was any better. In fact, I was probably the worst culprit of all—an empty shell sucked dry of anything real for a long, long time.
“Care to make a bet?” Adam challenged.
“What type of bet?” I asked.
Rich drained his beer and looked triumphant. “Great idea. We bet you can’t bed her within the week. We’ll give you five days.”
“Are we starring in some crap spring break movie?” The crudity of such a bet was disgusting and I waved my hand in the air, dismissing the idea. “I’m not into shit like that.”
Rich cleared his throat. “Because you know you can’t succeed?”
“Because it’s a scummy thing to do. And none of your business.”
“What if I put up something you’ve been wanting for a while?”
I turned my head. Rich seemed pretty confident I’d jump at the offer. I’d known him and Adam since high school. Our parents belonged to the same clubs in Florida and were all close friends. We’d grown up as trust fund babies, given pretty much free reign and anything we wanted. We sailed yachts together, travelled through Europe, and had been kicked out of too many schools. Seemed like a fucking great life until we got older and realized most of America didn’t live that way. That there were things like real jobs and consequences and morality. My parents had none of that. They gave to charity because it made them look good, but turned their noses down at anyone who needed to scramble or get a bit dirty. When I hit about nineteen, I figured out they didn’t like me much, and as long as I didn’t embarrass their public image, they couldn’t care less where I went or what I did. I did all the normal shit kids do to get attention—screwing up and trying to make their lives miserable because I couldn’t please them. In return, they threatened to pull my money once in a while, and continued to freeze me out.
Once I reached drinking age, their attorney contacted me while they were travelling London. He had me sign on the dotted line, and all of my trust fund money was released, with a legal disclaimer that once it ran out, they weren’t responsible for me. I got the big picture. I was on my own.
Of course, I’d always been on my own. I just hadn’t realized it.
I jerked my attention back to my friend’s proposal. “Trust me, Rich, I doubt you have anything I want that much.”
He gave me a smug look. “How about Whit Bennigan?”
I cocked my head. I’d been heavy into art my whole life, but done nothing with it. I calmed my mind by going to museums, studying art history, and immersing myself in the visual world of professional artists. I had a room stocked with my paintings, but no one had seen them. No one really cared to. Whit Bennigan was one of the most famous painters in the south, and was making a name for himself to rival powerhouses. Using an edgy style with bold colors, he was a mix of old and new and was a master when it came to manipulating light. I’d read everything I could on the reclusive man.
“What about him?” I asked suspiciously.
“He’s a close friend of my parents. He owes them a favor, and I could collect. What if I was able to score you a private lesson with him?”
I jerked back. “Are you fucking kidding me? One hour in the room with this guy could change my whole approach. There’s no way you can bring that, Rich. You’re full of shit.”
“I’ll bring it. You get Miss Snobby Pants into bed within five days, and I’ll get you that lesson.”
I turned and studied her. Back ramrod straight, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, looking at something I couldn’t see out in the distance. I wanted her. Would’ve gone after her with or without a stupid bet, but at this point, what did I have to lose? I needed to have her, and a lesson with my mentor would be an added bonus. “What if I fail?”
The guys laughed. “We get your bike,” they said in unison.
Ah, shit.
My motorcycle was Harley, custom made, and sweet as sugar. It had an