head-bob thing that could even be mistaken for a bow.
Caveman looks at Martin. “Apologize.”
Martin clearly recognizes the apex predator because he sucks in a deep breath. Pauses. Inhales again. “Sorry.”
As apologies go, it’s neither satisfying nor detailed, but I’ll take it. In record time, they march Martin away to be unceremoniously booted off the property. I don’t think he’ll be getting another party invitation. I can feel totally inappropriate laughter bubbling up, but it’s laugh or cry, and I hate crying, so it’s Inappropriate Laughter for two hundred dollars, Alex.
“What?” Caveman makes another one of those growly snappish sounds.
“Are you the king of Silicon Valley?”
The corners of his mouth tug up ever so slightly. “What do you think?”
“I think my brain’s gone offline,” I confide. “This whole night is just surreal. I don’t know if I should have been recording that on my phone, running, or applauding. I should not have come here. I’m supposed to be releasing Peony 2.0, but now she’s going to need a bug-fix release straight away.”
This strikes me as so ridiculously funny that I give in and laugh until I have to sit down.
Caveman sinks down into a crouch next to me.
“Maybe you should think of tonight as a test run and just do whatever you want to do. See how the new Peony holds up.”
“You’re not going to judge me for being at a sex party?”
The corners of his mouth curve up even further and he tips his head at me.
“I’m here, too,” he points out.
CHAPTER THREE
Jax
OKAY, SO MAYBE I overreacted, but I don’t like bullies and parties like this one attract more assholes than shit does flies. Since punching this particular bully is now impossible thanks to his forcible removal, I make a mental note to talk to Liam Masterson about his guest list. Even if he wasn’t my best friend, he’d make sure the asshole never sets foot on his property again. There’s a moment of silence—or as near silent as you can get at a raging sex party, which is to say not silent at all—while my companion and I stare at each other.
I’d spotted her earlier because she’s hard to overlook. Not because she’s gorgeous—although she is—but because she has a spark to her that lights up the place. She looked like she was torn between having fun and laughing at the ridiculous, over-the-top sex party where most people were dressed up like a circus act.
She’s also one-hundred-percent into tonight’s theme, which I fucking love even though the whole circus thing isn’t my kink. Her costume looks vintage and, for a moment, I imagine her picking it out from one of those used clothing stores that line the Haight in San Francisco or maybe Berkeley, where my sister and I grew up across the Bay. The color’s pretty—somewhere between pink and red—although I’m not clear on whether it’s a dress or a sequined bathing suit with a tulle skirt. She looks amazing. The fabric hugs her curves, the perfect frame for her sun-kissed skin. She has freckles and it takes me a little too long to stop staring at them because my small head thinks we should kiss from one to the other, draw a line with our tongue and—
Yeah. I’m officially an asshole because I’m rescuing her. Not picking her up. Not playing sex games with her. I should be reassuring her because she probably feels either out of her league or out of control after what that bastard tried to pull. Parties should be about having fun, and that goes double for sex.
Sex should always be fun. My favorite kink is role-playing. Playing games in bed, having the chance to become someone different for a night, is the best. Most nights, it’s easy enough to find someone who’ll be the bad girl to my good cop, the hitchhiker to my biker, the duchess to my gardener. Rescuing damsels in distress is not something I do when it doesn’t come with a side of sex. I never rescue for real. But I’ve gone and done it, and I have no idea how to extract myself now that the scene’s played out.
Pretend it’s the morning after. Or post-orgasm anyhow. So I’ll check in, maybe walk her to the front door, and then I’ll resume my mission to get laid. This is just a blip in my night.
“Are you okay?” My voice sounds gruff, even to my own ears. Circus Girl flinches but she doesn’t look away. We’re locked in a