“Holy shit!” Becks says, pounding on his chest acting like he’s choking and I just stare at him unamused despite the smile on my lips. He stops laughing and tosses a bottle cap at me as he leans back in his chair. “Well, admission is half the battle. Keeping her is the other half.”

“Keeping her?” Dude’s got my head spinning. I mean, fuck, I just told her I’d try, asked her to spend the weekend at Broadbeach with me when no one ever has, and he’s talking about how to keep her? I didn’t realize she was going somewhere.

“Baby steps, Becks. Don’t give me a heartache here. I hear keeping her but I think rings and strings and weddings and shit.”

And he only thinks my reaction makes the whole situation funnier by how he curls up and can’t stop laughing. “The look on your face is priceless,” he finally gets out, “but I’m not talking about marriage.”

Thank fuck for that. We can put away the defibrillators now. I look over at him, eyes telling him to get to the fucking point so I can enjoy my beer again without any more cardiac arrests.

“I’m talking about romance. Shit girls like, man.”

“You don’t need romance when you have my skills,” I tell him, already waiting for the smart-ass comment to come from his mouth.

“Okay, one-pump chump.”

“Fuck off!” I sneer and flip my middle finger up, but he’s laughing so hard he doesn’t even see it.

“Shit. I’ve got to take a piss,” he says and rises on unsteady feet to head to the bathroom of my suite.

I lift my feet up and prop them on the table in front of me, hands clasped behind my head. Through the open balcony doors I can hear Bruno Mars’s newest song playing in the bar across the street, but in the muted silence I start thinking about the word girlfriend. Wondering if that’s a definition we really need when we have our own language between us. Then Beckett’s words start running over again in my head until he comes back out zipping up his fly.

He walks over to the open doors and I feel a slight pang of guilt that he wanted to go hang out at the bar and I just didn’t want to deal with the crowd tonight. I’m usually interested in the eye candy and playing the game.

But I just don’t feel like it this trip.

I shake my head. What in the fuck is Rylee doing to me? All her talk about Scooter saying I Spiderman you and that look on her face as she sat naked on her knees beside me undoes me bit by bit when I’m already a mess of unraveled memories.

I lean forward and grab another beer from the bucket of ice in front of me and stare at the label for a few minutes. “So uh, romance, huh?”

I see his body register my words, but he keeps his face toward the street because he can tell I’m so far out of my fucking element here, the periodic table wouldn’t even be able to help me.

Romance? I don’t do it. Flowers die, food gets eaten. It’s not real. I’ve watched people flip the switch on and off enough in my life between my dad’s movie sets to women wanting something with me that I’m not fucking stupid enough to see the farce.

So why the fuck am I wondering what Becks thinks I’m screwing up here?

“What are you not saying to me? You think I’m not giving her the flowery shit a girl wants so she’s gonna bail?” The thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach. In fact it makes me shove up out of my chair and walk back and forth.

Well more like stumble.

“I didn’t say shit, dude.” Becks keeps looking out the window. He knows he’s questioned me and I don’t take too easy to that.

And fuck if he doesn’t have me questioning myself now. I told her I’d try to give her more. That has to be enough in the end here. I’m already pushing myself past my comfort zone and now I have to think about this kind of shit?

I’m annoyed with Becks for butting his nose in and irritated at myself for not even thinking about it. But I shouldn’t have to, should I?

I roll my shoulders and plop back down on the couch. Did he really have to ruin my stellar buzz by bringing this up? Then again, the room’s still moving a bit so maybe he didn’t.

“What do you think I should do? Send her poems and shit? C’mon, dude, that’s not me.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure a classy ‘roses are red’ poem is just what a lady like her wants.”

I sit there in silence, ignoring the dig, thoughts running through my semi-cloudy mind and plaster a grin to my face when the words connect. “Roses are red, tires are black, you’re the only pussy I wanna ride bareback.”

Becks spits out the beer in his mouth in a huge spray out the balcony doors. He wipes his mouth as his laughter falls to match mine. He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow. “That was pretty fucking good. If you’re that witty when you’re drunk, I think we should work under the influence more often.” He walks toward me and I can already see his mind turning, trying to match my poem. “I’ve got one. Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, and I’ll be the nine.”

“Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.

“Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”

“No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.

Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”

“How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.

“Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good boyfriend would do.”

“You and your boyfriend bullshit,” I tell him, taking my hat off and tossing it on the table. “I’m so good, dude, labels like that don’t apply to me.”

“Oh Jesus.” He throws his hands up, his beer splashing up the top of his longneck that has him sputtering to wipe it off his shirt. “Forgive me, Oh-King-of-All-Things in his own mind.”

“Damn straight,” I say, loving to get his feathers ruffled.

“Let me ask you something,” Becks says as he props his feet on the table. “Do you fuck her regularly?”

I nearly spit my beer out but don’t because I may be feeling more than good, but no one talks about Ry this way. I make sure my eyes tell him exactly that.

“Oh, excuse me, choirboy Colton. Let me rephrase. Are you having regular relations with her?” he asks in a prim and proper voice.

I can’t help but laugh. Fucker. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to answer. “Every chance I get.”

He nods his head and works his tongue in his mouth while he thinks. “What’s she doing tonight?”

What’s up with the questions? “She’s was at The House until nine and then heading to dinner with Haddie. Why?”

“So you know her schedule then?”

“And your point is …?” He’s starting to irritate me with this cryptic bullshit.

“When’s her birthday?” He ignores my question by asking another, a regular fucking Socrates.

“September fifteenth.” Becks chuckles and I blow out an exhale at the condescending sound of it.

“Impressive.” He nods his head in approval. “Now I know you’ll know her bra size, but what about her shoe size?”

“What the fuck dude? What are you getting at?”

“Patience, young grasshopper. Bra and shoe size?”

“I’ll young grasshopper your ass if you don’t get to the fucking point.”

He leans forward and lifts a beer from the bucket toward me in offering. I nod my head and take it. Fuck it. I might as well answer him than deal with his crap. Besides, I’ve gotta admit I’m curious where he’s going with this. “Thirty Six D and size nine and half.”

“Nice,” Becks says, drawing it out in a sound of approval. “What are her parents’ names?”

“Daniels,” I grit out, patience lost amidst his amusing twenty questions.

“Last one, I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.” Take that. I can be a smart ass just like you.

“Just answer.” He sighs in exasperation.

“If I answer, are you going to get to your point?” He nods his head, his grin spreading even wider as I tell him their names.

“Huh.”

“Huh?” After all the build up, that’s all he’s going to give me? I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees waiting for an answer.

He angles his head and looks me in the eyes for a beat. And despite the spinning in my head, curiosity is killing the cat. And of course cat leads me to thinking of pussy and pussy to Rylee. Fuck. I’m definitely drunk.

“Boyfriend,” he says, breaking through my thoughts, know-it-all grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Fuck off.” It’s the only comeback I have because he just baited the hook and I thought he was going to tell me something unexpected. What an ass. I throw the pillow beside me at him and flop back on the cushions.

He catches it and laughs loudly. “Those are things boyfriends know. Not fuck buddies, not random assholes—although, you qualify for the asshole part too—but boyfriends.”

“Isn’t it time you head back to your room? Isn’t your hand and some lotion waiting for you there?”

“Best offer I’ve had all night,” he says, pushing himself up off the couch, and I laugh when it takes him a moment to steady his feet. “I think I’ll try to enjoy it before I pass the fuck out …”