Authors: Aven Ellis
Chapter 26
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #26:
An evening out should be
fun.
If it involves my friends, conversation, and music I know I’ll have a blast. And because I’m living in Chicago, I definitely want to take advantage of all the new bars and hip meeting spots the city has to offer.
**Note**
I hate bars now.
**Note #2**
Okay, if I had timed this I swear it only took 20 seconds for hot girls to start hanging all over Beckett. Wait. I can time it with my phone. I’ll try again with the next girls that walk up.
**Note #3**
Crap, really? 11.5 seconds?
**Note #4**
I’m recording my time at being mortified and pissed off officially at 11.6 seconds.
**Note #5**
I don’t think any of these girls have eaten fries in their entire lives. Tragic. I should feel sad for them.
**Note #6**
I’ve eaten enough for all of them. I’m sad for me.
**Note #7**
BECKETT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE THIS NICE TO ALL THESE . . . THESE . . . groupies.
**Note #8**
He is so getting a piece of my mind. And it’s not going to be pretty.
“Cheers to
him,
” Livy says knowingly, lifting her glass of beer to mine in a toast.
I grin happily and tip my glass against hers as we make a toast to Beckett and his huge win tonight. After the game, Livy and I parted ways with Collins and Taylor and made plans to meet up with Beckett and some of the Buffaloes after the game to celebrate his huge win. Beckett was surprised by my request, as so far we hadn’t done anything like go out to eat or to a bar in public, but I told him his victory wasn’t going to be uncelebrated. And as his media consultant, showing him celebrating was a good thing.
Beckett and Landy had to do a radio show first, so Livy and I went to the stadium club and took some pictures of them doing that, which I posted to his public social media pages. Then, when they went to the locker room to shower and change, Livy and I headed to a popular bar in River North so we could snag a table for us.
“Cheers,” I say, taking a sip of my frosty beer. I put my glass down on the coaster, seeking our server. “Do you want something to eat? I’m starving.”
Livy tucks a lock of her blond hair behind her ear. “I’m guessing they don’t have kale chips here, right?”
I shoot her a look. “Livy, I’m going to dare you to split some French fries with me.”
“Ugh, no, you know I have to stick to my clean eating plan,” Livy says.
I frown. Okay, I should totally be about clean eating like Livy, but I’m famished. And yes, probably the flat bread pizza would be a more inspired choice, but I’m celebrating tonight. Which totally calls for fries.
And extra time on the treadmill tomorrow.
I flag down our server and place my order for French fries with black truffle oil, and then I notice Harrison Flynn on the TV monitors around the bar. He’s giving a post-game interview, which is closed-captioned on the TV so I can read it. Excitement fills me when I realize that he’s talking about Beckett.
“He’s a great leader. He’s getting the guys to believe they can win. He believes they can win, and that’s what leaders do. Inspire their teams to play to the next level,” Harrison says, raking a hand through his curly, ginger locks. “My hat is off to him tonight.”
Happiness fills me. Beckett deserves this so much. He’s suffered through losing seasons and awful coaches and now the puzzle pieces are coming together. I know he’ll blush as soon as he sees Harrison’s comments, but knowing that the captain of the world-champion Dallas Demons is saying that about him will make him happy.
My phone vibrates on the table. I pick it up and see that Beckett has texted me.
Just parked. With Landy and Pierre. See you in a minute.
“Ah, he’s here,” I say excitedly. I text him where we are sitting, and then look up at Livy. “Pierre is with him. And so is
Landy.
”
Livy’s cheeks take on a pink color. “Oh, Landy, too?”
“Hmm, yes,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “Do I need to text you toxic and danger emojis as a reminder?”
“Ugh, no,” Livy insists. Then she laughs. “Besides, that’s what Landy wants,” she says, inclining her head toward the mass of people now filling up the bar. “Girls like
that.
”
I glance at the women in the crowd. They’re dressed in short designer dresses and sky-high heels, despite the fact that it’s freezing outside.
And here I am in a vintage style, long-sleeved Chicago Buffaloes T-shirt, my AG skinny jeans—okay, not so skinny since I had to lay on my bed, hold my breath, and force the button closed in a maneuver that would make a ninja jealous—and my Vince black suede, over-the-knee boots.
Okay. So the boots are as cool as those girls’ stilettos.
The rest?
I chew on my lip. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Beckett is my boyfriend. He checked YES. So that includes this outfit as part of the
“checked yes”
deal.
Suddenly I hear a murmur over the loud music. And cell phones start shooting up in rapid pace and flashing toward the front door.
I turn my head and see Beckett, Landy, and Pierre have entered the bar.
My heart races as I take him in. Beckett is wearing his gray beanie over his chocolate-brown locks. He’s changed into a black V-necked sweater and has a black leather jacket thrown over the top.
And while I’m a woman of many words, “sexy as hell” is all I need right now to describe Beckett.
I see his eyes scanning the crowd. My pulse accelerates as he searches for me. Finally his eyes meet mine, and he flashes me a smile. But as he begins to make his way toward me, he’s surrounded by women.
Okay. I know he has female fans. But literally they are on him in less than ten seconds?
I watch uncomfortably as now there are more than ten women surrounding him.
Beckett is smiling and talking to his fans as he moves along, but he’s being mobbed with every step.
Mobbed by women who are gorgeous. Ones with perfect bodies shoved into tiny dresses. Ones with shiny tresses and designer bags hanging off perfectly toned arms from hours of Pilates at the hippest studios in town.
“Black truffle oil fries,” a server says, placing the basket in between me and Livy.
I stare at my fries, the scent of crispy sticks of potatoes dressed with truffle oil wafting up toward me. I should feel sorry for those girls. I bet they don’t know the
joy
of fries.
Then again, they aren’t jumping to fit into their jeans, so I should feel sorry for me.
I direct my gaze back to Beckett, who is now posing for selfies in the middle of the bar with sexy girls.
Okay, I know he
has
to do this. Beckett said he has used Harrison Flynn as a role model, and Harrison is known for being gracious with his fans.
But Beckett’s graciousness is starting to upset me. He could at least come to see me first, couldn’t he?
Finally they arrive at our table.
“Hey,” Beckett says, giving me that crooked smile I adore.
I shove aside the upset feeling and smile up at him. “Hey, yourself.”
Introductions are made, with Beckett calling me his “social media consultant” when he introduces me to Pierre.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to him.
“Likewise,” Pierre says, his French accent very thick.
“And Pierre, this is my friend Livy,” I say, and they greet each other. “And Landy, you’ve already met Livy.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Landy says, smiling at her. “How are you?”
Livy is about to answer when a group of females approach Beckett.
“Are you really Becks?” a gorgeous brunette asks.
“Yeah, I am,” he says simply.
She lets out a squeal and turns to her friends standing behind her. “See! I told you it was him,” she says. “My friends didn’t believe me. But I’m your
biggest
fan. I’m so excited to meet you right now. I think you’re
amazing.
”
I feel uneasiness wash over me. Okay, Beckett needs to say thank you and say he’s going to spend time with his friends. That’s generous, right?
“Thank you,” Beckett says, smiling at her.
The brunette puts her hand on his arm. “You’re
so
muscular.”
Okay, screw uneasy. Now I’m pissed.
“Thank you,” Beckett says, turning pink.
Thank you?
How about closing the conversation, Beckett?
Now another woman approaches, this one blond and with a tropical tan from a winter holiday somewhere chic. Like Fiji.
“Oh,
Captain,
can I get a selfie?” she coos.
Beckett smiles agreeably at her. “Sure.”
Now girls are swarming over Landy and Pierre, who have made their way to the bar to get beer. And Beckett is standing in front of me with an endless parade of girls waiting to assess his biceps with their salon manicures.
And Beckett shows no intention of saying no to any of them. I hear girls call him “hot” and “so amazing,” and I’m ready to scream that I’m his girlfriend, so they can fuck right off.
Frustrated, I pop a French fry into my mouth. Beckett finally slides into the seat next to me, but before he can say a word, a girl wearing a dress with cut outs bends down next to where he’s sitting, revealing an ample set of boobs barely contained by Lycra.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m your biggest fan . . .”
Biggest fan count? I’m sure we are up to 29 by now.
And he’s been here a grand total of ten minutes.
I take a swig of my beer and feel anger swirling in me. I’m frustrated because nobody knows I’m his girlfriend, but that’s my choice. But part of me wonders if it would matter. I think these girls would still be all over him regardless of his status.
And Beckett isn’t exactly pushing them away.
Fear instantly shoots through me. Is tonight a turning point on another level? The night Beckett realizes he can have women such as the one talking to him right now? Is that why he’s been so accessible tonight? Harrison freaking Flynn even talked about how great he is. This will make the girls even crazier.
And will Beckett still want me now that he realizes all of this?
I have to get out of here before I say something that will not only get me fired, but be recorded on one of the million cell phones taking video of Beckett right now.
I grab my purse and my coat.
“Livy, I’m leaving,” I say. “You can stay if you want, but I need to go.”
Livy’s eyes lock on mine. I can see she knows what this is about.
“I’ll come with you,” she says, nodding.
Beckett stops mid-sentence and whips his head toward me. “What?”
“Gotta run. I have loads to do tonight,” I say with a fake smile.
“Becks? A picture?” another woman asks.
“Um, in a moment, please,” Beckett says politely. Then he turns to me, his eyes intense. “I think you need to stay,” he says, his voice neutral.
I shoot him a fake smile. “Oh, I need to go.”
Beckett doesn’t move.
Livy gets up, so I scoot all the way around to the other side of the booth so I can escape him.
He springs up from his seat, ignoring his fans.
“Hey, Livy, I’m going to talk to Aubrey for a moment,” he says, going into captain mode.
Landy comes back with beer and hands one to Livy. “Got you a refill so you don’t have to flag anyone down later. Wait,” he says, noticing that I have my coat and purse, “are we going to a different bar?”
“I’m leaving.”
“She’s not,” Beckett says at the same time.
Livy plops back down in the booth. “I’ve been through this before. We’ll be staying. So I’ll accept that beer, Landy, only if I get the next one for you.”
Landy laughs. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Oh, I know you’ve got it,” Livy says, smiling, “but being that I’m high rolling from selling jewelry on Etsy, I’m getting the next round.”
Okay, I should be panicked about this but I can’t be right now.
“Livy, you’re wrong. Be
careful,”
I say firmly. “And I’m going now. For real.”
Then I walk right past Beckett and toward the front door.
I don’t get far before I feel Beckett’s hand on my elbow.
“You’re not doing this again,” he says into my ear.
“Watch me,” I say, exiting the bar.
“Becks!”
“It’s Beckett Riley!”
People in line start screaming and taking pictures the second he walks outside.
But Beckett won’t let go of my elbow and tugs me around the corner of the building, next to a Dumpster.
“Why are so pissed off at me?” Beckett asks.
The snow has picked up and is falling furiously between us.
“Don’t you think I see what is happening?” I cry. “All these perfect women approaching you. They
want
you, Beckett. And you ignored me the whole time this was happening! How am I supposed to feel?”
“I ignored you? Are you kidding? I was
mobbed
in there. What was I supposed to do? You’re the one telling me to be nice and sociable with fans. I was doing what
you
wanted.”
I’m too upset to acknowledge any logic in his words. I know I should, but I’m so wound up and upset I can’t.
“You know you could have those girls,” I say, taking my frustration out on him.
“I don’t want those girls,” he says firmly.
“Look at me! Did you know I had to fucking pry myself into my jeans this morning? I don’t have a perfect size-two frame. I have to do ninja moves to get into my clothing, Beckett! I have this crazy wild red hair and I don’t work out enough and I talk too fast and I talk too much a—”