I agree. Bobby hands me his phone, and I put in my number. He sends me a text. My cell phone beeps. I enter him into my contacts as “B.”
“Do you have Greenback Wire?” he asks.
“I do.”
“What’s your username?”
“Promise you won’t laugh? I created the account when I was seventeen.”
“Cross my heart.” He mimes crossing his heart.
I give him my username. He ducks his head.
“Oh, fine, you can laugh,” I say, smiling.
He does, and I join him. ThatOneAwesomeDancer is a lame username, but back then, it was what I wanted to be the most, and Carlos helped make my wish come true. “What we do when we’re young, right?” I ask. What was Bobby like when he was younger? I bet he got all the girls.
“You speak as though you’re old.”
“Young age, old soul. That’s what my best friend said about me every chance he had.”
“He was very special to you.”
“He was.” Am I betraying my memories of Carlos by being with Bobby?
My phone pings.
“Money sent with extra for whatever your heart desires. Hold up your end of our agreement, Ever. I make the call, and there will be no denying me, understood?”
Am I making a deal with the devil, rather than the angel I believe Bobby to be?
Told you so. Ty’s voice in my head.
Shut it, Ty.
I give Bobby my word. “Indulge me before my ride turns into a pumpkin?” I’m not betraying Carlos. He said to live for him. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll dance in his honor and live. For him. My first love.
“Fairy tales? Happily ever after?”
I smile past the ache in my chest. “I don’t believe in fairy tales, but I do believe in fantasies.”
“What’s your fantasy, princess?” He pulls me close.
I stare into his gorgeous eyes and whisper over his lips, “Pretend to be the bad boy. My secret lover.”
“As you wish.”
8
EVER
“Smile” by DRYM and Jennifer Rene comes on. Knowing Bobby is near, I give in to the rhythm, close my eyes, and move to the music.
Bent on forgetting Braxton, Carlos’s unsolved murder, and Gage’s overprotectiveness toward me recently, I stretch my arms high and circle my wrists. My hips sway, and I imagine a different guy’s hands, other than Carlos’s, on my body.
A large shadow looms in front of me. I keep my arms high above my head and my eyes closed. A warm palm settles on my side, over my bandeau and the tattoo beneath it. Live for me.
They were words I heard through the haze in my mind while I was lying in the ICU on a ventilator when I overdosed on my mother’s drugs. The exact words that penetrated my mind when I came out of surgery after the surgeons patched my body back together after the firefighters used the jaws of life to get me out of the sports car that looked like a crushed tin can.
