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Rainwater dripped from the ends of his dark hair, slid down his temples, and disappeared beneath the collar of his soaked T-shirt. The thin gray fabric clung shamelessly to his chest and arms, outlining his muscles. Water caught on his lashes before falling onto his cheek and beading along his jaw.
He was fine as fuck, and unfortunately for me, we had company.
“Vera?”
“Hm?”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
He knew. He absolutely knew I was full-on lusting after him.
“You hungry?” he repeated as heat crawled up my neck.
“Starving.”
Accountability
Hart
My head swam as beer bottles clinked loudly in my recycling bin. After nearly crashing out because my girlfriend thought it was a great idea to make me jealous, we returned to my place with pizzas and too much beer.
Music played while my teammates spoke over each other, vying for Monica’s attention. Vera was intrigued by their interaction, and I couldn’t be bothered. I was too focused on cyberstalking ArKane. To say ArKane was famous was a fucking understatement. She was a household name in the industrial techno world and was huge in Europe, mainly Russia, her home base.
I scrolled through her social media accounts and tour dates while two joints were put in rotation. Kandace’s Instagram had nearly four million followers. The first few posts were exactly what I’d expected—professionally taken photos beneath strobe lights, her black mask concealing half her face while thousands of people reached toward the stage, videos of her behind the decks, fingers flying across mixers and soundboards. Clips from festivals in Berlin, Moscow, Prague, and Amsterdam showed crowds so massive it looked like the entire city had emptied into a stadium.
Kandace’s fans were vast. There were college students, middle-aged couples, professional athletes, and actors. Hell, she even had a picture of her sandwiched between two Formula One drivers.
Like a pro, Kandace didn’t post about politics or her personal life—just the music. I kept scrolling, finding more festivals, interviews, and magazine covers. I didn’t find anything useful—no parents, friends, childhood pictures, birthdays… nothing.
It was like Kandace had materialized out of thin air wearing a mask and immediately started selling out arenas. I was tipsy, high, and frustrated, because what I was really looking for wasn’t Kandace.
It was Vera.
Somewhere in the four million followers and four years’ worth of posts, I hoped I’d find a single breadcrumb—a picture of them together, a family cookout, Thanksgiving, Christmas—something… anything.
Anything that would shed more light on the woman I loved.
Instead, I was left with more confusion than when I began. I knew Vera came from money. A quick perusal of her closet, paired with that little Retractable Fastback Miata she drove, proved that. She was related to snowboard Olympian, Snoh Gray, and he flaunted his wealth like a fucking peacock.
She played guitar and drums and was somehow related to one of the biggest DJs on the planet. And yet I still couldn’t answer the simplest question.
Who was Vera before she met me?
I hated not knowing. It wasn’t because I needed every detail of her life, but because every time I thought I’d learned something, another hidden door appeared, and somehow, something bigger was always waiting behind it.
I shook my head, dropped the last bottle into the receptacle, and cleared the coffee table of empty, grease-stained pizza boxes and plates with cheese remnants and various pizza toppings.
I shut down the kitchen and headed toward my bedroom. As I passed the balcony, drunken laughter slipped through the cracked sliding door. I looked over and found Monica sandwiched between my captain and goalie in the hot tub, and they were hanging on her every word like she’d invented oxygen.
I shook my head and walked off without interrupting them. Whatever was happening on my balcony was no longer my business. I had a mysterious, mischievous girlfriend to deal with.
Steam lingered in the air from the adjoining bathroom when I entered. Vera waltzed out in gray sleep shorts and an oversized Warriors shirt. Her damp braids left a large wet spot against the cotton that hung loosely on her body.
She crossed the room, climbed into my bed, and settled against the headboard with a bottle of lotion. She squeezed a generous amount into her palm, then slowly rubbed it into one leg before moving to the other. My gaze followed the slow glide of her hands before I caught myself.
“You still mad, Sweet Hart?” she asked, finally glancing up.
“I’m not mad,” I denied as she moved to her forearms.
