Part 2 (1/2)
”Allison...” the redhead said in a pained whisper. ”Please.”
But Allison wasn't backing down. It was obvious in the way she narrowed her eyes. ”You get to be a star every day. I never get to be the center of attention. Just once, I want tonight to be about me. I don't want you to steal the spotlight from my win. Call me selfish, call me vain, call me whatever you want, but I can't help it. It's the way I feel. I don't want this to be about you, I want it to be about me. Just tonight. Is that so hard to understand?”
He had to respect her honesty. He wasn't sure he could stand in front of a bunch of people and admit that he wanted to be the center of attention. He found that totally refres.h.i.+ng and seriously s.e.xy. He did understand, and so he found himself nodding. ”I get it. I really do. So I'll leave you to your celebration as long as you give me your number.”
Her jaw dropped. ”What? No. Are you nuts? I've been a complete b.i.t.c.h to you.”
Marco put his hands in his pockets, more at ease now, amused. ”Maybe I'm tired of the d.i.c.k-sucking harem. Maybe I'm intrigued by someone who isn't afraid to say exactly what she's thinking.”
The man or woman or the man becoming a woman, Marco wasn't exactly what what p.r.o.noun to use to refer to him/her, nodded emphatically. ”Honey, that is most definitely Allison. This girl has no filter. None.”
”Shut up, Beckwith,” she said, though it was without heat or rancor. Her cheeks were pink.
”See?” he added. ”Honest to a fault, this one.”
Marco had s.h.i.+fted so that he was closer to Allison. He liked that with the heels, she was his height. She exuded confidence and a strong sense of who she was. Not to mention she had the most lush and full mouth that practically was begging for him to kiss.
”I don't think I'm your type,” she said.
”How do you know?”
For the first time, she was starting to get fl.u.s.tered. She looked around the table for help but there was none forthcoming. Her friends were just staring, watching, waiting. ”I...”
It seemed she was finally at a loss for words.
Her friend she had called Beckwith spoke, rattling off a phone number. ”That's Allison's number. Call her, Marco, honey. But I can tell you right now I can lead the horse to water but I can't make her drink.”
”Could you repeat that number?” Marco asked, pulling out his phone.
”Don't repeat that!” Allison glared at Beckwith. ”You can't give my number out to strange men.”
”He's not a strange man, he's Marco Lucky.” Beckwith smiled at him. ”Ready?”
”Yes.”
He gave him the number again.
”Don't call me,” Allison said. ”It's not a good idea.”
”Why not?” And why was he still standing there when she was making it so clear she wasn't interested in him? But it was a pattern of his, to bang his head against walls. He knew that. He should let this go. But it was just too intriguing, the concept of rejection. It might be good for his soul. Not that he was prepared to accept rejection. ”Do you find me unattractive?”
She snorted. Her eyes looked everywhere but at him.
That was all he needed to know. He saved her number and gave her a smile. ”I'll call you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, Allison.”
As he left, he heard one of her female friends ask, ”Would you rather win the lottery or a night with a rock star?”
Allison laughed. ”Please, no contest. The lottery, of course.”
”Well, you're a dumba.s.s,” Beckwith said, loud and clear. ”Because you could have just had both.”
”Anyone can f.u.c.k a rock star,” she said. ”It's nothing to my credit. All you have to do is show up and spread your legs. Not much of an accomplishment.”
”Most people will never get the opportunity to leg-spread. You have the most a.s.s-backwards way of thinking of things.”
She did. Marco liked it.
And she was right. Anyone under the right circ.u.mstances could have shared his bed not that long ago. He hadn't exactly been discerning. It was merely whichever woman was close by at the end of the night. It wasn't something he was proud of. It was one thing to say he wasn't in the market for a relations.h.i.+p, but still hook up with various women he found interesting and attractive. Funny. Intelligent. But he hadn't even bothered to investigate any of that. He'd just tumbled blind drunk into bed with whatever warm flesh was nearest.
He'd been working on dealing with the residual disgust with himself for how he had treated those women, and Allison seemed to have a way without intending to, of perfectly reminding him of the man he wanted to be. He wasn't there yet, but he was getting there, slow and steady. He sat back down and drank his ginger ale and wondered what he should do with the rest of his night. He had told her he would leave, but he didn't want to. He wanted to be in the background, the silent observer, the eye to the keyhole of what normal twenty-somethings did in Manhattan.
He texted the number Beckwith had given him, wondering for a brief second if it was a fake. He just wrote, This is Marco.
Feeling like a true stalker, he watched her pull her phone out of her pocket and glance at the screen. She put it away without responding, nor did she look over at him. Her self-control was f.u.c.king amazing. He respected that.
But then his phone buzzed, and despite knowing it wasn't her, because he had been staring at her the whole time, he felt a frisson of hope that somehow she had mystical texting powers and had responded. After finis.h.i.+ng his drink, he checked his phone and found he had a text from his manager, who apparently had seen on social media that he'd been spotted in the same bar two nights in a row. Most likely Sandy the waitress had posted something and tagged him. He didn't mind, except now Harry was going to be on his a.s.s. A text from Allison definitely would have been better.
Dude, a bar? I thought we were over this s.h.i.+t.
Not drinking. Don't worry about it.
He sent Harry a picture of his ginger ale.
That doesn't prove d.i.c.k.
No, it really didn't, but he didn't feel the need to apologize when he wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be. A mood was creeping up on him again, that dark, crawling anger and resentment. It was like c.o.c.kroaches-it came out at night and scattered during the day. Right then, in the dim bar, it was encroaching again, like it had the night before, making him unfit for human interaction. It was right about then that the women showed up. The same ones from the night before. They beelined straight toward him, and he immediately regretted that he had hung around. It would do exactly what Allison had complained about-make the night all about him, not her.
It made his mood worse. He just wanted to be left the f.u.c.k alone. Was that so greedy or wrong or ungrateful? Maybe it was. All he knew was that he would stick around, be the nice guy, because, despite wanting to do literally anything else, he couldn't live with himself if he was a p.r.i.c.k to the very fans who made his paycheck possible.
”Can we get a picture?” the one woman asked. She was wearing what seemed like very little clothing for October, her cleavage out on full display.
”Sure.” He stood up and got in the middle of the three women, careful to put his hands in his pockets, not around their arms.
”We don't bite,” the blonde said, snuggling closer. ”Much.” She laughed. Her b.o.o.b pressed against his chest.
Marco gave a small smile at the camera the brunette held out, but without responding. He wasn't going to be rude, but at the same time, he wasn't going to send any vibe that he wanted to continue this encounter outside of the bar so that they wouldn't get the wrong idea. That fine line was harder now that he was sober. Before, he would have just taken one or all three home. Or if he was in a bad mood, he would have been rude without any thought to their feelings.
But after five minutes of pictures and small talk, he was done. He was going to have to make an excuse and bolt.
His phone buzzed. ”Excuse me,” he said to the women, and pulled his phone out. He grinned, feeling instantly better. It was from Allison.
You're violating the terms of our agreement.
I can't get away from them without being rude. Rescue me.
I think you can handle yourself.
He could practically hear her disbelief and disdain. He glanced over at Allison's table, but her back was to him.
I have a hard time saying no. It's how I wound up famous.