Hot Lips

Chapter 1 

NOW

Ben Carver wasn’t sure what the rules were for his friend Céline’s visit. The question of whether they’d be sharing a bed remained unspoken, but he’d felt its presence hanging over his head from the moment he picked her up at the airport. It was there when her lips lingered too long after they kissed hello at baggage claim. And again when he had to decide which bedroom to place her suitcases in. (For the record, he’d left them in the hallway.) Now, while they scrolled through the Reader together, looking for something to do tonight, the weight of uncertainty and expectation pressed down on him like a vise.

“How about a film?” he asked, eyeing the listings, doing his best to ignore the strands of her blonde hair brushing his cheek as she leaned over his shoulder. “There’s a double feature of Kurosawa films at Facets. Seven Samurai and Ikiru.”

“I’d fall asleep in less than five minutes.” Her slight British accent split the word five into two syllables. “Besides, I don’t really feel like a movie…”

Her fingers tangling at his nape made it pretty obvious what she did feel like doing.

Ben could admit he was tempted. But they had history. More importantly, their families had history. His mother would probably throw a parade if they ended up together, and honestly, that was a major reason why he remained firmly on the fence about Céline.

But beyond the question of sex, her insistence that Chicago was the inferior city pissed him off. He knew it was petty, but he felt duty bound to prove her wrong. There were so many incredible things his hometown had to offer, but so far, nothing, at least according to her, you couldn’t find better in New York.

“We could do dinner,” he said, clearing his throat when her fingers traveled down his neck, dipping inside the collar of his shirt. “Rodrigo Clemence just opened a new Latin-French fusion place in the West Loop—”

“Rodrigo is so overrated. See?” She laughed. “Ansel agrees with me.”

He looked down at the beagle who’d just farted at his feet. “Really, buddy?”

Ansel raised his head as if to say sorry but quickly returned to his original pose, resting his chin on Ben’s socked foot like he didn’t really mean it.

“Traitor.”

“I suppose we could go—oh, hold on.” Céline looked at her phone, and her smooth golden brows pulled together in a frown. “That’s work calling. I need to take this.”

She strode down the hallway with unconscious grace, the result of years of serious ballet training, before pausing between the two bedroom doors. Céline looked back at him, her gray eyes full of promise. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. I’m sure we’ll think of something to do tonight.” Then with a seductive smile, she ignored the guest bedroom and walked into his, shutting the door softly behind her.

Ben shook his head, amused. Céline wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted, and he admired her for it.

Fuck it. They’d been sniffing around each other since they were kids. Maybe it was time to see, once and for all, whether more than friendship lay between them. Grinning, he turned back to his computer to look for something they could do closer to home.

He skipped past the Reader’s music listings out of habit, but as he scrolled by, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face and his finger froze. Holy shit. With her black hair, red lips, and brows arched like they were drawn by a calligrapher, the woman in the picture stared fiercely at the camera, her hands on her hips, her mouth puckered like she was ready to kiss him or tell him to go fuck himself.

And Ben should know, because she’d done both with those lips—before kicking him in the heart with the toe of her black stiletto boot.

He glanced at the closed bedroom door, then with a pounding heart, scrolled back up to the article.

CRITIC’S PICK:

Sexodus, Sat 11/18, 7 PM @ Scuba Dive Bar

The new Debbie Harry is a Brunette, NOT a Blondie

For years, singer/guitarist Carson Fogel, bassist Dawes Guthrie, and drummer Pete Johnson have languished on the periphery of Chicago’s alternative music scene. After adding female singer Frankie Holiday, the crown jewel to their line-up, Sexodus is finally ready to take its rightful place alongside veteran acts like Gumshoe, Scratch That Itch!, and Jane Austin, Texas. With Holiday, the foursome have hit that elusive sweet spot between cool-kid edge and a bleeding heart. Holiday’s haunting voice, smoking-hot sex appeal, and dark charisma, combined with the band’s clever songwriting and solid music chops, have created a unique sound you won’t know whether to fuck to, cry to—or do both to at the same time. Get your tickets early. Sexodus, along with The Humble Braggarts, will be opening for Command Z on 11/18 at Scuba Dive Bar. See them now and say ‘you saw them when.’

“Sexist, clichéd bullshit. Whoever wrote this should be ashamed of themselves.” Her smoking-hot sex appeal… Music to fuck to… Ben leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually found her. Ben had given up on looking for Frankie long ago, but then he hadn’t been searching for Frankie Holiday. And she had a new look to go with that new last name.

He zoomed in on her face. Frankie was thinner, and that wild hair he’d loved running his fingers through was now cropped Jean Seberg short. If not for her eyes, which were the same amber fire brimming with mischief, and those bright red lips, he wasn’t completely sure he’d know her if they passed on the street.

But here she was, clearly living her best life, standing inside Don’s Bread & Butter as though she’d never left town. He hadn’t visited that greasy spoon in years—not since he’d been there with her—but its seedy decor was instantly recognizable.

The picture was obviously a promo shot for her band, but she was wearing the Bread & Butter’s signature waitress uniform as if she were working there again. Regardless of whether it was a stunt for the photo, or she really was back moonlighting as one of Don’s girls, typical Frankie managed to turn that pink polyester monstrosity into something sexy. With the collar flipped up and the buttons opened to expose the edge of a black lace bra, she looked ready for a night out clubbing. (Or if he were being cruel, a stripper pole.) And that fucker, Pete Johnson was there too, with a smirk and a cigarette clutched in his hand, lounging behind her with two other punk guys in the corner booth like they were her bored customers.

As Ben’s shock wore off, the familiar bitterness took its place. Beneath all the hurt and anger, there’d been real worry. His stomach churned with disgust from all the energy he’d wasted.

As if sensing his souring mood, Ansel hopped up onto his lap and with an impatient howl, nudged his squeaky rubber camera into Ben’s chest. He’d known Frankie too, but twenty-one dog years was a long time. Maybe Ansel was fortunate enough to have forgotten her.

“Hey, little man.” Ben hurled the chew toy, wet with saliva, across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thwack followed by a sad, squeaky whimper. The perfect metaphor for his time with her.

Ansel launched himself at the beloved toy. Ben’s mother was being funny when she gave Ansel his own housewarming gift. Like Ben, though, the beagle preferred his camera to pretty much anything else.

It’s time you settle down, they’d all said. Like a coordinated ambush, his parents, Céline, even his brother, Theo, had each, in their own unique and annoying way, shared the opinion that he needed to grow up. As irritating as he’d found it, Ben agreed with them, and at thirty a new house in a new neighborhood seemed like a good start.

Being confronted with old memories, on the other hand? Very fucking bad.

He got up from the table and stretched out on the couch. With an arm thrown over his eyes, he listened to the scrabble of doggie toenails against the newly refinished oak floors and braced for impact. It was only a matter of time before Ansel landed wrong and put an end to any future kids Ben might have.

And he blamed Frankie for this behavior too. Before her, there’d been a strict no-dog-on-the-furniture policy, but once the beagle got a taste of Ben’s bed, there’d been no going back. The same could not be said for Frankie.

The door to the bedroom swung open, and Céline stepped out with freshly combed hair and newly applied lipstick, a whiff of her spicy perfume preceding her.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Jacqueline Fraser is threatening to pull her Picabia from the auction.”

“That sounds bad.” But she didn’t appear particularly upset. In fact, standing in the middle of his living room, Céline couldn’t have looked more pleased.

“It is and it isn’t. Jacquie always gets cold feet. I already have two buyers lined up for the painting, but we’ll raise the reserve to make her happy. Martin says hello, by the way.”

Martin was Céline’s assistant. After weeks of calling and emailing Ben almost daily, coordinating the itinerary for this visit, they were practically best friends.

“And you should bloody well thank him. He warned me not to spend all your money in one go.”

That was why Céline was here. She’d lobbied hard for Ben to move to New York, but once he’d bought the coach house in Bucktown, she’d volunteered to help him settle in. His mother had offered (or threatened depending on your point of view) to foist furniture on him from his family’s generation-spanning collection of crap. Except for an antique bed, and some of his grandfather’s paintings, he’d refused. However, he was willing to let Céline drag him to a few stores if it made her happy.

Ben didn’t need much. He preferred a more modern, sparse aesthetic. Maybe it was a reaction to his nomadic childhood, but he was drawn to order and simplicity. That’s why it made absolutely zero sense for him to have ever gone anywhere near Francesca Hall—or whatever she was calling herself these days. All she’d ever done was make him feel bat-shit crazy.

“Oh, and Martin told me about a fabulous antique shop we need to check out.” Celine headed past the couch. “He wasn’t sure of the address but thinks it’s in Irving Park—”

“Wait!” Ben realized she was making a beeline for the computer.

She stopped short in front of the screen, and a peculiar look crossed her face. “What’s this? Sexodus…” She read the name slowly, over-enunciating the syllables. “Is that…?” She moved in closer, squinting.

“It’s no one.” Ben leapt up from the couch. “They’re just some band performing in town. Not your taste.” He reached over her shoulder to push the lid down, but she swatted his hand away.

“That looks like your ex.”

Why the hell hadn’t he closed the website? Deleted the cache? Thrown the damn computer out the window? Instead, he’d left Frankie’s mocking face up on the screen to cause trouble. So typical.

“It is, isn’t it?” Céline looked up at him, her gray eyes full of pity… and hurt. “You’re still in touch with her after everything she did?”

 “I’m not in touch with her.” He rubbed his jaw, feeling the inexplicable need to defend himself.

“But she’s back in Chicago?”

“I didn’t know that until now!” Ben raked his fingers through his hair. His raised voice set Ansel off barking and dancing over his feet. “This is the first I’ve heard anything about her since she left. What are you doing?”

Céline was seated in front of the computer, typing. “I’m googling her band.”

“Stop it! Don’t do that!”

“Why not? You said you don’t know a bloody thing about her. Why shouldn’t we find out what she’s been up to?”

“Because I don’t care!” Ben’s head felt ready to explode. He slipped on his shoes, glad of the excuse of Ansel jumping up and down, backing him towards the front door. “Okay, buddy, I’ll take you out.” He grabbed the leash off the hook. “I mean it, Céline. Stop snooping. I don’t give a damn about Frankie Hall anymore.”

“Then prove it. If not to me, then at least to yourself.”