Loe raamatut: «Innuendo»

INNUENDO
Crystal Green

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

To Joan, my sister-in-law, for providing a bit

of her single life as story fodder,

and to Mica and Nancy, partners in creativity.

Here’s to the creation of the Sisters of the Booty Call!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

“YOU, MS. TAMARA CLARKSON, need some booty.”

At the cheeky words, Tam laughed and turned away from her computer keyboard. Normally she used it to enter information into the Dillard Marketing database as part of her temporary gig. But right now there were no assignments on her desk, so she’d been covertly scribbling down a new personal budget that she would never complete anyway, what with her being the mistress of beginning-many-projects-but-hardly-ever-finishing-them.

The speaker, Danica Langston, was wiggling her eyebrows in mischief while leaning against Tam’s cubicle. The mild sunshine of a San Francisco September afternoon breathed through the windows and dusted her coworker’s dark skin.

This was Tam’s first temp job in her new home city. Since being assigned to Dillard two weeks ago, she and Danica had become friends, mainly by bonding through the curse of being single women in the city. Over lunch, they would complain about men and then look out the window to people-watch the nine-to-fivers strolling along the sidewalks of the Financial District. It was a daily ritual—except for Mondays. Danica never failed to disappear that day, always claiming an “essential meeting.”

So Danica’s next words came as a surprise. “Ready for a lunch break?”

Tam raised an eyebrow. “No meeting today?”

“Sure, but you’re coming with me this time.” Danica motioned for Tam to get out of her chair. “I’ve got some friends I want you to meet. Then we’ll grab some quick grub afterward and bring it back up here.”

From booty to networking. What a segue. Intrigued, Tam closed her computer program and gathered her purse. She hadn’t met many people in the city yet, so this was a good opportunity. Aside from the anything-but-shy Danica, the Dillard dungeon didn’t seem to hire many outgoing individuals.

Yup, it was tough to make friends here. Bummer, since all Tam wanted to do since she’d moved to San Fran from her family home in Vegas was to start fresh. Here, in a city teeming with good vibes, she could finally ditch all the temp work and find the job she was meant for. Then she could earn enough money for a place of her very own—one she could decorate and celebrate her freedom in. And Tam was optimistic that she would accomplish at least the job part by next summer.

Freedom, she thought. San Francisco, with its hippy history and open-air poetry, was just the place to discover it.

Liar, said a little voice inside. You want security. You can tell yourself you’d love to be free all you want, but it isn’t the answer. You try to crave it because you think it means you don’t need anyone, and that way you’ll never feel rejection again.

Freedom is just a lie for you….

Tam knew that voice. It was the whisper of a hurt child who’d been shoved deep down where she could never be wounded again by reminders of her parents’ divorce. She folded the voice to the back of her mind where it couldn’t be heard anymore, and instead donned a perky smile for Danica. It worked every time to fool the world—to fool herself, too.

“So…meetings,” she said as they left the office. “Are you in some kind of social club?”

“You could say that.”

They caught the elevator, finding themselves alone. With a mysterious grin, Danica pressed the second-floor button, then leaned toward the shiny brass panel and primped, running her manicured hands over the short, dark pageboy cut she wore.

But Tam didn’t look in the makeshift mirror. She knew exactly what she would see: a longer-than-average face framed by shoulder-length, thick, curly hair, light brown bordering on mousy. She would also find lips that were usually spread into a smile, and a pair of aquamarine eyes: the kind of color that, normally, you could only cheat into existence with contacts.

The shape of her face—and her long nose—had bothered her ever since a pivotal moment in middle school when Jimmy Denning had poked fun at them, calling her “horse face,” causing an entire lunch table full of kids to laugh at her. Since her parents’ divorce had made her sensitive to rejection, she’d taken it hard and to heart. But she hadn’t taken it lying down; no, from that point on, she’d tried to distract everyone from noticing her face with a flamboyant wardrobe and a sunny personality, and it had worked. If everyone concentrated on her surface, they wouldn’t bother with what lay beneath, she reasoned.

It was her safety net—one she fantasized about leaving behind. And if San Francisco could change her into a free spirit with no worries, then maybe she’d finally be able to just be herself.

At least, she hoped so.

Tam plucked at her intricate, bold, Haight-Ashbury vintage skirt, getting anxious about this meeting of Danica’s. With any luck, everyone’s attention would be drawn to her clothes, not her face. But if they did focus in on her mug? Yup, she’d be smiling.

And hoping they wouldn’t look past that.

She turned to her friend. “I guess maybe all those comments I made at lunch about meeting men in a new town painted me as a desperate nympho or something?”

Danica laughed. “No more than the rest of us.”

The rest of…who, exactly?

The elevator arrived at floor two, where the scent of herbs and perfumed lotions welcomed them. They stepped off, headed to a day spa called Indulge, then into a restroom at the end of the hall.

“A bathroom?” Not exactly The Ritz.

“Privacy and proximity for our secret meetings.” Smiling, Danica placed her hand against the door. “Now, you don’t need to take part in anything today, all right?”

“You’re killin’ me. What’s going on?”

The other woman bit her lower lip, showing dimples. Then she said cryptically, “Just the single-girl blues, baby, the single-girl blues.”

Tam started to ask for more of an answer, but her friend had already opened the door.

Single-girl blues. Tam sure had a catalog of those. By choice, she hadn’t dated in about a year. Even at twenty-five, she was bone weary of failure, of going on two dates with a guy then having him lose interest. She didn’t have the energy to try again right now. Besides, her new start here in San Fran didn’t include getting a boyfriend. Yet. If ever.

But…okay, yeah. Tam would admit that, truthfully, she was lonely. That trying just one more time, if she could talk herself into it, might mean finally tripping over a decent guy. Yet “one more time” never seemed to happen.

As they entered, Tam saw that there was a tiny waiting area that opened into two directions: toilets to the right and a lounge to the left. There, among the flower-scented dignity of potted plants, silk flowers, burgundy carpet, chintz upholstery and a gilded mirror, waited a group of women. Dressed in business clothes, they sat on the couch and matching chairs, leafing through the estrogen-inspired magazines on the mahogany coffee table, chatting and laughing.

On the middle of the table stood a glass vase, its etched designs catching the soft light, making it glimmer. Shaped like a cowboy boot, it held, not flowers, but a bevy of small white papers.

Business cards?

“Hey!” Danica said to the group.

Everyone jovially said hello, not seeming to mind that Tam was in their midst. A sultry woman with black hair and equally dark eyes, her long body draped like silk over the couch, welcomed the new arrivals in a voice that was polished with the hint of an exotic accent. Tam knew her name: Mercedes Estevez, the owner of Indulge.

Self-conscious in the face of this woman’s beauty, Tam went back to fidgeting with her skirt, expertly drawing Mercedes’s attention away from her crazy hair, her homely face. Today she sported a shimmering silk blouse rolled to the elbows; it complemented her skirt and was accentuated by a long, delicate silver chain that draped over her hips like webbing. Earrings that dangled like rainfall, plus matching pumps that had chains as straps, rounded out her artful fashion arrangement.

“Everyone,” Danica said, “this is who I told you about last week. Tamara Clarkson.”

“Welcome to our Sisters of the Booty Call meeting,” said a woman with leopard-skin pumps and spiked brown hair.

When she motioned toward the glass boot vase, everyone laughed. Tam guessed it was because of her “Oh, that’s what Danica meant by booty?” look. She pumped up her smile wattage.

Another woman shook Tam’s hand, her green eyes friendly. She wore her blond hair in short, chin-length layers—a model of urban hip. “I’m Milla Page. Tenth floor, from that tiny office of Web geeks.”

“MatchMeUpOnline.com is one of your sites,” Tam said, shaking Milla’s hand in return. She was a fan of the site, with its club, restaurant and hot spot suggestions. Perfect for singles planning a night out.

As the other women greeted her and introduced themselves, Tam settled into a seat, meeting Danica’s gaze. Her coworker’s eyes were hopeful, as if she was holding her breath that Tam would fit into the crowd.

Heck, Tam was wondering how it would go, too. But…so far so good, right?

As other women entered and made themselves comfortable, they all small-talked, drawing a few personal details out of Tam. She’d graduated from UNLV over three years ago. She’d become a perpetual temporary worker until she could find the job of all jobs because she wasn’t about to settle for anything less, like the one she had at Dillard Marketing. Her most recent noteworthy relationship had been one year ago, lasting an amazing two months….

When the women seemed surprised at Tam’s lack of a love life, she quickly added that she was a commitmentphobe. True, it was a simplified explanation for her much deeper issues, but they bought it.

In the middle of it all, The Boot waited, gleaming under the light.

A woman who’d introduced herself as Julia Nguyen caught Tam’s curious glance.

“Shall we?” she asked the others, gesturing toward the vase and then Tam. She was slender and sat upright in her chair, her speech flavored with the cadence of Little Saigon.

“I think she’s perfect for us,” said the woman with leopard-print pumps.

Before Tam could even smile in response, Danica bounded to her side, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “Great!” Glowing, she turned to Tam. “Just promise one thing—that you won’t breathe a word about our Monday meetings outside this lounge. That’s a requirement.”

Bursting at the seams for answers, Tam nodded.

“We don’t bring our office work in here, and we don’t bring what goes on in here to the office,” said Julia Nguyen, clearly the group taskmaster.

“Got it.” Tam glanced around the room. “So why’s there a glass boot on the table, and why is it full of business cards?”

A regally husky voice behind Tam spoke up. “I’ll just make this long story short, if you girls don’t mind.”

Tam’s attention swiveled to a woman with platinum ringlets who leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, arms loosely folded over her chest. She’d already introduced herself as Pamela Hoff. Statuesque and lean, she was the queen of the lounge.

When she caught Tam’s eye, she grinned, eyebrows arching devilishly as she leaned forward. Without even a word, it was obvious that this was a tale the lady loved to tell.

“This all officially started when I went out with a man who was some kind of urban cowboy—I mean, imagine a guy from Detroit dressed in a bolo and a Shady Brady who uses a Roy Rogers lighter and talks like John Wayne. A real charmer who kept spitting tobacco into his champagne glass like it was no huge breach of social etiquette. And that’s when it hit me.” She held up her hands in a motion of epiphany. “I couldn’t take the disappointments anymore. So I told the guy that I wasn’t going to be around for a second date, then went home and made serious plans to go celibate.”

Tam could pretty much relate to that.

The woman with the leopard-print pumps snorted in patent disbelief. Teena. Yeah, that was her name. Fifteenth floor financial consultant. She’d already spelled “T-e-e-n-a” for Tam in her Southern-fried accent.

“Really, Teena, I was this close.” Pamela measured a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger. “Then the guy started calling me, as if our date had gone really well and he couldn’t catch a clue even if it was running straight at him. That was the final straw. I knew I wouldn’t last another second dating in this city if this was how it was going to go every time. I felt like I had no control anymore. So I took it back. When he sent me flowers and asked me out yet again, I responded in the only way he’d understand.”

In her lush accent, Mercedes Estevez pointed to the glass vase and said, “When he showed up at the office to see if she’d gotten the flowers…”

Everyone but Tam joined in, like it was a communal punchline. “She gave him the boot.”

They all laughed together.

“He just wasn’t getting the hint over the phone,” Pamela continued, so energized by her story that she’d pushed away from the wall, eyes sparkling and voice raised. “So I tucked his posies into the waistband of his Wrangler jeans and followed them up with this vase full of water to cool off—” her hands searched for words in the air.

“—his little cowpoke?” Teena provided.

Tam couldn’t help laughing along with everyone. A fun crowd, she thought, thinking it was good to be a part of one. For the first time, she had an inkling of what it would be like to be among her own kind.

“From that point on,” Danica added, “Pamela created a sort of dating service.” She pulled a card out of her blouse pocket. “Every week, we meet here to pool resources. You know how you go to a bar or a social event and you hit it off with a guy? He usually gives you his business card. Well, we’re putting them to good use now. If I meet a man and I know that he isn’t quite my cup of java but he still seems like a good catch, I accept his card, then write a note on the back—‘Great sense of humor, but I am morally opposed to men wearing Bugs Bunny ties.’ That sort of thing. Then I come to work on Monday—” Danica deposited her card in the vase “—put the card I acquired in The Boot, then draw a different one for me. If I like the description of the man, I call the number and yadadee, yadadoo.”

A long-haired brunette with a name Tam couldn’t recall picked up the vase and started to mix the cards lottery-style while Teena jumped in.

“We’ve pretty much screened the men for each other. It’s not a perfect system—sometimes a creep or two slimes through the cracks—but they always make for a good Monday story.”

Pamela’s voice rang out again. “And the beauty of it is that you don’t need to go into it thinking you’ll end up with this man forever.” She went back to her stance against the wall, folding her arms across her chest again. “I sure as hell don’t.”

Tam didn’t really know what to say or if this was even something she should consider taking part in. It was exciting to have a vaseful of opportunity within reach…but daunting. It’d been so long since she’d been out in the dating world. Did she even have social skills anymore?

God, she wasn’t sure. It was nice that they’d decided she was the perfect candidate, but none of them had any idea just how exhausted Tam was, just how many guys she’d tried to connect with and failed. To complicate matters, the failures were likely caused by her sabotaging the relationships before the men could abandon her.

She thought about the last pseudo-affair: John Yarborough. They’d go out for a movie and dinner, get it on, then take up where they’d left off the next weekend. The thing was, their interaction had never gone anywhere beyond the sex-and-cinema nights.

What was it about her that made people—men, her own mother—want to leave?

No matter, she thought. She’d done everything she could to protect herself from ever hurting again: taking jobs as a temp, dating a chain of guys who, in retrospect, showed no inkling of constancy….

Yet something Pamela had said stuck with Tam.

The beauty of it is that you don’t need to go into it thinking you’ll end up with this man forever.

They made it sound so easy, as if she had control over what could happen.

“Listen,” Danica said, sympathy in her gaze. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t. But I know you’re ready for this. It’s just a way to find a good time and get to know more people. Who knows? You could meet your best guy friend out there. And you can trust the recommendation of every woman here. We’re like you—decent, hardworking…a little horny.”

Echoes of amused agreement sounded throughout the room, accompanied by a couple of encouraging looks directed at Tam.

The Boot was placed back on the table.

“Why don’t you sit back and watch how it works?” Teena said. “Then you can decide if it’s what you want.”

While Tam listened as the women began their ritual by sharing their dating adventures from over the weekend, she wished she could tell them that she would give anything if they could guarantee a man who treated her as naturally and nicely as they had. A man who would allow her to finally be that footloose-and-fancy-free woman who was in charge of her own destiny and feelings, a woman who did more than just dress the part. He didn’t have to be her soul mate—jeez, she’d prefer that he wasn’t at this point, because she wasn’t ready to settle down—just a playmate would be nice.

Yeah, she thought, warming up to the idea. A light, casual thing. A baby step. She still didn’t have the energy to try for anything more yet. Not until she’d accomplished her goal of finding herself.

As the conversation continued, the women’s stories ranged from sad to optimistic to funny. A few women, including Julia Nguyen, had even planned for second dates this weekend with the same guys.

All too soon, it was time to draw from the vase. Tam held her breath as Danica went first.

Her coworker held the card up to her face; she’d left her reading glasses in the office. Squinting, she said, “Dana Didrickson, attorney at law.”

“Oooo,” Teena said. “That was mine!”

Danica lowered the card. “He’s got a girl’s name.”

“Read my comment, would you?”

Squinting again, Danica continued. “‘Polite, smart, witty, but might need a woman who is up to the challenge of dragging him away from the office.’”

Teena was shaking her finger in the air. “He’s a good one, but I’ve had my fill of workaholics.”

Tam glanced at her lap. She understood Teena all too well. Her own dad had lapsed into the office disease after divorcing her mom. True, he’d still showered Tam with affection, usually in the form of money, and he’d petitioned for custody—and won—but that didn’t mean life without him at the dinner table every night was easy.

Danica had popped to her feet, a bundle of energy. “I’m up for a challenge, baby. Bring him on!”

To applause, Teena happily went on to describe the attorney’s physical pluses while another woman drew from the vase. Three more plucked business cards out of The Boot, too, before it was Tam’s turn.

“Last draw today,” Julia Nguyen said. “Tamara, you can take a card and put it back during the week, if you want. We always keep The Boot on the table, okay?”

“Just go for it,” Milla Page said, smiling at her from across the room.

“What can it hurt?” added Mercedes Estevez.

Danica gave Tam a supportive nudge.

New friends, new experiences, a way to get out of the house, maybe even an entertaining time with someone….

What the hell.

Taking a deep breath, Tam stuck her hand inside the vase, grappled around, then came out with a card.

“Julia Nguyen?” Tam said, confused at seeing the woman’s name embossed on the thick paper.

“I had to use my own business card,” she said, clearly excited to have her recommended man in the spotlight. “Turn it over for my note.”

Tam did, hardly surprised to find an organized bulleted list of attributes. She read them out loud. “‘Gorgeous gray-blue eyes. Charmer. Dark hair that curls at the ends. Sexy. Waiter. Free spirit.’”

Free spirit. Could he show her the way? Tam’s pulse started to thump.

“He was young,” Julia said. “Late twenties, I think, and not what you would call successful yet. He’s a waiter, but talked about owning his own place a lot. When I saw that he didn’t have a card, that told me where he is in life, and it’s not where I need a man to be. Still, very, very—”

Teena interrupted. “She wouldn’t throw him outta bed for eatin’ crackers.”

Bumpity-bump. Tam’s heart wouldn’t shut up.

She would be in charge of this one, right? If she could just go into it with no expectations, she could relax and have a little fun.

What did she have to lose?

She glanced at the handwritten name and number on the card: “Kyle Sullivan. Work number: 555-8375.”

Her baby step into freedom.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, a hop skip and a jump away in Union Square, Murphy Sullivan sat at a table in Amidala, the hottest new restaurant from Chef Miike. Known for his experimental Japanese-French fusion dishes, the chef had a cooking show on The Food Channel as well as an avid following of tourists and locals alike. The menu was cutting edge and so was the decor: dark, shiny, modern furniture with avant-garde paintings and sculptures. The main dining room was tinted with chic Blade Runner-style touches, the bar lit by low, soft-blue lighting.

Now, an hour before opening, Murphy thought the clientele wouldn’t have recognized the atmosphere. Instead of seeing waiters, busboys and bartenders shined to a polish in their white jackets and black ties, they would’ve found a group of loud, raucous poker enthusiasts gathered around a linen-clad table, shouting and joking with each other. This was the time to let go—the hour before the sun began to set and the jackets would have to be buttoned. This was the time for the boys to be boys and not automatons who existed to serve.

“Well, kiss my ass!” one of the waiters yelled to the rest of the table as he slammed down his cards. “Full house!”

Murphy, the head bartender here, glanced up from the law brief he’d brought with him. He was proofing it for his day job clerking at his cousin’s firm of Doyle, Flynn and Sullivan—not that it did much good in this racket.

“You lookin’ over here, Murph?” the waiter with the winning hand asked, his black hair ruffled and his gray-blue eyes wide and teasing. Murphy’s cousin, Kyle. “I just leveled these kids. How about you come on over here to get some of that?”

Grinning, Murphy leaned back in his chair, in no hurry to move, letting his laconic attitude speak for itself.

“Aw, come on.” Kyle gathered the cards while another waiter stood behind him, marking down how much Kyle had won. “You’re the only one around here who gives me a run for my money.”

“I’m working.”

“Forget about that. You didn’t pass the bar last time, so why do you think the results are gonna be any different this time and, furthermore, that it’ll get you ahead at the firm?”

Some of the staff oohed, as if there was about to be a big street brawl. Murphy merely shook his head, seemingly amused.

Truthfully, Kyle’s words cut into him, made him anxious. He couldn’t say why. Murphy had a law degree and valuable experience at the firm under his belt; he wasn’t so much afraid he wouldn’t pass the bar this time than…what?

Damn, he didn’t want to think about what came afterward: hiring on with his cousin Ian’s law firm just as he’d always been expected to do. Going to the stifling parties, like the masquerade he’d have to attend this Sunday to network. Having the rest of his life planned out because he couldn’t let down his family by doing otherwise.

He sniffed as an enticing aroma—Chef Miike’s scallops with mushrooms over rice noodles—wafted past. Murphy closed his eyes, savoring more than just the scent. He held on to a fantasy that had no place on the path he was following—the dream of a restaurant where he could make magic in the kitchen.

As the smell disappeared, he opened his eyes again, seeing the words on the legal brief scattered before him.

Nerves rustled just under his skin, and his heart started to pound. There it was again—pressure building in him, around him, threatening from all sides. He felt as if there was a slab of rock pressing on his chest, pinning him down, stealing his freedom. He’d give his left arm to get out from under it.

But, true to form, Murphy told himself to let it go. Then he put on that carefree attitude like a cloak by resting his hands on the back of his neck, reclining farther in the chair and smiling at Kyle in a who-gives-a-crap way.

He knew it would drive his cousin nuts.

“Look at him,” Kyle said lightly, shuffling the cards and grinning at his friends. “The great hope of the Sullivans. The big brain who almost broke the bank to go to law school at fancy-pants Tulane.”

Hey, Murphy thought, he and his parents had worked long and hard to get him to the Louisiana college where he’d stayed with relatives, relied on scholarships and worked part-time to make ends meet. Murphy had even delayed enrollment a couple of years after high school graduation just to help earn his way through the school where all the Sullivan lawyers had gone. No wonder he felt so much pressure now. All the cash and hope that had been invested in him made passing the bar and succeeding that much more important.

Going to Tulane held symbolic significance in the family. The first Sullivan brothers had settled in New Orleans during the late 1800s and, gradually, after working their way up the lace-curtain ranks, two descendents had realized their dreams of opening a law practice in 1938. Having been educated at Tulane, they established a family scholarship fund for future Sullivan lawyers, thereby creating a precedent for each generation to aspire to. Sullivans who’d branched out to different areas of the country vied with each other to win the honor of attending the school, and when Murphy had made his parents proud by earning the award, the last thing he’d thought to do was refuse it or question whether it was actually the best school for him.

And while in New Orleans, he’d discovered cooking. Discovered that maybe being a lawyer wasn’t his first wish, after all.

Not that it mattered now. Murphy’s life was set, and he knew how lucky he was to have fate give him such an opportunity. After graduation, he’d moved back to San Fran to be near his close-knit family and work at his cousin Ian’s side, and all was well. For the most part.

Simmering with a low-burning frustration that seemed to get hotter each day, Murphy still didn’t let on that Kyle was getting to him. He just leaned back a little farther in that chair.

Kyle glanced over, gauging his cousin’s reaction. Not getting much of one, he shook his head and started dealing. When the maître d’, Gordon, cruised by the poker table, the waiter keeping track of the bets and winnings casually put the notepad behind his back.

“I’ve told you,” Gordon said, pointing at the cards, “no gambling here.”

Eyes wide, Kyle grinned, holding up his hands with the undealt cards still in them. “Who sees any money or poker chips, Gordie? We’re playing for fun.”

Gordon bristled, mostly because the nickname “Gordie” was beneath him. He stiffly walked away, his lips pursed.

Kyle and his comrades laughed as he finished dealing and the waiter took the scratch pad out again. One of the players, the only waitress on staff, verbally anted up while the amounts were recorded.

“Murphy,” she said in a deep smoker’s voice, “you’ve got to tell your cousin to kiss up more to Gordon.”

“Ah, Murphy doesn’t know the meaning of ‘kiss’ these days,” Kyle said, arranging his cards. “The poor boy hasn’t had any tail in—what is it now, Murphy? A millennium?”

At the keen reminder, pent-up steam whistled through Murphy’s veins. It’d been a few months, all right—ones that he’d tried to help pass with long days at the firm and the consolation prize of ambition.

Frustrated, Murphy finally stood and sauntered to the card table, glancing over another player’s shoulder. The waiter motioned for Murphy to keep his spot while he ran to the john. It was understood that he was trusting levelheaded Murphy to play out his hand without going overboard.

“Kyle’s going to grow up one day,” Murphy said, assuming the seat, “and leave the playground mentality behind.”

His cousin held up a finger. “Youth is wasted on those who don’t realize they’re gonna get old real quick.”

As Murphy got rid of two cards, he looked at Kyle. Looked at him closely.

They could’ve come out of the same womb, he and his cousin. People often commented on how much they resembled each other, even down to their athletic builds and their low voices. But they were so different it spun Murphy’s head around. Only two years separated them—Kyle was twenty-seven and he was twenty-nine—but it felt like a lifetime.

Oddly enough, Murphy kind of envied Kyle his outlook—his carpe diem nature and big dreams. Trouble was, Kyle never did anything to reach his potential, and that’s where Murphy stopped wishing he could be just a little more like his cousin.