“You know what I think?”

“Huh?” I look over to where Becks is sitting on the chair across from me, but I move too fast and the room spins for a minute before I can focus again.

“I think,” he says, laughing and tilting God knows what number beer we’re on at me, “I think we need to have a moment of silence.”

“Who died?” I’m drunker than I thought. What did I miss? I lift my bottle to my lips and try to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Your single, non-pussy-whipped self.”

“Bullshit!” I spout through his damn laughter that’s a little too loud right now for my drunk ears.

“Bullshit?” he says as he scoots to the edge of his chair, and I want to tell him not to stand, that he’ll fall on his ass. Then again, he’s fucking with me and I could use a good laugh at his expense so I refrain. “Were you just not looking at your phone like you wanted to call her and get off?”

I lay my head back and laugh because hell if he’s not right. It’s been five fucking days since I’ve had her, since she stayed the weekend at my place. Hours occupied with sex that rocked my world and downtime where she challenged me, pushed me, laughed with me. A first for me on so many levels, but the most important one was that I wasn’t freaked the fuck out about it.

And that never happens.

“It’s called Skype,” I tease, closing my eyes momentarily. No amount of alcohol can fuck with the perfect image in my head of answering my iPad to find Rylee sitting on her bed, lace and garters and come-fuck-me-gear on the other end of the picture connection. Manicured fingernails parting pink flesh to show me just what I’m missing. Dirty talk I’d never expect to fall from her lips but perfectly fitting in that telephone-sex rasp of hers.

“Exactly. When have you ever had Skype-sex? You usually snap your fingers in whatever town you’re in and you can pick from the hundred that come running and drop to their knees.” I hear the pop of a bottle top and then another and open my eyes to see him holding a fresh one out to me.

I think for a second as I accept it and fuck if he’s not right.

“See? I told you. When you brought her to Vegas with us I thought she was just a passing fad. Thought you were testing the waters because you weren’t used to having a challenge and it got a rise out of you. Literally,” he deadpans, drawing a shake of my head. “But, Wood, after the past few weeks, you bailing from work early to go to go-kart tracks and shit … It’s more than obvious that we need to say our parting words and have a moment of silence for your dearly departed dick.”

“Becks—”

“Shh!” he responds¸ trying to hold his pointer finger to his lips but his depth perception is so off I laugh when he tries several times to get it there despite his dead serious face. “A moment of silence is needed to kiss your unvoodooed ass goodbye.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I tell him but know I’m lucky to have him as my partner in crime.

“Shh!” he says again, and I give up. I take a deep breath and roll my eyes but humor him and remain silent. I swear he’s passed out but he’s still sitting at the edge of the chair and hasn’t fallen over.

Yet.

But his eyes are still closed when a huge-ass grin turns his mouth up and he claps his hands together and rubs them. “Shit, that was easier than I thought.”

“What was?” My buzz is humming now and I’m finally relaxed after a fuck-all day with the Firestone guys and negotiations over shit they’re going to cave on in the end anyway.

“Getting you to admit you’re a kept man now.”

“Fucking Christ, dude!” I spit my beer out. “Kept? You’re calling me kept?” That’s like the equivalent of telling Jenna Jameson she’s a virgin.

“It’s pretty fucking obvious when there’s a huge neon sign above your head flashing no vacancy for your stabbin’ cabin that you’re a kept man. Have a woman now.”

“A woman now? I’m sure Ry would love to hear you refer to her as that.”

He eyes me over his bottle. “So she’s not your woman, then? Because usually when you hang up the phone you don’t think twice, back to business. Now you hang up with a little smirk on your face and you’re lost in la-la land for a bit.”

“La-la land?” I laugh.

“What would you call it, then? Girlfriend-ville?” He eyes me. Dares me to deny his reference since I’m the self-proclaimed don’t do the girlfriend thing kind of guy.

I begin to argue but then stop. Fucking Becks. He knows me like the back of my hand and yet this is uncharted fucking territory for me. A woman that I want to color outside the lines with. No, scratch that. A woman that fucks with me on so many levels that I’m so busy being challenged and seduced by her words, her body, and her defiance that I don’t even realize the parameters I’m used to controlling don’t really matter anymore … because she does.

Fuckin’ A, he’s right, but hell if I’ll tell him that.

“We’ll go with woman,” I concede, but the word girlfriend rolls around in my head, sticking here and there as I get used to the idea of it.