Page 54 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthony
I wish I’d never left Tempérane. Ryder’s yacht party is being hosted by some big-shot Hollywood producer who just inherited a metric ton of money and wants to celebrate. When Ryder heard I was arriving early, he sent a helicopter to pick me up from the airport and bring me to the party, the bird landing neatly on the helipad.
The yacht is enormous, and alive with tanned and oiled bodies. A lot of women haven’t bothered with bikini tops, reminding me of Spain. The sound system blares out dance tunes nonstop. Top-shelf booze flows freely, and the intoxicated crowd is hopping and gyrating to the music, raising their drinks in the air. And it isn’t even five in the afternoon.
Happy fucking Hollywood life!
“This is the shit!” Ryder says, a fresh glass of scotch in his hand. A huge grin splits his disgustingly handsome face. It’s almost scary how good-looking the bastard is, not just facially but physically as well. And the craziest thing is he didn’t have any plastic surgery, contrary to what a lot of people think. He’s one hundred percent natural, and doesn’t have to use anything to look good—clothes, props, anything—because it’s him who makes them look good. I’ve seen him roll out of bed and still look like he could be on the cover of GQ.
But it’s impossible to hate the guy. He’s too fun, too easygoing. And instead of relying on his looks to cruise through life, he isn’t afraid of work.
“It’s nice,” I say, still nursing my first drink. I can’t knock back alcohol the way Ryder does. He’s impervious to the stuff.
“Why so glum, dude?” he asks loudly over the music.
“Because.” I miss the lovely hours I spent listening to Ivy play Chopin and Liszt. Or the quiet hours when she napped with her head in my lap. Or the sizzling hours we spent in bed, exploring and figuring out each other’s bodies.
Ryder gives me a look, then elbows me lightly. “You miss your girl.”
I fake laugh, a laugh that says everything’s great in my world, really. “Yes. I do.”
“I was looking forward to meeting her. Sorry she’s sick.”
The lie makes me feel bad. But how do I tell him the truth, that Ivy’s too angry with me to fly out and meet my best buddy? Or tell him what she said about deciding she made a mistake, the possibility of which is haunting me?
She isn’t going to leave you,I tell myself. She wanted to know where you were.
But she never said anything else.
“Got a pic?” Ryder says.
“Ha.” I pull out my phone, which I’ve been carrying around in case she calls or texts. The first thing it shows is her face on my lock screen. I took the shot when she was playing Grand Galop Chromatique. I thumb through and show him more shots, most of them of her at the piano or napping. My favorite is one of her in the morning. She looks so tender and vulnerable and sweet…but that’s too private, so I skip it.
Ryder gives a low whistle. “She’s a babe. No wonder you’re crazy about her.”
“Ivy’s perfect,” I say, a smile on my lips as love swells in my chest.
“Cute dimple. Gives her face a little extra something.”
“That’s not a dimple, it’s a mole.”
He leans close to the phone, squinting a bit. “Oh yeah… Well, whatever. You’re done, dude. Totally whipped.” Ryder laughs, slapping me on the back. “Look at that shit-eating grin.”
Let him tease. I don’t give a damn. I do love her, and I don’t care if everyone at this party knows. “She’s amazing. Plays the meanest piano.”
“That’s awesome.”
“She’ll debut at Carnegie Hall one day,” I say proudly, because I know she will. She’s too talented, too hardworking not to.
“She can still come out, if you want. I could send a private jet over. That chick over there”—Ryder points out a tall redhead with a stunning body—“has one I can borrow.” He considers for a moment. “Actually…I’ll probably have to pay her.”
“How is it borrowing if you have to pay?”
“I mean with sex. But hey, no sacrifice is too great for a friend.”
It’s tempting, but I’m still not ready to tell Ivy everything…and she’ll expect that if I ask her to join me now. “Maybe next time. I don’t know how she’d feel about having to travel. Kind of a long flight…”
“Your call,” Ryder says, shrugging. “Just take her back something nice. Makes up for not bringing her, plus every girl expects a gift when her guy goes out of town.”
Ivy is definitely expecting something, but it isn’t a gift. I realize I won’t be able to return home without making a decision—either tell her everything and bear her disgust, or stay silent and bear her disappointment and anger.
Scylla and Charybdis. Either way, I’m going to be screwed.
