“I don’t want to hear about you and Sharon and her garlic bread.” Bax wished he’d snagged a beer too, but he hadn’t. He continued to live his life as a fuckup who made poor decisions and didn’t ask for a beer when he had the opportunity.
“Can’t say it was my finest moment.” Knox shrugged. “Damn good night though. Damn good garlic bread.”
Bax sat up, brushing the sand off of his shoulders. He’d experienced enough of the beach for the day. “There’s something very wrong with you, you know that?”
“I didn’t have sex with my buddy’s sister, so I think the pot just met the kettle.” Knox pointed to himself, then to Bax, but did not appear to be ready to get up.
Bax reached for his sandals.
“Did you at least give her a bracelet after?” Knox asked, because apparently he wanted to get the shit beat out of him with a bag of pasta.
“No.” Bax had not given Courtney a bracelet. Was that even something she would’ve wanted? That was what the women on the road wanted, but Courtney wasn’t like that.
He’d offered one to Em after their first night, and she’d taken it, but she took everything, so that wasn’t a surprise. At the time he’d figured sentimental reasons were her game. Nostalgia, even. Courtney’s immediate declaration that what happened had not happened did not seem like a woman who would’ve appreciated if he’d have sent a thanks-for-the-good-time, here’s-to-the-memories bracelet.
“Bet that pissed her off,” Knox said. “You two communicated since theboiiing?”
“Uh. No. And don’t call it that.”
“You should send her a bracelet. Maybe she’ll still speak to you.”
“Shut it.” Bax shouldn’t have told Knox. That would’ve been good data to have five minutes ago.
“I’m just saying, if I were her and knew your history and still found it in my soul to give you a pity fuck, I’d be pretty pissed that I didn’t get a diamond out of it.”
“Courtney isn’t like that.” And it wasn’t a damn pity fuck. If anyone was pitying anyone, it was her to him, and he absolutely rejected that. No one pity fucked anyone, and that was the end of that.
“It’s the thought that didn’t count, man.” Knox sat up and held his knuckles out for a bump.
Reluctantly, Bax tapped them with his own, only because he couldn’t leave a guy hanging like that. “I hate you.”
“Tell yourself what you need to tell yourself.” Knox settled back against his towel, the fresh beer hanging from two fingertips. “Doesn’t make it true.”
“You two are having a chummy time,” Hans’s unenthused voice came from behind.
Bax turned. Knox sat up.
Hans strode toward them—full suit, not even caring that he was probably getting sand in his shoes.
“Well, look who came to have tropical time.” Knox stood and did a handshake-slap-the-back maneuver with Hans.
“What brings you to paradise?” Bax asked. “Decided you finally need a break?”
Hans was not one to take a time-out.
“We’ve got a problem,” Hans said, sitting on the edge of a wicker-and-fabric lounger near the two of them. His white dress shirt contrasted with his brown skin as he ran his hand over his close-cropped hair.
“We’ve always got a problem.” Knox sat back down. This time he went for crisscross applesauce instead of lying down completely.
“You two need to decide about the band,” Hans said, sounding a little defeated.
“What’s there to decide?” Knox asked. “We’re on break. Maybe we’ll play again. Maybe we won’t.”
Bax had insisted on the break when he and Em set their wedding date. He figured the break would become an extended absence and eventually they’d do their own things with their own lives.
Knox was all in on the time off—he’d been moaning about needing a breather since the last tour.
Linx loved the studio and the music, always seemed to have energy for more. But the same energy that fed him zapped the life out of Bax. Linx lived to create, Bax did not.
