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kind of ghetto shit; going out with a man who at the end of the night was in no shape to drive her home. So he had to spend the night at her place, which he may have done anyway, but the circumstances made her freeze him out of the bedroom.
    “I like Riley and Shawn,” she’d said. “They’re your friends and I want them to like me . If you get too drunk to even drive me home, they get the message you don’t respect me. And if you don’t respect me, Brendan, why should they?”
    She had a point there, he had to admit. But he’d spent most of the brunch trying to avoid Tracy, trying not to look at her. Trying not to get roped in all over again. Drinking seemed like his only recourse. And then to make matters worse, she had to go remind him of that time at the Grammys, which was practically an act of aggression as far as he was concerned.
    Brendan laughed as he let himself into his apartment. Right . Like he’d been able to forget that night to begin with. But even more than the night itself—when he’d had what was easily one of the most memorable sexual experiences of his life—he remembered the morning after, when they met up with Shawn and Riley again for breakfast and Tracy had looked at him coolly across the table like he was a fucking stranger. And worse, later on when he’d cornered her alone to ask what was up, she’d tugged her hand from his and pushed gently on his chest to get some distance between them.
    “Brendan,” she’d said. “C’mon. We know what that was. Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking it could be anything more.”
    Kicked. His. Ass .
    As a matter of fact he hadn’t known what it was. He thought it was the beginning of . . . something. He wasn’t sure what, but something . Instead she’d given him the Cold Tracy Stare and popped that bubble. And to add insult to injury, wanted to pick up where they left off like they should be phone buddies again; sidekicks to the main event that was the Shawn and Riley Show. Nah. That wasn’t happening. The difference between him and Tracy was that while she might be happy to live vicariously through her best friend, Brendan was not. I mean, to be as beautiful as she was, he had never once seen Tracy with a man.
    Sure, he worked his ass off for Shawn and the label, but he had a life. A whole and full life that he intended to live. And for now, Meghan was a pretty damn good part of that life until Tracy had to show up in that figure-hugging long orange dress that had the perverse effect of reminding him that he knew perfectly well what was underneath it, telling him she was thinking about him.
    Well fuck her. He’d been on that carnival ride, thank you very much. No way was he going back.
    Still, as he lay on Meghan’s couch last night, sleeping off the six shots of Patr ó n, he’d been grateful that she kicked him out of bed. If he’d had sex with her last night there was no telling whose face he would see. And he didn’t want to do that to Meghan; she was good for him, and more than that, just fundamentally a good woman. Almost as good as Riley, even. And Tracy? She was many things, but she was not good.
    Tracy was the kind of woman who wore her beauty like a sword, walking around just slaying motherfuckers. He’d seen her do it countless times; she would notice a man’s appreciation for her and meet his gaze, looking back at him with complete and utter contempt. How dare your dick get hard? How dare you think you could even look at a woman like me ?
    That might intimidate the average man, but Brendan had never let that faze him. He’d cracked on her pretty much routinely when they first met, sometimes half-heartedly, but never honestly believing that it would pay off one day. Not that he didn’ t have confidence in his skills ; it was just that he’d chalked Tracy up as an ice princess.
    His world was full of women and there were generally three types. Hoochies, homegirls , and the ones who were frigid, pretty and bitchy. Tracy