I grew up in the suburbs outside of Boston, so the odds of me ever seeing a tornado were about as good as the chances of my parents getting back together.
This morning, I finally get to witness one.
The tornado’s name is Kamal Jain. He bursts into the hotel bar in a blur of gray and black, offering fleeting glimpses of white teeth and brown skin and stubby fingers that he waves at the server as he flies past her.
The vortex grinds to a halt to reveal the short, stocky figure of Kamal Jain, and it takes serious effort to keep my jaw hinged because it turns out he’s not wearing gray and black.
It’s slate and charcoal, as Summer would say.
And it’s the same fucking outfit I tried on last night. The first one, which Summer advised me to forsake in favor of what I’m wearing now: dark-blue Ralph Lauren jeans, a Marc Jacobs dress shirt with no tie, and brown Gucci loafers. Summer would be proud that I remembered each designer’s name and can link it to his corresponding clothing item.
Thank God I didn’t go with the first outfit, or this interview would’ve started off a touch awkward.
“Colin!” Kamal greets me with enthusiasm, pumping my hand in a shake that lasts the entire time he speaks. “So good to meet you! Look at you—you’re huge! You look way smaller in the picture I have of you. In person you’re a giant!”
“Picture?” I say blankly.
“My assistant grabbed your hockey mug shot off the net. Is it called a mug shot? I don’t know. How tall are you? Six-one? Six-two?”
“Six-two—”
“Six-two, I bet. I’m five-eight, just a little fella with a big bank account, right?” He guffaws at his own joke. “Let’s grab a seat?”
“Sure,” I say, although I doubt he hears me. It seems like Kamal Jain mostly talks to himself, and you’re just along for the ride.
The Ritz bar resembles one of those gentlemen’s cigar clubs you see in the movies. A few round booths span one wall, but for the most part it’s padded leather armchairs tucked throughout the room to provide the illusion of privacy for patrons. There’s even a roaring fire in the fireplace, a real one, which crackles as the server leads us past it.
We settle in a pair of chairs in the corner of the room. Kamal orders a vodka tonic. It’s ten thirty in the morning, but I don’t comment on it. No way am I criticizing my potential employer’s morning beverage selection. Also, I’m a bit starstruck, so speaking might be a challenge in general. I’ve seen this man’s face on the cover of magazines. I’ve followed his career for years. It’s surreal to be sitting across from someone I’ve admired from afar for so long.
“Thank you for coming all this way to see me, Mr. Jain,” I start.
“Mr. Jain! We already discussed this, man—call me Kamal or KJ. ‘Mister’ gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too authoritarian for my liking.”
“Sorry. Kamal.” I decide to be upfront with the guy. I suspect he might appreciate it. “I’m sorry. I’m almost embarrassed by how hard I’m fan-boying right now.”
He gives a loud laugh. “Oh, trust me, I can relate. One time I met Stan Lee at a comic book convention, and I almost came in my pants. Swear to God, I felt a tingle in the dingle.”
I stifle a snicker. “Well, luckily you were able to control yourself,” I say helpfully.
“Barely! That man’s a legend. I’m divorcing my parents and hoping he’ll adopt me.”
The snicker slips out. I already knew from the interviews I’ve seen with him that Kamal has no brain-to-mouth filter. But experiencing it in person is a whole other spectacle.
“Is that a Marc Jacobs?” He gestures to my shirt. “Great fit, bomb cuffs—pricey. Hope you didn’t clean out your savings account for li’l ol’ me. You’re in college, you can’t afford frivolous purchases yet, Colin. I’ll get my assistant to send you a check of reimbursement.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—”
“All right,” he interrupts, “I’ve got four more minutes. Let’s do this fast.”
Four minutes? He literally just sat down.
I wonder what it’s like to be SO IMPORTANT that you fly to Boston for a five-minute meeting before having to board the old company jet again.
For the next three minutes, Kamal launches questions at me as if he’s firing an interview rifle. They seem to have no rhyme or reason. Jumping from one topic to another before I can blink and only allowing me about ten seconds to answer before firing again.
Who are your artistic influences?
What’s your favorite movie?
Do you eat meat?
Would you be willing to work weekends if needed?
What do you think of No Man’s Sky?
Would you consider yourself a jock?
In fact, the jock issue comes up in at least three questions. I get the distinct sense that Kamal is anti-athlete. Bullied by a jock or two in high school, I suspect.
I can’t tell if I answered a single question correctly, or to his liking. Whereas Kamal moves and talks like a tornado, the interview itself is a tsunami, slamming into me without warning and retreating just as fast.
Before I can blink, he’s shooting to his feet and pumping my hand again. “Can you be in Manhattan in a few weeks?”
“Um, I’m not sure. It depends on my game schedule—”
“It’s a Thursday night—you play on Thursdays?” He frowns. It’s evident that the biggest strike against me right now is hockey.
“No, but…” I wrinkle my forehead. “What’s in Manhattan?” Have I gotten the job? Am I supposed to start working that day? My cover letter clearly stated I couldn’t start until after graduation.
“I’m hosting a fundraiser at the Heyward Plaza Hotel. It’s to raise awareness for autism. No, it’s a kids-with-leukemia event. Autism is in April,” he babbles. “April Autism Awareness—my fucking team loves their alliteration. I’ve invited the other candidates I’m considering. Only three others now. Two didn’t impress me in the face-to-face.”
And I did? I’m legit baffled. I can’t fathom how he was able to judge me one way or the other, given the length of the interview and the absurdity of his questions.
“It’s between the four of you now. The leukemia event will let me gauge how you network.”
Aw crap. I’m not good at networking. At all.
“Plus, it’ll be fun as fuck. Open bar, lots of ladies. You have a plus one if you’ve got a girl at home, but I recommend leaving her at said home…” He winks, and I hide my distaste.
It’s no secret that Kamal is a womanizer. According to an article I read, he almost married his college sweetheart about ten years ago but didn’t go through with it because she refused to sign a prenup. Since then, he’s been photographed “canoodling” with a Leonardo DiCaprio-amount of supermodels, along with several actresses and heiresses.
“My assistant will email you the invitation. If you don’t RSVP, I’ll assume you’re removing yourself from the running.” He slaps my shoulder. “But nobody is that stupid, so…” He grins widely. “I’ll see you next month.”
He tornadoes out of the bar in another blur of motion, leaving me standing there alone. Two seconds later, the server returns with a tray holding Kamal’s vodka and my coffee.
She stares at me in confusion. “Oh. Your party had to leave? Do you still…?” She lifts the tray slightly. “The tab’s already been paid.”
I look at the coffee cup, then at the glass tumbler. Screw it. Who cares if it’s early.
I reach for the vodka tonic and down it in one long swig.
“Five minutes,” I tell my friends later that night. We’re all jammed in a booth at Malone’s. Directly under a speaker too, which means I have to raise my voice to be heard over the Drake track blasting in the bar. “It lasted five minutes. I checked my watch.”
“Time is money,” says Hollis.
“I don’t even know how the interview went,” I say with a loud groan. “Seriously. I got no indication one way or the other if he even liked me.”
“Of course he did,” Summer says firmly. She’s on the other side of the booth, sandwiched between Hunter and Matt Anderson. “He wouldn’t have invited you to the fundraiser if the interview had gone poorly.”
“Time is money,” Hollis says again.
Nate knocks him on the back of the head. “Cut it out with that nonsense. Just ’cause Fitzy met a billionaire today doesn’t make you a billionaire by association.”
“If he wasn’t serious about hiring you, he wouldn’t have flown all that way to meet you in person,” Matt points out. “He woulda sent an underling.”
“Not necessarily,” I counter. “He was a poor kid from Detroit when he designed his first game—he actually stole a lot of the parts he needed to build his own computer. The company is his baby. I think he takes a hands-on role as often as he can.”
“Either way, we’re here tonight to celebrate that you caught the eye of a major game designer and that’s amazing,” Summer declares. “Even if you don’t get the job, it’s an honor that you were even considered.”
“Let’s toast!” Hollis pipes up, raising his pint glass. “Time is money!”
Nobody participates in his toast, but I take pity on the guy and tap my Sam Adams bottle against his glass. It was Hollis’ idea to go out and celebrate, and as much as I don’t like being the center of attention, I’m touched that he’s so supportive of me. I think he’s more thrilled than I am at the possibility that I might snag a position at Orcus Games.
Luckily, the bar isn’t too crowded tonight, probably because we didn’t have a game. Malone’s tends to be a Briar hockey bar, though we do get the occasional football player in here. Typically, though, the football guys prefer their off-campus houses to the very pathetic Hastings nightlife. They’re notorious for their house parties. Me, I prefer the bar. Means I don’t have to clean up after anyone. Plus, the beer is cheap and Friday nights they have half-price wings.
“Oh, fine,” Summer relents, raising her glass to Mike’s. “Time is money!”
She flashes me a wink and a smile, and my insides promptly melt like butter on a hot pan. She has the kind of smile that makes a man want to start writing very bad poetry. Dazzling and genuine and as beautiful as the rest of her.
I’ve been in a permanent state of semi-hardness since we got here. When we left the house, Summer looked like a snowman, bundled up in parka with a fur hood, gloves, scarf, the whole winter shebang. Then we got to Malone’s, where she unzipped the coat and removed the rest of the gear to reveal skinny jeans that cling to her impossibly long legs and a boner-inducing crop top. The top is a halter-style one that leaves both her back and midriff completely bare. It’s amazing.
“Brenna texted she’s here,” Summer says, checking her phone. “Do you guys see her?
“My Juliet has arrived!” Hollis says happily.
Hunter snickers. “Dude. She’s not interested.”
“Really? Because I seem to remember her looking very interested when she walked into my bedroom last week…and looking very satisfied when she walked out of it…” He waggles his eyebrows.
Summer flicks one of Matt’s French fries at Hollis. “One—no locker room talk, please. Two—Hunter’s right.”
“I’m always right,” Hunter says.
“Where is she…” Summer twists around, flashing the bare expanse of her back.
Jesus. It’s as pretty as the rest of her. Delicate shoulder blades. Smooth, tanned skin.
My semi turns into a fully as I envision kissing my way down the bumps of her spine until my lips reach the top of her perfect ass. I’d use my hands to squeeze it. Hmmm, and what would I do with my mouth…maybe I’d nibble on one of her firm, round ass cheeks.
Motherfucker. Thank God the booth’s table covers my lower body, because I’m hard as a rock now.
“Why are you guys hidden in the corner?” Brenna demands when she finally appears. “How am I supposed to ogle all the hot men if I can’t see them?”
“You can ogle me,” Hollis offers.
She ignores him and scopes out the seating situation. When she realizes neither side of the booth can accommodate her, she shrugs and grins at me. “Guess you can be my chair, Fitz.”
My mouth opens to voice a protest, but it’s too late. She’s already plopping onto my lap.
Brenna’s eyes widen.
She squeaks in surprise, and I curl my fingers around her hip and shoot her a warning look. If she says one word about the erection pressing against her left butt cheek, I’ll be the target of my teammates’ ragging until the end of time.
“What is it?” Summer asks in concern.
Brenna recovers quickly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you. I think I’m sitting on your phone, Fitz.” She makes a big show of shifting around, then slides her hand in my pocket and pulls out my phone. “This was digging into my butt.”
“Hot,” Hollis says.
She ignores him again, probably because she’s focused on fishing her own phone out of the pocket of her black hoodie. The sweatshirt is half unzipped, revealing the tops of a black lacy bra. Only Brenna would wear a zip-up with nothing but a bra underneath.
She texts something one-handed, and I stifle a resigned sigh when my phone buzzes. I nonchalantly read the message.
BRENNA: Please please tell me that boner isn’t because of me!
The sigh slips out.
When she raises her eyebrow, I quickly type, No.
Ha. She’d eat any man alive. And for some reason, I feel the stupid need to justify why I have a boner. Or rather, had, because the poor fella has retreated like a Confederate soldier.
BRENNA: Think about Hollis. That always kills my desire
I laugh out loud, causing everyone to look in my direction.
“What’s so funny?” Summer asks lightly.
I set the phone on the table and pick up my beer bottle. “Nothing. A friend just sent me a funny meme.”
“Your mean your girlfriend?” Summer’s tone doesn’t sound as light and airy anymore. A darker note threads through it, something I can’t quite decipher.
Nate looks surprised. “You have a girlfriend? Since when?”
“Is she hot?” asks Hollis.
Brenna wads up a napkin and throws it at him.
He catches it easily. “Hey, it’s a valid question.”
She sighs. “It’s never a valid question when it comes from you.”
“She’s pretty,” Summer says grudgingly.
I’m a bit lost. I thought this was a joke conversation, but obviously she’s referring to a real person. Suddenly it occurs to me. “Oh, you mean Nora?”
Summer’s mouth flattens in thin line. “Yup.”
“You don’t sound like a fan,” Nate says, lips twitching in humor.
She shrugs, reaching for her vodka cranberry. She takes a demure sip, and I see every guy in the booth eyeing her lips. “I think she’s condescending. And she was rude to me because I admire a Nazi sympathizer.”
Hunter chokes on his beer mid-sip. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Chanel,” Summer explains. “Chanel’s my idol, and Fitz’s girlfriend—”
“Not my girlfriend—”
“—wouldn’t shut up in class about how Chanel was a wartime criminal.” Summer juts her chin stubbornly. “Allegedly.”
Nate snorts.
“How dare she,” Brenna says mockingly.
“Wait, this is your girlfriend?” Matt asks me.
“No. We went on one date,” I say in aggravation. “I doubt there’ll be a second one.”
Summer’s contemplative gaze fixes on me. “No?”
I shrug. “Probably not.”
Nora and I have texted a few times since we went for drinks, but to be honest I’m not feeling the click. Nora’s really nice, but the chemistry isn’t quite there. I’m usually a believer that two dates are required before you completely write someone off. People are always nervous on the first date. Maybe Nora was anxious, and that’s why the conversation felt so stilted.
When she suggested we go out again, I said yes, but I haven’t followed up on it. Now I’m not sure if I will. The fact that I jerk off every morning to fantasies of another girl kinda tells me everything I need to know about my feelings for Nora.
“Okay, clearly our server is never coming back,” Brenna announces, sliding off my lap. “I’m going to order a drink at the bar.”
“I’ll come with you,” Summer offers, and Matt gets up to let her out of the booth.
We all turn to admire the two girls as they walk away. Two pairs of skinny jeans means two amazing asses for us to salivate over, and the sleek bare skin of Summer’s back is an added bonus. It means she’s not wearing a bra, and my mouth turns to sawdust as another dirty image flies into my brain—Summer’s naked tits jiggling softly with each sultry step she takes.
Nate gives a low whistle. “Da-yum. They really are the hottest girls in this place.”
“Everyone wants to kick our asses,” Matt agrees, smiling ruefully.
“Eh. We can take them,” Hunter assures him. That’s not an exaggeration. Summer and Brenna might be the hottest girls in the bar, but we’re the biggest guys in the bar.
From the corner of my eye, I see the girls approach the counter. Another shadow crosses my peripheral. I glance over and hide a frown. Some guy in a black polo shirt is chatting up Brenna, who touches his forearm and says something that makes him guffaw loudly.
“She is smokin’,” Hollis says with a heavy, soul-sucking sigh. His blue eyes are locked on Brenna.
“Aw, why so glum, chum?” Nate mocks.
“Yeah, you should be wearing a perma-smile because that gorgeous chick actually fooled around with you,” Hunter pipes up. “That’s probably how Jesus felt when he turned water into wine.”
Matt and Nate snicker.
Hollis flips up his middle finger, but he doesn’t offer his characteristic douchebag response. He simply picks up his glass.
I lift one eyebrow. “What, you’re not gonna say that it wasn’t a miracle because you’re such a stud, et cetera, et cetera?”
Rather than answer, he chugs the rest of his beer, as if he needs the liquid courage to speak his next words.
“Guys. I think maybe she only hooked up with me that night because she was bored.”
Everyone goes dead silent.
Hunter’s the first to laugh. I can’t help it—I do too. Then Nate and Matt join in.
Hollis buries his face in his hands. When he lifts his head, he’s scowling. “You guys are the most unsupportive assholes I’ve ever met.”
“Dude, she cuts you down every time she sees you,” Hunter finally says, but I don’t miss the way his tone has softened. He’s trying to let Mike down gently.
I feel bad letting Hunter do this alone, so I speak up too. “It’s not gonna happen,” I tell Hollis.
“It might,” he protests.
We all look to the bar again. Brenna flips her long, dark hair over one shoulder. She’s still with the frat boy. I can tell he’s in a frat not just because of the polo shirt, but because a couple of his friends have joined him, and one is wearing a hoodie with the Sigma Chi logo on it. The other one is talking to Summer.
I notice Hunter’s shoulders stiffening as he watches Summer and the guy. Luckily, the bartender finally gives the girls their drinks. I didn’t see any money exchanging hands, which tells me the male barkeep is as enamored with them as everyone else in this bar.
They return with a second vodka cranberry in Summer’s hand, and a bottle of Harpoon in Brenna’s. This time Brenna squishes in beside and not on me, while Summer settles next to Matt on the end instead of between him and Hunter. Hunter flicks a contemplative look at her.
“Frat boys are the worst,” Brenna tells us as she raises her beer to her red-painted lips. “They have a sense of entitlement that really pisses me off. Even the poor ones.”
“Are there poor ones?” Nate cracks.
“Of course. Anyone can pledge.” She rolls her eyes. “You just have a better chance of getting in if you’re rich.”
Summer shrugs. “Those guys weren’t too bad.”
Jealousy stabs at my gut. Luckily, Brenna’s reply ensures that I don’t have to worry about Summer going home with one of those dudes.
“Polo Douche tried to slide his hand in my shirt and cup my boob, Summer.”
Her eyebrows fly up. “Seriously? Oh my God. Gross.” She shakes her head. “I thought the one in the salmon shirt was really nice.”
“Pink,” Hollis grumbles at her. “Just fucking say pink, Summer.”
“There are different shades of pink, Mike.”
“Yeah? Name ten.”
“Fine.” Like a pro, she starts listing hues. “Salmon, rose, blush, fuchsia, watermelon, flamingo, cerise, bubble gum, magenta—”
She’s on number nine when a blur of red and yellow rushes up to the booth.
I barely have time to blink before a pale arm flings out and a waterfall of liquid rains down on us. The intended target was Brenna, who receives the bulk of it, but Hollis, Nate, and I are victims of secondary splashing.
Brenna’s jaw falls open as a furious blonde glares down at her. “What the—”
“Keep your hands off my man!”
