Add Noah (How could I not include Noah?) aka The Facilitator, and that makes seven: my Savage Seven. I could thank my mother for the inspiration behind that nickname.
Vampire Chick Productions, featuring the Savage Seven: definitely screams “science documentary.”
We had to have a few drinks before we could get down to any business: Landon’s rules in effect. Ben sat across the table from me, and I was reminded of what Greta had said on the phone: that Ben was now single again; that he’d make a good candidate for the potential winner of my virginity.
Next to Ben sat Will, and next to Will sat Ken. Greta’s head would be spinning, I thought and laughed out loud.
“Private joke?” asked Ken.
I swatted my hand dismissively. “I was just thinking.”
“Anything you want to share?” asked Christian.
What? That I was looking at all of you, wondering which one of you I should let take my virginity. And what my friend, Greta, would think of the options?
“I was just thinking of what a funny team we make,” I said.
We were on our third round of drinks before we actually started talking about the project. I’d offered to buy the first one. Only normal, I was the one who’d convened us here. And I ended up buying the third, as well. I lost a bet as to who would win at arm wrestling between Ben and Will. “Always bet on black,” Will said. I should have listened to him. Actually, I didn’t care who’d win; I just figured a round of drinks for my friends was a small price to pay for a front-row seat at two hunks flexing and straining their well-built biceps for me.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” said Ben.
“That’s okay,” I said. I put my hand on his bicep. It was still hard—I squeezed—like a rock. “Maybe I’ll give you a chance to make it up to me.”
“Speaking of Iceland,” Noah said to me, apropos of nothing. “Do we really need Sasha Snow to give you an interview? I mean, even if she says no, we should still go to Iceland. We could interview some of the locals, hear what they have to say about their billionaire neighbor.”
I shook my head. “That’s a good idea. I appreciate your enthusiasm. But that’s not the angle I want to go with. I need the interview. I need to meet her. It’s personal.”
“We go to Iceland,” said Landon. “And if she declines an interview, we find out where she lives, and we break in, guerilla-style.”
“I don’t think guerillas break into people’s homes,” said Christian.
Landon ignored the remark and continued with his far-fetched idea of sneaking into her home and shooting scripted scenes, me playing the role of Sasha Snow. His narrative concepts were quite good, but obviously, we weren’t going to go to Iceland to commit breaking and entering. I had to be very clear on that because as crazy as Landon’s idea was, I knew there was a part of him that was serious. I thought Landon became a lawyer because he always knew one day he’d need a good lawyer, probably sooner rather than later.
Christian and Landon debated possible legal loopholes: inadvertent trespassing or something or other. I really wasn’t listening. Instead, I kept my attention on Ben, who sat on the bench, leaning back, nursing his drink. I fixated on his lips around the straw and waited for him to pull his drink away so he’d lick his lips.
He took his time.
Waiting heightened the pleasure, and I was definitely high. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the prospect of sneaking off to a foreign land, doing something rash and dangerous, but I’d never looked at Ben like I looked at him that night. I wanted him. I wanted him to grab me with his strong arms. I wanted to fight him off of me, and I wanted to lose that fight.
“When do you expect to hear from Sasha Snow?” Trevor asked me. Actually, he asked twice because I was distracted.
I shrugged and extended my hands, palms up. “I have no idea.” I looked at Noah, and he made the exact same gesture.
“Could be tomorrow,” said Will.
“Could be never,” said Christian.
“No,” said Noah. “She’ll hear from her. I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Trevor.
Noah kept the expression on his face stern and unwavering. “I’m sure.”
“Regardless of her answer,” said Ben, “we go to Iceland.”
We all raised our glasses and drank to our crazy resolution.
“There is one small problem,” I said.
“Your parents?” Christian guessed.
And he’d guessed wrong. I smirked and swatted his guess from the air. “I’m not worried about my parents. What can they do? I’m a grown woman. No, the problem is coming up with the money to get us all to Iceland and stay there for a week or two.”