

“So,” he says, swirling the liquor. “Chris told me what happened…”

I squint at him. “What happened?”

“At the bar the last time you guys hung out.”

Shit.
Here we go.

I feign indifference. “
Yeah?”

Foxx stares harder at me, leaning in.

“You want to tell me what that’s all about?”

His glare probes my face, searching for answers. But I won’t meet his eye. I stare straight ahead, determined to ignore his question.

“Nothing. It was a one time thing.”

“Just
one
time?”

Lie
.

“Yeah. One time.”

I wait… and wait… but the barrage doesn’t come.

Instead, Foxx nods at me.

“Alright, if you say so… but I want you to know that I’m here, man.
Always
… and if you ever…”

A crash rings out from the front patio, shifting our attention towards the door.

The party has barely started and, already, it seems that things are starting to take a turn.

“
Shit
,” Foxx gripes. “Let me go check on that real quick.”

I grunt in reply.

It
won’t
be quick.

Just like our usual get-togethers that have been pushed back or like when “I’ll hit you up tomorrow” turns into “I’ll let you know what’s up next week,” this conversation too will likely never be brought up again.

What was once an unbreakable bond between us three friends lately feels like Elmer’s glue, and I start to wonder if things will stay that way from now on.

While I ponder this, Foxx turns his back to me, walking back to the foyer with his cup in hand.

“My place is gonna be
fucked
,” he mutters under his breath.

***

An hour later, the sound of breaking glass barely earns a glance from me, and the frequency of scattered booms and splashes has increased ten-fold, but doesn’t faze me anymore.

Foxx was right.

His place
is
going to be fucked.

More guests started to trickle in as soon as I finished my drink. Within the next half an hour, five people turned into ten—ten turned into twenty—and somehow fifteen minutes later, that twenty turned into
two hundred.

Did the party have a TV commercial spot as well?
Where the hell did all these people come from?

I watch the door with latent curiosity, waiting for the guests of the hour to arrive, but still… no Ana… no Elena.

Just co-ed after co-ed.

Cheerleader. Frat. Goth.

I wander around aimlessly, helping Foxx keep a tab on things.
As if he needed the help
. He’s got big, burly security guards at the house’s major entrance points.

Despite the persistent and unseasonable chill in the air, every part of Foxx’s mansion is at the partygoers’ disposal. The pool, the furnished basement.
Everything
.

Everything but the upstairs floor.

Foxx doesn’t want anyone upstairs—told me he doesn’t need any careless college students stumbling up the stairs and getting knocked up on
his
watch.

But he didn’t include
me
in those rules.

I brush past security without a word, heading up the stairs so I can drink and mellow out in relative peace.

I don’t need another frat boy wrapping his arm around my shoulders to convince me to sneak another keg in. And I
certainly
don’t need another of Ana’s friends purposely flashing me tits and ass every time I turn a corner.

I’ll pass on the theatrics.

I hop the stairs two-at-a-time on my way up to the second level mezzanine. The downstairs symphony of noise fades further into the background with each step, and for the first time all night, I can actually hear myself think.

I slow down midway in my ascent, taking labored sips out of my Solo cup.

The shuffle of my pant legs as I move towards the mezzanine sounds almost deafening. My footsteps start to sound hollow to my own ears. Everything goes out of focus until I feel like I am floating through a vacuum.

It’s my thoughts; they’re drifting away—isolating me in a world of my own making. It happens every time I drink—every time I drink to
excess
.

The world slips out of my grasp, and all that’s left is me.

This used to happen all the time when I was a teenager. I’d drink just to numb. I’d drink to
forget
.

But now I’m damn near thirty, and this is the
second
time that it’s happened to me in recent weeks. That’s
two
times
too
many.

The fucked up part is that one side of me sees what’s happening and wants to stop it, but feels powerless to do so. And the other side…
just doesn’t give a fuck.

The two usually fight it out inside my brain until one of them wins.

I lean against the wall outside of an upstairs guest bedroom, fighting the urge to sit down.
I wonder which one it will be tonight.

I meander through Foxx’s hallways and bedrooms, knocking my hands against doors, tapping my feet against carpeted floors.

Foxx built this fairly simple home for himself a few years back. His amenities are black, simple—
clean
, but not extravagant. I find hardwood where there should be
marble
—white fixtures where there should be
silver
.

I’m half-shocked when I don’t find cracked ceramic in the showers.

His home is so different from his childhood home, from his father’s house… from
mine
…

Like the elder Foxx—the indomitable powerhouse magnate of Foxxhole Publishing—I’ve used my wealth to lavish my life with beautiful things wherever I could find them, to indulge in luxury whenever it presented itself.

My extravagance is known for having no boundaries.