Reputation Page 2

  The man who’s the bane of my existence.

  My heart struggles to find an even rhythm as I let myself look at him for the first time in person for over a year. He’s still irritatingly gorgeous with high cheekbones and full, pouty lips. But his skin is sun-kissed thanks to the California sun, and the little lines around his eyes somehow make him even more attractive.

  Even though his face is swelling, and his jaw is tinted the color of watered-down grape juice, the bastard dares to smirk. Even though my disdain for this man is a ten-for-ten, my stomach flip flops. It didn’t get the memo.

  “Did I break him?” Bree shouts again.

  “What do you say, Bells?” he asks cheekily. “Did she break me?”

  His voice, warm and with arrogance-straddling confidence, shakes me out of the shock of seeing him. Reality blasts back in one swift, somewhat awkward moment.

  “He was broken way before you hit him with the ball,” I tell Bree over my shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”

  Coy chuckles as he leans against the doorframe. His hair is a wild disaster of a mess. There’s more than a hint of stubble dotting his stupid jawline. His shoulders are strong and thick, reminiscent of his high school sports days, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if his neck still pops when he rolls his head around his shoulders.

  But then I catch myself.

  What the hell do I care?

  He grins. “Did you come over here just to see me?”

  “Hardly. I came for some sugar.”

  As soon as I say it, I know it was a mistake. A mischievous shadow sneaks across Coy’s face.

  “I can totally help you there,” he says, lowering his voice. “But preferably not in front of the kid.”

  Bastard.

  My stomach releases a kaleidoscope of butterflies, and I feel unable to stay strong and unaffected by him. Luckily, the rest of me manages to recall survival instincts.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”

  My bottom lip tugs between my teeth. Logic cuts through the flurry of Coy-induced hormones, hitting my blood like a shot of heroin, and I recalibrate.

  “You know what? Me too,” I say. “I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.”

  I fire a grin his way. It’s a purposeful attempt to lure him in and play on his ego.

  Not surprisingly, it works.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “No.” I pivot toward Bree. “Tell your mom I was here, please.”

  “What? Where are you going?” Amusement plays in his tone. “Are you just going to leave now?”

  I march down the walkway and toward the fence that separates my house from Coy’s parents’ house. Bree stands up from her perch on a planter as I approach. I ignore the commotion rioting inside me and reach for Bree’s hand.

  “Bells,” Coy calls after me.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Bree, grabbing her little palm.

  “But the man is talking to you.” She stumbles alongside me. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye?”

  “We don’t talk to strangers. Remember?” I say.

  “But …” She looks over her shoulder as I nearly drag her toward the gate. “I’m sorry, Mister!”

  My brain screams at me to get back on my side of the fence. And to forget Coy’s ripped jeans and washboard abs.

  My body pleads for me to just hear him out. And to forget the things he can do if given time, a tie, and a bottle of honey.

  My heart, however, wants me to find a way to erase this entire morning. And to lock the gate when I get to the other side.

  “That’s a good arm you have there,” Coy says, cutting through the racket in my head. He’s much closer than I anticipate, and I wonder if it would look ridiculous if I picked Bree up and ran.

  I don’t get to find out because Bree stops dead in her tracks. I nearly yank her arm out of the socket.

  “Bree,” I insist, my words nearly a plea. “Let’s go, kiddo.”

  “Thanks,” she tells Coy, ignoring me. She takes her ball from him. “I’m trying to decide whether to go into the major leagues or be a pianist. It’s a tough choice.”

  I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. “I’ll help you decide your nine-year-old life’s choices at my house. Now let’s go.”

  My teeth grit together. It’s as if I clench hard enough, it’ll keep Coy from coming closer.

  It doesn’t.

  I sense his proximity well before I see him. His cologne—a scent that reminds me of both cedar and pineapple—invades the air. The cells in my body lean toward him in the same ridiculous way they always do when he’s around.

  “Did you know that I play the piano?” Coy asks from just behind me. “And I hold the record at St. James High School for the most strikeouts in a season?”

  “What are you doing? Trying to charm children now?” I ask without looking at him.

  “Why not? It’s more of a challenge than charming you.”

  I flip my eyes open and turn around. Coy’s gaze snatches mine up before I even face him all the way.

  It’s a tactic of his that I’m well acquainted with. He knows his strengths, and he plays them well.

  His eyes fix on me. It’s a heady feeling whether you like him or not. Coy doesn’t just see you. He sees you. He makes you feel like the only person in the entire universe … when he wants to. Apparently, he wants to now.

  His gaze issues a challenge—for what, I don’t know.

  All I do know is that I’m not getting drawn into whatever it is.

  “Oh, please,” I say, ignoring the way his abs flex in the sunlight. “There’s not one thing about you that I find charming.”

  He rolls his tongue around his mouth, letting his lips smack together at the end. “I think you lie, Miss Davenport.”

  Bree moves at my side, slapping my thigh with her softball mitt. The sound pops through the air and breaks the tension between us.

  “Can you teach me to throw a curveball?” she asks Coy. “I’ve been watching videos on YouTube, but I can’t figure it out. And since the last one I tried ended up hitting you in the face, I think it’s safe to say I can’t do it.” She looks at me disapprovingly. “But I do think it was catchable, Bellamy.”

  Coy lets his gaze linger on me for a long, irritating second before looking down at Bree. He crouches down to her level.

  I blow out a quiet breath and consider that mini-interaction a victory.

  “I’m not sure the best way to throw a softball,” he tells Bree.

  “That’s fine. I don’t want to throw a softball. I want to throw a baseball,” Bree says with her hand on her hip. “My cousin, Michael, plays baseball, and I want to do that too. He says girls can’t do the same things as boys, and I think that’s a bunch of junk.”

  Coy laughs. “Well, I think that’s a bunch of junk too. Let me see your ball again.”

  Stop being nice to her.

  “Bree,” I say, trying to figure a way out of this. “We really should talk to your mom before you play with boys. You know she’s not sold on you playing baseball.”

  Bree looks up at me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “True. But he’s not a boy. He’s a man. I think Mom would be okay with it.”

  Coy looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes too. “Yeah, Bells. I’m a man.”

  “Maybe anatomically,” I say, hoping that the only thing he sees in my eyes is a lack of entertainment with this whole thing. “Bree, since we don’t have any sugar, and it’s clear we aren’t going to get any, what if we go home and get out the glitter?”

  She gasps. “I thought glitter was evil?”

  Coy stands, his grin getting wider.

  “Well, it’s the lesser of the two evils today. Lucky you,” I tell Bree, my eyes still fixed on Coy. “Why don’t you run back to my house and get it out, and I’ll be right there?”

  “Yay!” Bree squeals as she runs through the open ga
te toward my house.

  “Keep it on the table,” I shout after her, already regretting the idea.

  But as my attention lands back on Coy, I realize I didn’t have a choice.

  Seeing him on television and in magazines at the grocery store is one thing because I can turn the channel or look away. I scroll by online articles about him like it’s my damn job, and every time he’s on the radio, I change the station.

  But in person, it’s different. And it’s definitely not that easy.

  If I hate one thing in this world besides Coy, it’s feeling vulnerable. Standing in front of him makes my carefully constructed shields develop cracks the size of the Marianas trench.

  “Glitter?” Coy laughs, either oblivious to my inner turmoil or unconcerned. “I’ve had a lot of bad things said about me, but never that I was worse than glitter.”

  “That’s not the worst thing I’ve said about you.”

  With a harsh, matter-of-fact tone, my words are short and chopped and to the point. I’m not entertained.

  It’s also clear that he is.

  He runs a hand through his bedhead and graces me with a simple grin that makes people feel as if they’re getting a side of him no one else gets. It’s a damn good thing I know that’s a lie.

  “How ya been, Bells? It’s been a long time.”

  “By design.”

  He juts out his bottom lip. “That makes me sad.”

  “Coy, shut up.”

  He laughs as his hair flops to his forehead again. “I’m glad you still have your moxie. I was afraid you’d actually become the basic bitch you pretend to be.”

  The laughter stops, but his smile stays put.

  I don’t even know why I’m surprised at this point, but I am. Maybe I hoped if we ever did encounter each other again, it would be more civil. Friendly. Less … us. Perhaps I hoped that I’d see Coy and feel more compelled to forgive him. Move on. Be less … hurt.

  Clearly, that’s not the case, so there’s no point in pretending to be nice.

  “I hate you, Coy Mason.”

  His grin grows wider. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

  I’m done.

  My blood pounds through my vessels as I turn toward the gate. I contemplate whether to take the high road or just stoop into the gutter like him.

  I could share a lot of truths with that asshole if I wanted to.

  Beginning with how my basic bitch switch gets flipped when he’s around as a form of self-defense. I could jump right in with how we’re only friends when it’s convenient for him.

  Or I could go really low.

  I could tell him that he did become everything I feared. That the boy who went to war with my dad when we were younger over the Winter Wonderland dance—getting himself grounded and unable to attend himself—had turned into a selfish, egotistical human being that doesn’t resemble the boy I used to know.

  And love.

  “Hey, Bells,” he calls after me.

  I keep walking.

  “Your ass looks great in those shorts.”

  My first instinct is to tug them down. My second instinct is to flip him off.

  I don’t do either and keep walking because if anything irritates Coy, it’s ignoring him.

  He might be gorgeous. He may be so talented that every song he records hits the number-one spot. He may be the sweetest to his mother and a benefactor for all kinds of charities in greater Savannah—but he’s still the biggest jerk on the face of the planet.

  He’s still the man who breaks promises, forgetting them in an instant. Forgetting me in an instant.

  And I’m going to remember that this time.

  Even if it kills me.

  Three

  Coy

  “Missed you too, Bellamy.”

  I touch my cheek, fighting a grin, as I take the steps two at a time toward my childhood bedroom. My skin is swollen and warm to the touch, but thankfully, the pain has settled down. That’s probably because I’m too distracted to focus on it much.

  My lips twist in amusement as I replay my interaction with Bellamy Raquel Davenport.

  “That wasn’t the worst thing I ever said about you.”

  That’s the one thing that sticks out about our conversation. It’s more prominent than Bells’s shock at seeing me, the way she tried to hide a smile, and the way her voice slides over me like a well-worn hoodie.

  I check out my cheek in the mirror over my dresser and replay that line in my head.

  It’s a typical Bellamy thing to say to me, and one that’s probably true to some degree. Our friendship has always been one based on snark, walking a fine line between bickering and teasing. We’re two alpha personalities—oil and water in many ways. But, at the same time, we’ve always been drawn to each other. We’ve had a connection that’s hard to put my finger on since we were kids.

  Bellamy has always been headstrong. Hell, the girl was suspended in seventh grade for refusing to wear a skirt while the boys got to wear pants. Her act of defiance resulted in a month-long grounding from her father … and a change in St. James’s dress code. She cut her hair when she was fifteen because her dad forbade her to do it, and Bellamy tried to join the football team because someone assumed she’d be a cheerleader. She’s a powerhouse in her own right.

  And I fucking love it.

  Still, her ferocity toward me seems to have leveled-up. Something about it doesn’t quite sit right with me.

  Knock! Knock!

  The sound catches me off guard. I turn to see Boone, the youngest of us five Mason boys, standing in the doorway.

  Boone scratches the top of his head and watches me with a quirked brow.

  There’s a curious glimmer in his eyes—eyes the exact color as mine. People thought we were twins growing up. Being eighteen months apart will do that to you. It didn’t help, either, that we were always together. It was me, Boone, our cousin Larissa, and her best friend … Bellamy.

  Until it wasn’t.

  “Did you just get up?” he asks.

  “Nah, I’ve been up a while. Holt’s dumb ass woke me up about an hour ago.”

  “Been up long enough to find trouble then, huh?” He grins as he walks inside my room, grabs my desk chair, and spins it around. He settles in like we’re about to have a casual conversation. “Anything interesting happen today?”

  He knows Bellamy was here. I can see it in his eyes.

  “Nope,” I say, fighting a grin of my own. “Just had some cereal and then contemplated the conundrums of life.”

  He snorts. “Thinking about Bellamy, I see.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He laughs. “Well, the purple welt on your face would give you away if I didn’t already know. Bells texted me and threatened to break my legs because I didn’t warn her you were home.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “Tell her that.”

  “Ha. She’d probably break mine if I walk over there to tell her.” I glance out the window toward the Davenport’s house. “Why does that sound kind of hot?”

  “Because you’re all sorts of fucked up.”

  “Probably true.” I shrug and pull my gaze back to my brother. “So, what are you doing today?”

  “Oh, just avoiding Holt like my life depends on it.” Boone shakes his head. “He wants to send me to Portland for some meeting this weekend, and I don’t want to go. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “But you work for him, right?”

  Boone looks disgusted. “Why do you have to put it like that?”

  I laugh as I sit on the edge of the bed. “Hell, I love Portland. I’d go with you if I didn’t have to keep my head down.”

  “How long do you have to lie low?”

  “Until Meadow tells me I can come up for air.” Frustration sweeps over me. “It’s a bunch of bullshit. Why do I have to hide like I did something wrong when Willa broke our contract? She fucked this up, not me. Yet I’m being punished for it.”

  St
ress pulls across the back of my neck, and I grab it with my hand.

  How did this go so wrong?

  I was supposed to be in Nashville this weekend. Larissa’s boyfriend, Hollis, was coming up, and we were going to work on some new music for my new album. It was going to be his first time in a studio, and he was pumped. I was pumped. The creativity was flowing.

  Now it’s not. Because apparently continuing with your life—including being at home and writing new material—means I’m a soul-sucking ex-boyfriend from hell, and the tabloids are just waiting to expound upon that.

  I sigh.

  “Well, it is bullshit when you put it like that,” Boone admits. “You know that you’re the one everyone is going to blame for Willa’s breakdown. But, dude, why the hell did she have to meltdown on Sunset Boulevard? She could’ve chosen a more private spot.”

  “Yeah, you think?”

  It’s the same question I’ve asked myself a hundred times.

  A part of me feels like this thing with Willa is a setup—that this month’s public demonstration of our “relationship” was in Los Angeles so Willa could make a show of having her so-called heart broken. Why else did she realize her feelings weren’t reciprocated on one of the most visible spots in all of California—feelings that I’m pretty freaking sure don’t exist in the first place?

  I don’t want to believe that. But I kind of do. It makes a whole lot of sense.

  “That’s the price you pay for fame, right?” Boone shrugs.

  “I guess. I just don’t need this bullshit right now. Meadow just worked out my contract with the label for my next two albums, and I need to be collaborating. Creating. I need to be in the damn zone, Boone. Not in my parents’ house.”

  He senses my foul mood and changes the subject.

  “What are you going to do while you’re waiting to get back to your life?” Boone asks. “Just hang out with Mom and Dad?”

  “I don’t know. Write music, if I can.” I stretch my arms overhead and yawn. “I need to see if Hollis is coming down here this weekend now that the Nashville trip is canceled.”