The James Dean Vintage by Jess Whitecroft

Author:Jess Whitecroft [Whitecroft, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

10

Dean drove south.

He’d thought sex would make things easier between him and Oliver – after all, they’d been dying to bang one another all along – but no. Oliver, being Oliver, had to add another layer of complicated to the whole thing.

Had they done something they shouldn’t? What if that had just been a goodbye fuck, now that the ex was back in the picture?

The Golden Gate Bridge came into view, the red uprights spindly against the bright, late spring sky. Dean gathered his wits as he approached the exits for the city, forewarned about what a pain it would be to park. Behind him was an ugly, gray-green Dodge that looked oddly familiar, and as he merged it merged with him.

“Weird,” he said, and realized he’d seen it back in Santa Rosa, nosing behind a tight bend as he’d navigated a steep slope. “We gonna get into a car chase, honey?” he said, visions of Steve McQueen dancing in his head. But no. Best not. Oliver’s Lexus was no 1968 Ford Mustang, and he was bound to be pissed if Dean put so much as a dent in it. Dean hadn’t been entirely sure that he’d secured actual consent to borrow the thing in the first place, since Oliver had been half asleep – okay, mostly asleep – but he couldn’t really see an alternative here.

He stopped at IHOP for some much needed fuel and settled down to read more about Chateau d’Yquem while snarfing down a portion of banana French toast with bacon on the side. Oliver, like so many people above a certain pay grade, developed panic attacks when forced to confront too many carbohydrates, but Dean had no such delicate feelings. He’d grown up with his mother’s bratkartoffeln and spätzle, and in Georgia his grandmother’s biscuits and gravy and grits. Nothing wrong with a little cushion for the pushin’, he figured. Plenty of men had told him they loved his big ass, and Oliver’s hands had been all over that last night.

Dean was contemplating a second round of French toast when the blonde walked in. Not the blonde. The other blonde. This was Jessica, the slightly shorter one, the one he’d nicknamed Michele to Ainsleigh’s Romy. She wore a pink sweater and had her hair tied back in a way that said she meant business.

“Hello, Jimmy,” she said, taking a seat opposite him.

“Hey,” he said. “So…the Dodge?”

“I know,” said Jessica, taking out her chapstick. “The color is awful. You don’t have to tell me.”

It was on the tip of Dean’s tongue to ask when Ainsleigh was coming to join the party, but right on schedule, here she was. Her hair was loose and she wore blue, which was one of the reasons why Dean had never been able to resist the Romy and Michele comparison.

“Where are the diamonds, Jimmy?” said Jessica, as Ainsleigh sat down.

“What diamonds?”

“The diamonds,” said Ainsleigh. “The earrings you were wearing.”

Dean swallowed the last of his bacon. “Oh,” he said. “Them.”

“Yes, them. Where the fuck are they?”

“I left them by the side of the sink in the hotel room,” said Dean.

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