Hedging His Bets Read online

  “So?” she asks, sipping her pinot.

  I rock my head from side to side, as if deliberating. “Show me your bag.” She holds up a black clutch—I know the style because she’s told me before. The top of the purse is folded like an envelope, the triangle red, with a button to match her shoes. “I’d say you’re like a seven.”

  “Seven? I’ll take it!”

  I try not to let my smile show. My night just improved ten-fold. Jess is my favorite person in England. My reason for being here these days, I guess you could say.

  “How was the show?”

  “Not bad. I think I have an order from one of the designers.”

  “That’s awesome.” I hold up my ale. “To you.”

  “Cheers.” I love how she says that. It’s so British. So Jess. “Are you going to give me the lowdown? I saw the woman with the big boobs you were talking to when I arrived.”

  I shake my head as I take a drink. Then I say, “Airhead.”

  “That’s never stopped you.”

  “You think very little of me.”

  “Babe, don’t be offended. That’s just because I know you.”

  Laughing, I tuck her under my arm and we make our way over to Sean, Abby and Tim.

  “We’ve already lost Alex to a too-skinny blonde with legs the length of Niagara,” I tell her.

  “The length of Viagra?”

  I look down to her, even in her heels, and roll my eyes. “You can do better than that.”

  “That’s fair. I’ll try harder.” Harder. Ha.

  “Is there another bad joke coming?” I ask.

  She smirks and I know she’s focused on the word coming. I know because I am too. Viagra. Harder. Coming. I almost groan.

  An hour later, we find Alex on the dancefloor in a Soho club. He’s holding on to the blonde’s hips as she grinds her ass into his crotch.

  Jess clinks her gin and tonic against mine. It’s that time of night; we’ve switched from wine to clear spirits. “All right, Jakey, let’s play.”

  “What’s the bet?”

  She turns on the spot. I know she’s considering the women in the club. “Her. There. Pretty black dress. Pink lips. Wavy dark hair.”

  “She’s hot.”

  “She is. I’ll bet you can’t get her number in the next five minutes.”

  I drain the gin in my glass. “Five minutes?” I assess the girl. She looks confident. She’s very attractive. You might think that would give me less of a chance. But the thing is, I know women. I know that the most attractive women don’t get chatted up like their more average-looking friends. Good looks intimidate men, make them think, Why would I put myself out there in a club for what is probably no more than a one-night stand, and risk being turned down in front of my friends? And they ultimately decide, there’s no reason to try. They’re safer betting on plainer women. But that’s why, when you do talk to the pretty girl, she’s flattered. That’s why I’ll win this bet.

  “Deal,” I say, turning back to Jess. “Best get yourself a tequila shot ready.”

  I move off, feeling Jess’s eyes burning into me. The girl in the little black dress is laughing with a group of friends. She’s more attractive up close.

  I only have five minutes, so after checking that the fourth finger of her left hand is jewelry free, I go right in for the kill. I slide my hand along the small of the girl’s back but I don’t speak to her first, I speak to her friends. That’s the in. Let the friends do some of the hard work for you. Let them smile approvingly. Get their attention. Then let the target know that, despite all her friends, who usually get chatted up, you want her.

  “Evening, ladies.” Cue the smile. “It’s quite clear to me you’re having a sophisticated girls’ night.” The compliment. “But I couldn’t help noticing your friend here from across the bar.” Now I look at the target and turn my big smile to a half, sexier smile. “Hi, I’m Jake.”

  Her eyes widen a little. I’ve nailed her right on. She’s surprised by my approach. “Aria,” she says, holding out her hand. I take it but kiss her cheek.

  “That’s a beautiful name. Is it British?”

  “Actually, my parents are Irish and Italian.”

  “Ah, I thought there was something a little exotic about you.” I turn back to her friends. “I don’t want to interrupt your night. And I’m not the kind of guy who thinks you find anything lasting in a club.” I see the swooning look about her friends’ faces. “But, if it’s okay with you, Aria, I’d like to take your number. Maybe I could take you out sometime?”

  Her cheeks seem to flush. I’ve gotten to her. Which means I’ll also be walking away with her number.

  When I get back to Jess, she’s already holding her shot of tequila in one hand and a lemon in the other. “You’re too smooth-talking for your own damn good, Jake.”

  I flash her a wink and tell the bartender to set down another shot. I can’t let her drink alone.

  We each lick salt from our hands then Jess counts us down. “Three, two, one.”

  Tequila.

  The burn.

  Lemon.

  “Ah, that stuff never gets better,” I say, laughing at Jess’s screwed-up face and the way she bangs a foot on the floor.

  “Time to dance?” she asks, once I’m convinced her shot is staying down.

  We move into the crowd of sweating people drunk dancing. I take Jess’s hand, making sure she’s with me as we find the others. Abby immediately accosts Jess. I start dancing around like a fool. A fool who is high on life. I do the running man. The dancing bear.

  A girl sticks her ass in my crotch and I give her thirty seconds before getting back to my own thing and sending her on her way. The type of girl who is willing to stick her ass in just any man’s crotch is probably riddled with STIs. Stay well away from that shit!

  I watch Jess move, her head dropped back, her arms above her head. She looks happy. Carefree. And—I can say this because we’re friends—damn hot.

  Some guy obviously agrees because he worms up to her, his hands around her waist. His dick against her ass. She smiles but lifts his hands from her hips. He doesn’t take the hint, reaffirming his grip. She tries to wiggle free. When it doesn’t work, her eyes meet mine.

  I step toward her and take her hands, tugging her to me. Glaring at the jerk behind her, I tell him, “Take your fucking hands off my girlfriend.”

  The guy quickly shifts his attention from Jess to me. He looks me up and down, I suspect realizing I’m six two and seeing that I’m ripped beneath my black shirt, since it’s fitted and tucked into my gray slacks. He holds up his hands and backs off.

  I pull Jess tighter into me and she slots her legs either side of mine, fitting me like a glove. It’s not like we’re not up for dirty dancing, we just don’t want to dirty dance with sweaty, pissed-up strangers. It’s kind of an agreement we have. If one of us is stuck with someone in a bar or a club, we pull out the boyfriend or girlfriend card. Most often, it’s me telling men to keep their fucking paws off my girl but sometimes it cuts both ways.

  The track changes to one of Bieber’s latest dance tunes and I know Jess will ramp up the moves. She loves Bieber, no matter that I tell her she’s too old for him at thirty. I will admit—to you, not her—that his latest stuff isn’t awful. Keep that to yourself!

  I hold her waist as she leans back, her arms waving, her hips grinding into me. We dance together until she calls time for another shot.

  The bartender sets alight to two shots of Sambuca on the bar. I count us in this time and we shoot. The fire heats my throat and tips me over the edge from friendly drunk to horny. I watch Jess’s neck as she swallows, knowing how good her skin tastes. Knowing that when she’s had Sambuca our nights together are sensational.

  She brings her head forward and opens her eyes to mine. As if we’re completely in sync,
which we usually are, her lids seem heavy. Her pupils dilate. “Is it home time?” she asks.

  I take her shot glass from her and step to her as I place it on the bar. I drag my hands down her back and roughly pull her hips into me. “It’s home time.”

  She laughs, the sound reverberating against my lips. “So serious.”

  “Fucking you is no laughing matter.”

  Her laughter disappears as she crashes her mouth against mine. I part her lips with my tongue and tug her harder against me. “Home. Now,” I growl.

  On the street, we try to flag a cab but none of them have their lights on. We head down to Embankment and start walking by the Thames in the direction of home, our conversation interspersed with the kind of kisses that have my cock rock-solid.

  By the time we make it to our building, I’m so fucking hard it’s painful. She unlocks the apartment door. The lights are out and there’s no noise. Alex is still out, or maybe not coming home. I pick her up, wrapping her legs around my waist, ramming her back against the door and devouring her mouth as she frantically unbuttons my shirt. She wants this as much as I do. It’s hardly a surprise. Our sex is out of this world. The best part of sleeping with your best friend is that you can tell each other exactly what you want.

  I know her now. I know how much pressure she likes when my fingers are inside her. I know the action she wants from my tongue as I lick her clit. I’m fully aware of the effect I have on her when I pull her nipples through my teeth. I appreciate every curve and sweet spot of her body. She knows mine too.

  She pushes my shirt over my arms and I kick off my shoes. “You can leave yours on,” I tell her.

  She pulls on my hair, tugging my head to the side so she can kiss and nip my neck. I fucking love when she does that. “You want me standing up?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I fucking do.”

  “Bedroom then.”

  I nod as I press my lips to hers again and carry her to my room. I set her down, facing her as we stand in front of my king bed. I shamelessly watch in the floor-length mirror I’ve purposely positioned to the side of the bed as she unbuckles and takes down my pants. I unfasten her blouse, one button at a time, tasting each inch of her skin as it’s exposed.

  “You smell like you,” I tell her, lifting my feet out of my pants and socks. “I prefer you in Chanel.”

  “I keep the D&G for work now,” she says. I hear the smile in her voice.

  When I get to her navel, she moans under the press of my lips as I knew she would. Goosebumps form on her skin and she grips my hair harder. “Jake.”

  “I’ve got you, babe,” I whisper, undoing her jeans. I draw them down her legs, continuing the trail of my mouth against her skin. I take off her shoes, first one then the other, to get her out of her jeans. Then I slip them back on her feet. I rise, rubbing my hands up her sides, appreciating her black lace underwear, the soft skin of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the flatness of her stomach.

  I pull down the cup of her bra, just enough to turn my tongue around her nipple and bite the end. “You know what I need, Jake.”

  She bends, pulling my boxer briefs to the floor. She stays down there and starts to put me in her mouth. I stop her, holding her chin. “Not before I’ve showered, babe.”

  She looks up through her lashes, not offended but knowing. I can’t do that to Jess. Maybe some one-night lay but not Jess. Instead, she wraps her hand around my cock and works me, how I like it, turning her thumb around the head.

  “I want to fuck you. Now.”

  When she stands, I turn her quickly, pulling her back against me. I take the pins from her hair, letting it fall down her back as I kiss her neck, her shoulders. I unhook her bra and she lets it fall to the floor.

  “Take this off,” I direct, hooking my thumbs into the sides of her thong. She bends, sliding it slowly down her legs, teasing me with her naked ass.

  I bring my hand down against the plump flesh of her cheek and enjoy her whimper. We hadn’t been at this long before we realized we both got off on spanking.

  In a flash, I grab a condom from the drawers behind us, handing it to her. Then I pull her back into me and push two fingers inside her, drawing the wetness of her own excitement up to her clit. She leans back into me, kissing me across her shoulder, whimpering into my mouth as I groan into hers.

  “I’m ready, Jake. I want it.”

  I bite her neck as I nod and she turns, bending to roll a condom down my cock. She stands, kisses me, and turns her back on me. I position myself under her, and push into her on one, satisfying-as-hell thrust. “Jess. Fuck. You feel so sweet.”

  “I want it hard tonight, Jake. Give me your best.”

  I smile into the crook of her neck. I love how she speaks to me. How she tells me exactly what she needs from me. “You asked for it, babe.”

  Pinning her to me with one hand on her hip, the other on the perfect handful of her breast, I ram into her over and fucking over, until our bodies slide against each other, until our legs are weakened, and we both come loudly, kissing through the orgasm.

  * * * *

  I wake under the heat of London’s sun, even though my blind is drawn. That’s the first clue that it’s late morning. Starfish on my bed, on top of the sheets, I shake my head quickly from side to side, assessing the extent of my hangover. I’m groggy but I’ve had worse.

  The next thing to hit me is the sound of…waves? Crashing waves?

  In case I need to state the obvious, there should not be crashing waves in the center of London city. I grumble to myself as I drag my ass up to sit. After taking ten seconds to come around, I push myself to my feet and find a pair of sweatpants to pull on.

  As I walk the corridor, the sound of waves changes to something like animals in a jungle; I notice Alex’s bedroom door is open and his bed made. I assume he stayed in the blonde’s bed last night. I’m struck by the smell of burning bacon as I near the living room.

  When I open the door, the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes me squint. Jess is sitting in the middle of the living room, on the rug. She’s wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt. Her legs are crossed beneath her and her hands resting on her knees. Her eyes are closed and I notice her iPhone in the docking speakers, which I can only guess is where the sound of a howler monkey is coming from.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Shh, I’m trying to get back into meditation.”

  “Christ. Another fad. Why do I smell burning bacon?”

  “Oh, fuck.” She springs up from the rug and runs to our small kitchen. I follow her in there as she takes a grill tray from the oven. The fat of the English bacon—not streaky like in the US—is crispy but not altogether destroyed. “Help yourself,” she says. “I’m having a meat day today because I’m trying out vegan for a week starting tomorrow.”

  I move behind her, threading my arms through hers to grab a piece of crispy pig. “Why in God’s name are you trying vegan and meditating?”

  She turns in my arms, her back pressed to the kitchen counter. “I’m finding myself,” she says, laughing as she bites the end of a piece of bacon.

  “Seemed like I was finding you last night.”

  She pushes my chest and sets about making us bacon “butties” in her words. A buttie is just a bread roll. I don’t get why she calls it that. It’s a Jess-ism I guess. “You don’t need to find me. You know me.”

  “Very true.”

  “I’m going to a tai chi class later. You want to come?”

  “Absolutely not. Thanks though.” I take a buttie from the plate in front of her and head into the living room. “Can I turn off the monkeys?”

  “Yeah, I’m sufficiently cleansed for the day, I think.”

  She comes into the room and nestles into one corner of the sofa, opposite me. “Formula One okay?” I ask, fishing the TV remote from behind
the sofa cushion.

  “Mmm,” she nods, chomping down on her food. “For sure.”

  I flick on the flat-screen and we spend the next hour watching Hamilton thrash everyone else on the course. The other great thing about our arrangement is that there’s no awkward next day. There’s never a question of whether one of us wants more. She’s emotionally scarred and I’m too sensible to be burned by a woman again. End of.

  Chapter 3

  Jake

  Ah, Mondays. The reason God made Friday night, Saturday and Sunday—He felt so bad about creating Monday.

  I set my takeout coffee cup down on my desk and boot-up the inevitable—a full inbox. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate my job. In fact, I love working for one of the world’s largest hedge funds. It just takes me a while to get going on a Monday morning, that’s all.

  Before taking a seat, I hang my suit jacket on the hook in my office, dump my gym stuff in a drawer, and look out over St. James’s Park. Have I mentioned that my office is small but I have a killer view? Well, I do. And because I am in the office before the London stock markets open for trading, I get to watch people waking themselves up with a morning run, a dog walk, a coffee and stroll.

  It may have been a last-minute choice to change from the New York office of Gold Rock Investments to the London office, but I am glad I made the decision. London is like New York in so many ways. Tall buildings, busy lives. But it seems brighter somehow. Less claustrophobic. And I think it’s funny watching the kind of Brits you find in the Chelsea and Kensington Borough…the kind I work for…walking with a pole so far up their ‘arse’ they look like toy soldiers.

  The best thing about London, though, is that I haven’t been betrayed here. Sure, I miss my folks out on Staten Island. I miss my brother and friends. But here, I’m not reminded every day of the girl I loved and lost.

  “Here he is, my best trader.” Marcus Benedetti, also known as my boss, comes into my office. “For you.” He sets a white envelope on my desk. “Great month, last month.” As he heads back out of my office, he asks me if I had a good weekend, his words coming from along our eighth-floor corridor. I don’t bother answering.