The Dare Collection March 2020

I tap my phone.

Nada.

No texting bubbles, no message, no naked selfies.

Usually, I make an offer and then I’m out. I don’t have to beg and I certainly know how to take no for an answer. I’m not San Francisco’s biggest manwhore but I love sex and I love taking care of my temporary lady. Something about Maple makes me want to push, however. I can’t let this—her—go. Before I can overthink it, I call her.

“Hey.” Her voice is husky when she answers, or possibly she’s ever-so-slightly breathless. Or I’m indulging in wishful thinking—stranger things have happened.

“At least tell me what you’re wearing.”

“You saw. I’ve added pants.”

“Pants are overrated,” I murmur.

She pauses. “I’m headed home. Pants seemed prudent.”

“Alone?”

“Are you up for a ménage à trois?”

I drop my phone and have to retrieve it from the passenger-side seat. “Jesus, Maple. Play fair.”

“You’ve never had a threesome?” Laughter fills her voice. “Because it’s very, very popular on Kinkster. Don’t tell me no one’s offered.”

“They’ve offered,” I say mock gravely. “But I’m not a fan of eating family-style. I don’t want just a taste—I want the whole thing.”

“Wow.” She takes a moment, possibly to process what I just said. I didn’t think she was shockable, so she’s probably working on the perfect comeback. Sirens wail in the background, followed by a string of car alarms. She’s walking on a San Francisco street somewhere.

“So you’re selfish?”

“Focused,” I counter. “I prefer to give my undivided attention.”

She hums a bar from a jaunty tune. “Please. I bet you’ve fantasized about two women together.”

“I have,” I admit, “but I’m watching them. I’m learning what they like, how they make each other feel. If I got in that bed with them, then I’d be thinking about my dick, too, because he’s a selfish git and he likes having his turn. And then I’d also need to keep track of who I’d touched last. Or licked. Or finger-banged.”

“Wow.” Maple sounds breathless. Score.

“I’m not sure I’d have enough coordination to keep both my ladies happy without some serious one-on-one practice,” I say thoughtfully. “Which is why I’m calling you to follow up on that menu.”

“Oh?” She’s definitely laughing now.

“We had a deal,” I point out. “I give you a list of choices and you rank them from ‘omg yes let’s do that now’ to ‘only if it’s my last chance ever to have sex.’”

“What’s your favorite?”

I don’t have to think. “You.”

“I’m going into a tunnel. I’m losing you.” Laughter threads through her voice. She’s lying, she’s teasing. We both know it.

“There are only eleven tunnels in San Francisco. Is this a wormhole?”

She’s laughing when she hangs up on me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Max

I EARNED MY first billion dollars with a dating app: Billionaire Bachelors. It’s a digital shopping list for all you out there who prefer Prince Charming with a generous side of cash. You punch in your zip code and then the app gives you the down low on all the Prince Charmings who meet your criteria. Billionaires are one of our most popular options, although you can pick your future mate based on other important qualities like good looks and favorite winery.

I whipped it up in the Santa Cruz dorm room I shared with Dev and Jack, spending every second we weren’t surfing with my head down in my code. I launched the app the day we graduated and I haven’t looked back since. Both Jack and Dev have bitched repeatedly about being two of Billionaire Bachelors’ leading men, but they weren’t willing to bankrupt themselves to lose their starring roles, so screw them.

My second app is Kinkster, and it’s equally popular (and unpopular with Dev and Jack who are adamantly vanilla in bed). One of the downsides, however, is that my PR team wants me to host a series of glamorous, sexy parties that sell the brand. Glamorous pool parties scream fantasy hookup, so tonight we’ve invited hundreds of celebrities, influencers and pretty people to my Santa Cruz pad to dance and get drunk on my dime. The music pounds away, drowning out the ocean and the buzz of dozens of conversations as my team puts the final touches on the event.

My fingers itch to text Maple and invite her over. It’s not that I think this party is her scene, but I’d like to see her again. I’d like to hear her laugh and just…hang out with her. Even if we don’t ever hook up, she’s fun. When we first started texting, our messages were purely functional. She said thank you for the roses. And then she asked something, or I did, but we fell into a rhythm. Question and answer. Rinse and repeat. Yesterday, though, when I gave her a menu of kinky sex options to pick from, I wasn’t joking. Not really. Something’s changed between us as we text. I stare at my phone, willing it to show me a clue. A sign. A multistep, results-guaranteed plan. I think I went wrong when I sent the menu.

I removed myself from the friend zone and went—

Somewhere.

Limbo sucks. I stare at my phone, willing it to buzz with an incoming text from Maple. Since it’s Saturday night, I don’t think she’s working.

Outside, the PR team continues birthing a party. Everyone’s focused on the infinity pool that spills over into the ocean, adding the little details that will make tonight one Instagrammable moment after another. Citrus trees in terracotta pots sourced from Italy. A pop-up bar with themed cocktails. White lights. White lotus flowers floating on the surface of the pool. The only thing missing is the kinky sex—but that will come later, after my guests have had time to settle in.

Those guests arrive thicker and faster as the night progresses. I watch from upstairs as they come. They’re allowed to roam downstairs, but the second floor is my haven and it’s off-limits. Two hours after the party officially begins, I’ve made a grand appearance and the music is so loud that I feel rather than hear my phone buzz in my pocket.

I step behind a particularly impressive citrus specimen and pull it out. Maple’s texted me a picture of take-out Chinese on a floral melamine plate balanced on the edge of a small tub, but it’s her words that have a smile tugging at my mouth.

Fancy a swim?

I do a quick volume calculation. You’d have to sit on my lap and even then there’d be no room for water. Immediate displacement. Need to know if downstairs neighbor has flood insurance?

My phone buzzes again, Maple’s picture flashing across my screen. Before I can overthink things, I answer.

“Hey, Maple.”

She launches into rapid-fire speech the way she does everything: bold and certain. “Do you like Chinese? Do you want to come over for dinner? We could watch a movie.”

“What kind of movie?”

She tells me all about the romantic comedy she’s Netflixing and the unlimited potential for happy endings. I mean, who doesn’t like getting his happy ending? I’m seriously considering ditching my party when a deafening series of shrill screams erupts from my pool. Water hits my back and I instinctively hunch to protect my phone. It’s water-resistant but that’s a lot of water. I’m enjoying our conversation and I don’t want to have to stop it in order to retrieve my backup phone.

“Are you killing someone?” She sounds cheerful but…

“Would that make you more or less likely to come over?”

“Less,” she says eventually. I like that she stopped to think about it.

“Then I’m hosting a pool party.” I lean against a convenient palm tree and eye the tangle of girls being fished out of the pool. From the size of the guy they crash-landed on, I suspect the football team I invited has shown up.

“Do I have to wear a swimsuit?”

I smile at my phone. “You should always feel free to swim naked in my pool.”

“Be serious.” Water sloshes on her end of the line. Is she in the tub?

More important: is she naked?

“You can do whatever you want, Maple. Wear a swimsuit. Don’t. Yoga leggings work fine, too. It’s a party, not rocket science. I’d just like you here.”

“So your pool isn’t full of bikini-wearing hot girls?”

“Truthfully, no.” I snap a picture of my pool and send it to her. “You’d be the hottest person here anyhow, especially if you showed up naked. You owe me a picture of your pool party for one now.”

That makes her laugh. My phone buzzes a second later and I fumble it. Jesus. There are a whole lot of white bubbles above the soft, sweet curve of…

“Did you just send me a boob shot? I thought you had a no-bathroom-selfies rule.”

She snorts. “I thought you lived for naked boob pictures.”

“I like them,” I say solemnly. “But I’m not sure I can commit to them being my favorite body part. I’d need to see all the parts first so I could make a fair assessment.”

Maple hums a bar of something. It’s a church hymn, which is kind of weird, but she says it’s just autopilot because she did a lot of zoning out in church as a kid (her dad was a minister) and that’s what she associates with tuning out the world. It’s her thinking noise, though, so I hope she’s making me a list of candidates for Max’s Favorite Body Part.

“Come over,” I say.

“Why?”

Because as much fun as playing word games with her is, I want to see her?

“We can play twenty questions in my pool.” I don’t know why I want her here, just that I do. “I’ll send a car.”

CHAPTER NINE

Maple#glamlife #datenightgoals #ideas

THE RIDE TO Santa Cruz isn’t short and it’s tempting to nap on the posh leather seats because I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, but Max’s car is too amazing to waste time on sleeping. Not only is there real French champagne on ice (and not the kind they sell at Target, either), but there’s a box of chocolates and a cashmere throw. I spent the first two blocks pretending I was the queen of England and then another four after that pretending I was a film star.

Now I’m just me, but that works, too. The ocean at night looks painfully, promisingly perfect. When I roll the window down, salty, fresh air fills the car. It smells amazing. If I could, I’d live on a beach. We glide past dramatic seaside cliffs and creamy strips of beach until the dark, white-tipped ocean gives way to a charming jungle of houses and bougainvillea. What’s not to like about Santa Cruz? It’s peaceful and serene until we get close to our destination.

I hear Max’s party before I see it. When the town car turns into a narrow street, the music bursts over us, pounding through the delicious, luxurious silence of the BMW’s expensive leather interior until I swear my butt is vibrating. I have no idea how he got permission to hold a party like this, but I assume money was involved. Lots and lots of money.

Max’s house isn’t quite what I expected. Sure, it’s big and it’s oceanfront, and it’s undeniably expensive—but it’s also pink. With bonus turrets. Frankly, it’s more suited to Cinderella than a hot geek billionaire. It’s also lit up like an airport landing strip, an honest-to-God red carpet stretching from the sidewalk to the front door. Valet parkers wait to whisk cars away to who knows where because Santa Cruz is very much lacking in elbow room and all these people had to get here somehow.

Wow. The people. I try to get out of the car nonchalantly, as if I attend launch events all the time, but I’m seriously underdressed. Or overdressed, depending on how you look at things. Max hadn’t mentioned a dress code—when we said goodbye, he was still making a case for arriving au naturel—so I’d opted for a blue, thigh-length Spell & the Gypsy Collective dress. The gauzy embroidery floats around my thighs in deference to the summer heat. I’m even wearing a pair of thong sandals with pink and white seashells on them because I was going to a beach party, so I assumed there would be sand. The red carpet is unexpected. Plus, it’s Santa Cruz, which is a beach town, so I didn’t expect people to be dressing as if it were Oscar night.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

Two waiflike women, one in pink sequins and the other in white, twine around each other, pouting and posing on Max’s stupid red carpet. I make a mental note to give him shit. Most people go for petunias in a hanging basket or maybe an urn if they’re feeling pretentious, but he’s decided to re-create the Oscars. Photographers snap away, calling the waifs’ names and demanding they “look this way.” I’ve walked a few red carpets for press events for the San Francisco ballet, but this is in another league. It feels ridiculous. As soon as the path is clear, I sprint for the door.

The ground floor of Max’s house is stuffed full of people, although he’s still decidedly lacking in the furniture department, but I recognize the huge L-shaped sofa we picked out together. There’s no Max, though.

I fish my phone out and type: Marco.

A waiter in black tie wanders by, offering champagne. Clearly, I’m out of my league. When my phone buzzes with a set of GPS coordinates and POLO, I’m almost relieved. This is just my goofy, number-loving friend Max who’s frequently more engineer than bad boy.

I plug his numbers into my phone and start hunting for him. Two Marcos later, I step outside and find myself at the top of a staircase that’s perfect for losing a glass slipper on. It glides and swirls its way down to the garden and that magical pool. Someone’s twined white roses and jasmine through the railings and for just a moment I flash back to dancing in Swan Lake, surrounded by dozens of downy, be-tulled swans. That must be why my heart is pumping.

I spot Max striding past the pool—lit up with millions of fairy lights—and frowning down at his phone. Dark hair curls haphazardly over his forehead. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, faded blue jeans and a black tuxedo jacket that’s rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. It’s like he got half dressed—or half undressed—and then stopped. Or forgot. Or—most likely—just didn’t give a shit. He cares about lots of things, but clothes don’t make that list. People watch him anyhow. Some of them reach out as if to touch him, to make him stop and look, but he just keeps heading for the house.

And me.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs and grins up at me. It’s both weird and familiar at the same time. Something shifts inside of me, making me feel like glassware in a box, so close to breaking or falling out. Falling, I decide. I’m definitely falling.

“You didn’t tell me you owned a stage set,” I call down to him. The temptation to break into the port de bras of infamous swans of Swan Lake is strong but this isn’t my audience.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Max twinkles up at me. He’s even cheesier than his pool lights. “Are you coming down or shall I go up?”

“You’re a bad influence.” I have to yell to make myself heard over the music. Nevertheless, we both know my words don’t matter. I’m totally going to do it. Indeed, I toe my sandals off, toss them down to Max and whip my arms up into the familiar position. And then I’m descending, whipping through the familiar fouetté turns, my dress belling out around me. Not Odile’s full thirty-two spins, but just enough to make my heart race, my left leg burn as it bears me around and around until I reach the bottom.

He meets me there, swinging me up and off the final step. I’ve put on some weight since leaving the ballet, but he lifts me easily, flying me through the air, around and around, until I curl an arm around his neck.

“Hey, Sassafras.”

For a moment, I think he’s about to kiss me when he trots out that stupid nickname.

Not a European cheek kiss or even a friendly peck on the mouth, but a full-on kiss with lips and tongues and all my favorite parts. But then he pulls back and flicks my nose before setting me down. Friends don’t kiss.

“I’ll introduce you around,” he says. “There’s tons of people for you to meet.”

I believe him. If his living room’s full, his pool deck is a fire marshal’s nightmare. People are crammed side by side until it’s almost impossible to move, let alone dance. Or breathe. Still, a path always seems to magically open up for Max as he leads me from one knot of revelers to the next.

It’s overwhelming, frankly. He makes introductions, I nod and smile, and somehow there are always new people and faces. The volume rises steadily, the level of champagne consumption is unbelievable, and the pool is a sea of naked beautiful people bobbing up and down. Max, however, just watches it all from his tiki bar, a slightly bored expression on his face as I work my way through my third cocktail. I have no idea how I fit in here.

“How did you get permission for all this?” I mumble-shout my question, which I blame on my cocktail consumption. It’s stupidly easy to get me drunk.

“Permission?” Max winks at me.

I roll my eyes. “They can probably hear your pool party on the moon.”

I swivel on the bar stool and stare at him, waiting for him to answer. Not just to put the pressure on but because his face is absolutely gorgeous. He hasn’t shaved in at least a day, and stubble roughens his jaw. He looks strong, but in a natural way. He spends a lot of time outside, surfing and rock climbing, so his body screams I can do this rather than being a walking billboard for a gym. I slip my phone out of my bag and take a close-up of his jaw and throat.

“Afraid you’ll forget what I look like?”

“Souvenir.” I wink at him. Because, oh man, I sort of want to remember what he looks like right now. His eyes have that warm smile lurking in the back, the one that doesn’t quite reach the grumpy line of his mouth because he’s bored and doing something he doesn’t like but he feels he should. “Are you going to answer my question?”

He snags my drink, takes a sip and makes a face. “(A) Dev and Jack are my neighbors. (B) I invited them. (C) My financial generosity is directly proportional to the volume of my music, and my neighbors bring many worthy charities to my attention.”

Since he’s blasting music at midnight loud enough to make his Cinderella castle shake, this must be a million-dollar party. I try to act as if it’s no big deal to be that casual about money, but I suspect I need more practice.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Oooh—a collection of etchings?”

He winks at me. “I don’t have one of those—should I?”

“Well, a good etching collection can be an excellent investment.” Keeping a straight face is harder than I thought it would be. “Do you even know what an etching is?”

He grins at me. “Let’s go find out. You can quiz me.”

He lifts a bottle of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter doesn’t blink an eye—just reverses direction to reload. There’s probably the champagne-equivalent of a beer truck backed up to Max’s house. Maybe Veuve Clicquot makes house deliveries? Max threads his fingers through mine and I lose my train of thought.

I’ve had a little too much to drink. Not so much that I want to lie down and sleep. Not enough to make the world spin. Just enough that I feel like I’m floating and happy. That nothing really matters other than Max’s fingers mixed up with mine. I was worried about coming here, but everything seems perfect now, thank you, Dr. Cocktail.

Deep down, I know that nothing’s changed. Max is still filthy rich and his dick is still not monogamous. Or even semimonogamous. A player? Yes. Hookup king? You betcha. But I tighten my grip on his hand anyhow and follow him into the shadows beyond the pool. When we get to the edge of a steep staircase, he tugs his hand free and drops to one knee. Strong, warm fingers wrap around my foot and tug.

“You need to lose these.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I say lightly.

“But I say it well.” He pulls off my sandals, tossing them to the side, and then stands up. He’s so close that his body brushes mine and I do my best to pretend that it’s just casual contact and no big deal. That my heartbeat isn’t skipping just a little faster. That my breathing’s as steady as ever. NBD, for sure.

“Come on.” He’s already barefoot as he sets off in the direction of a gorilla-sized man who looks suspiciously like private security and who is blocking a staircase on the far side of the pool. Somewhere beneath us, the ocean waits.

We climb down in the near dark, my hand in his, the other on his shoulder for balance. Broken necks aren’t sexy. I pat his shoulder, savoring the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin linen shirt. Muscles flex as he moves. There are about a hundred billion steps but each one brings us closer to the beach.

My feet sink into damp sand as we step off the staircase. Moonlight illuminates a broad strip of creamy sand studded with small rocks. OMG. Tidal pools. I run over to take a look. It’s too dark to see past the surface but I skim the top. There’s something that looks like an anemone and slippery, darting black shadows that must be fish. Or leeches. Do they have water snakes in Santa Cruz and do they spawn in the shallows?

Max strolls up behind me and Drunk Me yanks her hand out of the water (sprinkling his blue jeans with tiny wet spots), panics a little and pretends to be amazed by the scenery. Which is really pretty freaking awesome. The gnarly-looking rocks bookending the little bay seem like something out of a fantasy book. “They look like dragons.”

Max squints in the direction of the index finger I’ve stabbed at the dragon rocks. “Wrong. Clearly that’s an excellent likeness of General Grievous.”

“The Star Wars character? Are you nuts?”

“Are you blind?” He shoves the champagne bottle into a nearby tidal pool and then strides toward the waterline. When I follow, my toes come in contact with the iciest water I’ve ever felt. Even the ice baths I used to soak my feet in after a day of dancing were warmer than this. I look down. Nope. No icebergs.

“What?” He frowns, his gaze following mine.

“I’m looking for ice cubes.”

He snorts. “It’s California. Anything’s possible.”

We trade jabs about each other’s rock-spotting abilities (he’ll never convince me in a million years that those rocks are George Lucas–worthy). Somehow we end up sitting cross-legged on the sand, just above the tide line. Max pops the champagne open, looking like a suave James Bond billionaire. No, wait. With his hair rumpled by the breeze, shirt open, back against the rock, he might be a pirate. I sort of like that.

His party pounds away up above us, but down here? Down here there’s nothing but us and the ocean and all that dark stretching away.

“Let’s play a game. Truth or dare.” I grab the bottle from him and chug. My palate may be as broken as my man picker because I’m having a hard time telling the difference between Max’s expensive stuff and the three-dollar-a-bottle crap I stockpile for New Year’s. Or maybe I just need more practice?

He repossesses the bottle before I can practice too much. “Tell me the rules.”

“Well, since there’s just the two of us, we’ll take turns. You have to choose between answering any question I ask truthfully and performing a dare of my choice. If you fail, you have to pay a forfeit and drink. Ladies first?”

Naturally, he deliberately misunderstands me and grins. “Truth or dare, Maple?”

“Thank you for being a gentleman.” I blow him a kiss. “Truth.”

I’m way too tipsy for dares.

“What’s the shortest amount of time you’ve known someone before having sex with him or her?”

“Four days.” I don’t even have to think about it. “He was a Czech dancer I met on tour. My company was only in Prague for a week. We pas de deuxed on stage and then we did some private dancing.”

“No drunken one-night stands? No hookups with a stranger or hot, tanned strangers on a beach holiday?”