CHAPTER 13
Hey Nineteen
Beckett’s few days in Chicago stretched into weeks. Weeks ofall-hands-on-deck, gasping-across-the-finish-line intensity. But the effortpaid off when they landed contracts with private colleges, several pro teams,and gear cleaners in the US and Canada—and interest pouring in from everywhere,including Europe. DeFunked was proving a bigger hit than either he or Joe hadexpected. Huh. Who’d have thought that marketing degree would finally payoff?
WhenBeckett, who was DeFunked’s entire sales and marketing force, finally returnedto Colorado, his former teammate T.J. offered the use of his thirty-fifth-floorluxury condo. T.J. had been traded to San Jose a while back, and the place hadsat vacant. “Stay there as long as you need,” he’d said of the furnished one-bedroomwith jaw-dropping mountain views. Beckett could have kissed him.
Thoughhe texted or talked with Andie almost daily, he’d seen little of her afterretrieving his truck. And he was okay with that. He’d been consumed withDeFunked, and she’d thrown herself into two new projects. Locking out what shemight be doing with Adrian, Beckett welcomed the distance—easier to beoblivious that way. He teetered on the brink of mayhem when it came to her. Shemuddled his brain. His reactions to her were like a jumble of tangled skatelaces he couldn’t separate. His body reacted powerfully when he fantasizedabout being with her, but the same images evoked inexplicable terror deep inhis gut. Understanding the dynamic was just out of his reach, and everythingabout it unsettled him. Being away from her helped him contain, or ignore, hisbewilderment.
Tonightwas the first Friday night in his new place and, coincidentally, his firstdowntime in a long while. As Beckett looked around theeight-hundred-square-foot space, the walls seemed to compress. He was twitchy.He needed something more than his daily workout.
“It’sFriday fucking night,” he said to himself. “All work and no play makes Becks avery grumpy boy.”
Beckettshowered and dressed, shoved his phone and wallet in his back pockets, andheaded out the door. A few blocks later, he walked into a crowded bar and wassubmerged in loud chatter. All sharp angles, glass, wood, and stainless, thedarkened space was ringed with an unbroken neon blue tube that undulated alongthe walls like an enormous worm. He liked the vibe. The squiggle was repeatedalong a bar that spanned forty feet, and it was to an empty stool along thebar’s length that he ambled.
Whenhis Maker’s arrived, he swirled the amber liquid. He sipped as he swiveled onhis perch, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Young professionals, a mix of men andwomen, clustered around high-top tables and each other. Gamesmanship waseverywhere, and he observed, amused. Wonder if Andie does the bar scene? Aninner resounding “no” slammed him.
Astatuesque blond approached him with a knowing smile. He glanced over hisshoulder, convinced the smile wasn’t for him. But she surprised him a beatlater when she put her hand on his arm.
“Youdon’t remember me, do you?”
Fuck.“I, uh …”
Sheheld out her hand for a shake, and he took it as she said, “Jazzlyn. From thecourtesy desk?”
Heransacked his brain. The Courtesy Desk? A club? Restaurant?
Laughing,she threw back platinum-blond hair that reminded him of Jayne Mansfield, the1950s sex symbol.
“Thecourtesy desk at your building?” she repeated. “The ninth floor? The gym?”
The gymin his building! A perk of living there that he’d wholly availed himself of.
“Right!I didn’t recognize you without the desk,” he said smoothly. “Jocelyn?”
Shelaughed and tossed her hair again. “No, Jazzlyn.”
“Jazzlyn,”he repeated. “I’m Beckett.”
“BeckettMiller. Yes, I know.”
“How doyou know?”
Sheraised an eyebrow.
“Right.”It’s her job to know. I’m unquestionably a total fucking moron.
“Have youbeen here before?” she asked.
“No.It’s my first time. Hey, can I buy you a drink?”
Hersmile broadened, showing lots of big, straight white teeth. “I’d love one.”
An hourlater, they were settled in a New American Cuisine restaurant a few blocks fromthe bar. Waiters bustled around them, and clinking glasses and silverwarepunctuated the din. Beckett stared at the very pretty blond sitting across anintimate table from him. She was talking animatedly about something—what thehell was she saying?—and his eyes traveled from her mouth to her chest. Shewouldn’t mind that his gaze continually drifted there—the top she worebroadcast as much.
Thewaitress appeared with menus. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
Heraised his eyebrows expectantly at Jayne Mansfield. “Another appletini?”
Shenodded enthusiastically. Beckett ordered a Maker’s and took the wine list thewaitress offered.
“Do youlike wine, Jayne—uh, Jasmine?”
“Jazzlyn,”she giggled, “I only like white wine.” She crinkled her pert nose. “The sweeter,the better.”
He putthe wine menu aside. He couldn’t read it without holding it at arm’s lengthanyway. “So what do you do for fun? Do you like music?”
“I’mpracticing for the Broncos cheerleading tryouts in March. That’s most of themusic I listen to. You?” She flashed him a big TV smile. Ready for herclose-ups. He pictured her kicking up a long leg, shaking shinyblue-and-orange pom-poms. Funny. It didn’t do much for him. If he were cokedup, would the image get a rise? Had the women always been like this one,and cocaine was the real reason he turned into a horndog around them?
“Beckett?”
Hesnapped back. “Me? I love all types of music. Classical—”
“Likethe Beatles?”
“No.Like Debussy, Handel, Ravel.” He drummed his fingers on the table. Where’smy damn drink?
“Ihaven’t heard of those guys.” She frowned as if the thought hurt her head.
“Yeah,well, they’re dead.”
“Oh.Suicide? Like Avicii?”
Hisbrain froze. A part-grunt, part-snort escaped him, mercifully masked by theshrill laugh of a diner seated at a table alongside theirs.
“Sotell me about working at the building. Do you like it?” Lame, but it was all hecould come up with.
“Uh-huh.I get to meet lots of interesting people.” She smiled coyly before launchinginto the minutiae of her daily routine.
Whileshe talked, he
