21

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21. Mixed Signals

People weren't leaving it seemed. It was like they wanted to stay and live out the remainder of their youth until close.

His one hand slid through her dark hair while the other clenched her side. Rocco didn't care if anyone was watching. Maybe they'd learn a thing-or-two.

Brooke threw her head back as if he were already inside her - again. Some people at the bar took pictures on their phone. Others got uncomfortable and walked off. He wanted to finger her in public, but that would be taking it too far. Then again, he was good at taking it too far and her skirt was short enough.

Rocco kissed her neck delicately, as if she were a fragile crystal vase and worked his way to her mouth. His slow-moving lips turned her on. When was he going to ask her to come back to his place? Brooke certainly wasn't going to be the desperate-sounding one and ask if she could.

She jerked away and placed her hands in the middle of his chest as a barrier between them.

What was with girls doing that?

"Friends don't kiss each other like this." Brooke said flirtatiously, referring back to him making the statement at Ophelia's. Her tone insinuated she wanted him begging for the rest of her at any and all cost.

"Friends don't give each other blue balls either." Rocco returned.

How was it possible to be that damn witty all the time?

"I'd be careful if I were you, friend." She emphasized. "Wouldn't want you falling in love with me and ruining what we have now."

Rocco chuckled. "You're a better liar than you are a tease."

His arrogance made her want to rip his clothes off even faster.

Asshole.

She kissed his neck, which made him rock-hard in his pants.

"I'm gonna have you saying 'I love you' by the end of the month." She whispered in his ear while grabbing a handful of his manhood.

Rocco drew away to comment.

"I've only said that to one person, so you'll have to work real hard if you want to be the second." He said before attempting to resume.

"Awe, was it your mommy?"

Brooke was picking on him with playful intent. But it turned him off.

"Yeah, actually."

Brooke was incredibly attractive. She was his type. There was no doubt about it. But he knew women like her and knew how they operated. Within a few weeks, he'd end it because they'd end up falling for him too fast. Not the other way around. Clingy was not what he was looking for. However, Brooke wasn't as codependent as some of the other seasoned tramps he'd slept with were. She could do without him and knew that he knew that. That's what kept him holding on. Sure, the sex was insane, but what else was it about her? At the end of the day, was he slowly - very slowly -  starting to develop genuine feelings? Or was it more about proving to her that he was the best of the competition?

Brooke immediately noticed a change in his voice. It went from a soft, seductive purr to an annoyed and bothered mumble.

"Well, that may be prone to change."

"Good luck." Rocco waved the bartender over to close his tab.

Brooke dropped the subject. She wasn't ready to leave, but didn't want to stay if he left. What could she do that would make him want to hang around a bit longer? Especially to guarantee she wouldn't go home with another befuddled stranger. She was fully capable of going through with a one-night-stand. He would know - that's how their story kicked-off.

Just as he put the pen down and slid the receipt towards the bartender, Rocco stood and went to grab her hand. They were walking out and going home together. He thought he shouldn't have had to tell her that. Brooke liked him. That was undeniable. And he, too, was growing use to the idea of only sleeping with one person without any heavy labels attached to their arrangement.

As much as she tried to weirdly hide their entanglement, which he willingly went along with, people now knew they were together. When would she be done putting on a front? Brooke, although not giving her stamp of approval on monogamy, was an open book and easy to read. Rocco saw, deep down, that that was the very thing she desired - the right guy in her life to handle her publicity; to handle her. Whether she made a point to express it or not. Rocco never thought of himself as boyfriend material, but thought there was no one better than him, for Brooke, to get the job done the way she deserved.

But, was Brooke deserving of a boyfriend? Was she worth Rocco changing his wild ways?

Leaning over the corner of the bar, Brooke gently placed her hand on another man's arm.

Did she know him?

"I love your watch." Brooke said as she exposed her cleavage to this new and handsome stranger.

"It must've cost you a fortune."

Although it was a harmless statement and a general assumption, her tone asked if he wanted to fuck her.

How didn't this guy pick up on the fact that she belonged to Rocco? They were practically having sex right next to him not long before that.

"It did. But I loved the face. I have a thing for big watches." The newcomer hiked his sleeve up some, giving Brooke a better view of his watch that, essentially, she could care less about. She was flirting on purpose to make Rocco jealous; to make him stay; to make him understand quite clearly that if he didn't want to take her home, someone else would.

Rocco was the wrong guy for that. He'd never met anyone whom he couldn't bare the idea of losing to another.

Brooke giggled ignorantly. Was her plan working?

Brooke continued. "I like big things, too."

The man's eyes flashed to Rocco. Confused, he didn't know how to respond to such a comment.

Rocco's facial gesture let the man know he could have her.  He wasn't interested any longer. If she was so keen on keeping their little love affair a secret, he didn't feel as bad kissing Camryn.

Why did he kiss Camryn?

That part of the night seemed nonexistent; like it was nothing but a mere thought; like it didn't actually happen. It was as if he was having an out-of-body experience when he did what he did. His actions were irrational. Camryn and Bryson were an undeclared item. Right? Kind of like him and Brooke. She was this being; this imperfect creature who didn't belong and never would. Regardless of her career; regardless of her connections. Pulling her into another room was a mistake. So why did he do it? What was he trying to run away from that made him proceed with making such a bold move? With her of all people. And why did she go along with it?

V fluttered her eyes open to see the lounge empty while people in the club were still shoulder-to-shoulder.

How much time had passed?

The lights were lower than she remembered and couldn't make out any familiar face in the distance.

Where was her husband?

When she went to stand, determined to find Beau, the blood rushed to her head like a tidal wave before crashing to the floor. This is why I don't get drunk, she thought.

V liked having a few drinks, especially at gatherings and social events, but knew her limit. Being a morning person, headaches and hangovers weren't her cups of tea.

Everything spun and she couldn't control or stop it from happening. Did she have time to make a dash to the bathroom?

V then felt Beau's arms hoist her back onto the couch, but it was too late.

She had puked - everywhere.

Beau, who was also sloshed, sat next to his wife and reached deep into his pocket for his phone to call their driver just as V sunk back down to the floor.

The screen looked blurry. Everything was blurry.

He shook his head, hoping that would help him see clearer.

Callie, witnessing the mess of a couple from afar, rushed to help them figure out a way home. She couldn't stand other adults who couldn't hold their liquor, like teenagers.

The smell of V's vomit was repulsive once she reached the lounge and instantly got a whiff, which made her dry-heave.

Nevertheless, Beau was still so incredibly fucking hot despite being on the verge of alcohol poisoning.

"Is your driver on his way? If not, I can call my driver to come get us." She'd sobered up within the last hour and could've driven herself, but knowing her luck, she'd get a DUI. Cops didn't like her. It didn't matter if she was "Hollywood's fun sidekick." Rules were rules.

Callie sat beside him and waited for a response for what seemed like a lifetime.

He gave her the smuggest look he had the strength to muster up. "You couldn't pay me enough to go home with you."

Beau definitely misheard or misinterpreted. Or both.

Callie tried again, now aggravated. "I'm not asking you to go home with me. I'm asking you to get your arrogant ass up off this couch and help me take care of your wife while we wait for my driver to get here to take us home."

She pulled on his arm to get him to move, but he ripped it away as if she were infected with a viciously contagious disease.

"Don't fucking touch me!" He screamed at her.

Backing away, embarrassed by the curious glances he was attracting to them, she contemplated throwing a leftover glass of something that was on the table in his face.

Instead of making a scene, which truthfully, she was known for, Callie bent down to wipe vomit that was dripping out the side of V's mouth.

Callie was used to being that girl. It sucked not having anyone take care of her; to wipe her mouth; to hold her hair when she threw up.

Not knowing V very well didn't matter.

Callie wasn't about to abandon her while she was sloppy in front of people who were capturing her drunkenness. V was still adjusting to onlookers and outsiders whom were fascinated with her presence and with the idea that she was none other than Beau Richardson's wife. An identity was being created for her before she had the chance to create one for herself in the world of fame that was unlike any other form of reality. Callie could relate.

V was an entrepreneur; a book worm; a socialite in her own right; a sweetheart; a lover of all-things-fashion and yet, being married to a famous playboy was a reputation and a title she'd have attached to her forever.

Beau then lunged forward to shove Callie away from getting any closer to V.

"Don't fucking touch her!" He continued to scream.

Callie wasn't doing anything wrong. If anything, she was trying to be the Good Samaritan and simply help the situation. But she had to draw the line. Beau was causing a scene.

Somebody had to suggest he end his friendships with Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker immediately.

"Well then be a fucking husband and do your job!" Callie howled back.

When was this ridiculous yelling match going to cease? Security was inching closer to the lounge the louder they got.

Finally, he found the muscle to rise to his feet.

Pointing at her as he got closer, he said "Don't tell me what to do, you filthy fucking slut."

Without hesitation, Callie slapped him quick across the face that stung his cheek.

Security came between the two before the argument escalated. Camera lights flashed like crazy. There would be at least one solid photo that would make its way to TMZ by daybreak. Callie was willing to bet her bottom dollar on it. As two men escorted her out, she was also willing to bet the media would portray her as the bad guy, not Beau.

Sometimes, this was the price you paid for being famous.


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