by Sara Ney
“Same.”
That one word lingers in the air, in the hallway, floating above our heads, a heavy weight suddenly thrust upon the light mood and clouding over.
My cute neighbor forces herself to continue to smile, a big, fat, fake smile that I find unattractive. I prefer the fun, carefree Abbott—not this one, the one suddenly sullen in response to my declared singledom.
Sure, I get it. No single young woman on the prowl for an eligible bachelor wants to hear there is one less candidate for her to sink her claws into.
Even if Abbott is way out of my league, it still must sting that she can’t have me. Not that she wants me, but I can only assume…
“You don’t want to be in a relationship?”
“I thought you knew that.” Pause. “That whole friend-zone thing is for a reason.”
“Oh. So you don’t just not like me?”
“Abbott, if I were going to hand in my Bastard Bachelor card, it would be for you.”
“Your what?”
Shit. What did I just say? Why are her eyes so wide?
“What’s a bastard bachelor?”
Shit. Fuck. “A what?” I ask, hoping to throw her off the scent. Maybe she’ll think she misheard me if I pretend not to know what she’s talking about.
“A bastard bachelor. You said ‘If I were going to hand in my bastard bachelor card, it would be for you.’”
I did say that. I said those exact words, but try getting me to admit it.
Deny, deny, deny. “What I meant was, I’d date you if I were dating. But I’m not, so…yeah.”
“Are you gay?”
“No.” Another pause. “Would I have gone down on you if I were gay?”
“Maybe.” Her petite shoulders give me a shrug, and she adjusts the groceries in her arms. “I don’t know. I’m sure some guys would take one for the team, just to make their friend happy.”
“No one eats someone’s pussy just to make them happy.”
As those words leave my mouth, I’m unexpectedly positive there are plenty of people out there, gay and straight—right this second—giving oral to their good friend to make them happy. I’d put money on it. Because that’s what good friends do!
Sacrifice for the sake of the team.
Abbott and me? We make a great team; if only she would get it out of her head that she can take me out of the friend-zone. Granted, she’s never once said those words, or hinted at it, but I know women, and she would be a damn fool not to want me as a boyfriend.
I’m a fucking catch.
But so is she.
We’d make one amazing couple…
“Earth to Brooks.” She has one hand free and is waving it in front of my face. “Hello?”
“Sorry.”
“We start talking about oral sex and you start daydreaming—seems legit.” One blue eye shoots me a wink, her smile authentic and real. Just like her boobs probably are.
Tits.
I’ve given hers a lot of thought after going down on her last night, wondering what they look like. The color of her nipples and their shape. Bet they’re squishy in all the best ways.
“You’re doing it again,” she chastises. “So, I have dinner in this bag. If you want to get settled, I can come over in a few and we can hang out?”
“Why does it have to be my place?”
“Because we never spend any time there! It’s not fair. Let’s just try it, okay?”
I feel a pout coming on, repressing it with a groan. “Fine.”
“Are you showering? How much time do you need?”
“Meh, I can be quick. I’ll just toss on sweats.”
“I’ll do the same. Feed the cat and come over.”
A night where that hairball isn’t staring me down? Perfect.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “What’s in the bag?” I know she said dinner, but I want specifics. “Be specific.”
Abbott lowers it so she can peer inside, checking the contents. “Um, let’s see…cashew chicken, shrimp fried rice. A few spring rolls.”
My stomach growls. “You got Chinese takeout?” Honestly, could she be any more perfect? Abbott Margolis is my dream girl.
Sexy. Funny—fuck, I’ve been down this road before, rationalizing and listing all the things I love about her despite the bet looming.
Blaine and Phillip are in no danger of losing since neither of them are seeing anyone—dating, sexing, or otherwise. I’m the only asshole who seems to have gotten himself into something of a…predicament. One not a soul besides myself knows anything about.
If they knew about Abbott, they would hand me my ass. They would take my season tickets and battle it out between them, and I cannot allow that to happen.
Those tickets mean too much.
Why the fuck did I put them on the table? What else could I stand to lose?
Cash? Airline travel vouchers?
Not much else. I don’t own a condo. I don’t own land. I lease my luxury SUV (paying out the wazoo for the parking every month like a fucking idiot). No vacation properties, no timeshares.
What I do have is a fuck ton of Amazon boxes being delivered to my apartment daily, which always leaves me oddly satisfied. What I do have is an unhealthy new codependency on my next-door neighbor, who does and does not want to date me. What I do have is a relationship with her fluffy fucking cat, who hates to love me, and loves to hate me, and at any moment is going to tear my balls off.
Every day I look forward to seeing Abbott. Every day I race home, earlier and earlier and earlier—Taylor has called me pussy-whipped twice this week—to beat Abbott home, excited by the prospect of spending the evening with her.
If that isn’t a relationship, I don’t know what is…
My friends don’t know she exists. Only Taylor knows, and he isn’t telling anyone, with the hopes that I’ll change my mind about her. If Taylor had his way, I’d put a ring on it so he could come live with us in the Margolis family penthouse, vacation on the Margolis family yacht, and sip from Margolis family champagne flutes, living his best life as my assistant—one who does nothing but bask in bougieness.
Bastard.
Blaine and Phillip? Do not know I spend far more than three consecutive nights hanging out with her. Don’t know she feeds me, I feed her, and we spend most of our free time together. They’re unaware she is my friend. And I find her incredibly sexy. And she’s smart and witty and talented. No one knows I went down on her and want to fuck her, over and over again until neither of us can walk a straight line…
…to the fridge, to get more food, so we can have more energy, to have all the sex.
It’s a vicious cycle, one that has only played out in my head.
It’s a rough life, but I’m managing.
Abbott presents me with her back, inserting her gold key into the gold lock on her door. Turns it until the lock clicks. Shoots a glance at me over her shoulder, hair swaying.
“You better not be flirting,” I warn.
“Me? Flirting?” She gives her front door a push. “Please.”
“Yeah, you.”
“Blah blah, I’ll see you in ten minutes.” As she crosses the threshold, tossing her keys onto the table next to the door, she remembers something. “Oh! You take this since I’m coming over.” Abbott presses the bag of food into my waiting hands. Points a finger up at me. “Don’t you dare start without me.”
I’d hold my hands up in surrender, but they’re full of Chinese takeout. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I am such a damn liar.
20
Abbott
Brooks Bennett went down on me yesterday.
Brooks. Gave. Me. Oral.
And here I am, on a Friday night, standing in front of my closet, staring up at my wardrobe, deciding what to wear so we can casually hang out in his apartment.
A first.
I thought running into him “after the deed” was going to be monumentally awkward. Kind of considered it something he would regret, th
ought maybe he’d ghost me, which seems like a thing he would do.
He surprised me by being mischievous, practically falling out of the elevator, breathing heavy for Lord knows what reason and wanting to see me again.
Granted, the man likes to eat and I was standing in the hall, holding a bag of takeout.
The encounter wasn’t awkward at all.
Thank.
God.
I mean, if it had been weird, would I be going to his apartment for dinner? The dinner I went and bought with him in mind, wishing I’d bump into him…loitering too long in the apartment lobby…then lingering by the elevators, then dawdling at my door, rummaging for my keys.
Lucky me, ’cause it worked.
Brooks Bennett went down on me yesterday.
I’ve mentally repeated that sentence hundreds of times throughout the day, letting the words sink in, distracting me from work, from deadlines, from new assignments and hard-to-manage co-workers.
Brooks Bennett might have gone down on me two days ago, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to want a relationship with me today.
He doesn’t want a relationship? Ever?
Like, ever, ever?
I absorb the information, letting that sink in, too, as I pull off my work clothes. First the fitted tweed pencil skirt, then the matching blazer. White button-up blouse. White silk bra. White silk panties.
These are not Chinese-food-eating, couch-surfing undergarments.
I replace them with cotton, fastening a basic bra I bought at Costco, determined not to get fussy. It’s not as if he’s going to see me naked later, although a girl can dream.
My hands go to my hips as I stand in my underwear, still deciding which casual but cute I woke up like this outfit I want to put on. Forsake the sweatshirts that say YAWN and NOT TODAY SATAN and NAMASTE IN BED and instead pull down a white crewneck from a neatly stacked pile of shirts atop a low shelf Nan hired someone to build for me.
Bottoms, bottoms, what do I want to wear on the bottom…
I tap my chin, blue eyes roaming over piles of black cotton yoga pants. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: I’ve never done yoga in any of these pants a single day in my sorry life. These pants have never known sweat. These pants have never known tears.
Black bottoms or something with a pattern?
Hey—he might not want to date me, but I know this much: I turn him on. He was rock-hard while he was going down on me, as evidenced by the giant boner when he finally stood up and headed to my bathroom to wash up.
Jeez, do people still use the word boner when they’re describing an erection?
Sighing, I reach for a pair of white and gray bottoms so he can stare at my ass good and hard. Struggle to pull the damn things on, eventually squeezing into them, then my sweatshirt.
“This is as good as it’s going to get, isn’t it, homegirl?” I tell my reflection in the mirror before tossing my hair.
Desdemona is nowhere to be found, most likely hiding beneath my bed, her favorite spot when she’s in one of her famous moods.
My cat is certifiable.
I quickly check her food and water, just to be on the safe side, then hit the lights in the apartment. Pad my way to the door, lock up, and shuffle across the hall.
Knock.
Wait, tapping my foot impatiently. For real. He knew I was coming—what’s taking him so long to answer the door?
Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and I rub small circles above my belly button, three long minutes passing before Brooks flings the door open without ceremony, cracking it just enough that I can slide my way inside.
“Did you just sniff me?” I blurt out, knowing damn well that he did. I’ve caught him doing it several times already when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
Joke’s on him because I always notice.
“Nope.”
Liar. Deny it all you want—I definitely heard your nose sniffing the air.
I navigate to the living room, bloodhounding my way to the food laid out on the stone coffee table. Brooks has it spread out like a mini buffet, having transferred the contents from takeout containers to glass bowls.
Ooh la la. Fancy.
While I’m settling in on the couch, finding my comfy spot, he disappears, returning with ice water, two wine glasses, and a bottle of white.
“Nothing goes better with cheap Chinese food than expensive white wine,” I tease, pulling the cork out of the top and pouring us each a glass.
I sip.
It’s cool and crisp and absolutely perfect. Goes down way too smooth, the first few dainty sips going straight to my head.
I set it on the table and recline.
I love this time with him after a long day at work, after the arguments and the negotiations and wasting my time and energy on creative flow. Arguing with creative people—like Bambi Warner—who might have incredible talent and ideas but don’t quite fit what the client wants.
Being the middle man at the office is exhausting. Things with Bambi have gotten slightly better since I sent her home early to recover from her breakup, but it’s still strained, the power struggle festering between us alive and well. As much as I’d love to be more assertive, that’s just not who I am, and as much as I’d love for her to wake up one morning and show me more respect, that’s just not happening any time soon.
I sigh contently, sagging into Brooks’ couch. It’s not as comfortable as mine—his is stiff and leather and not as worn in—but it’s a couch, and my ass ain’t complainin’.
Surprisingly enough, I like it here, in his apartment.
“Too bad you won’t let me bring Desdemona over. She’d love that plant in the corner.”
Translation: she’d love to climb that plant in the corner, dig out all the dirt, and destroy the pot it’s in.
“Don’t you dare even think about bringing that cat in here,” he warns. Plops down on the end of the couch, one foot propped on the coffee table, the other up on the cushions. “Crap. Now I can’t reach my plate.”
He shoots me a devilish sidelong glance. Beseeching with a pouty lower lip.
It works and I fold like a stack of cards. “You want me to make you a plate, ask nice.”
“Abbott, can you pretty please make me a plate and hand it to me? I had a rough day.”
I’ll just bet he had a rough day, looking all cute and handsome in the light lavender shirt he wore earlier with his coordinating tie and navy slacks. The dark velvet blue jacket to match.
Rawr.
I scoop some food onto a plate for his majesty, handing it to him with a smile. Flutter my lashes. I mean seriously, who can be irritated with that face?
I want to squish it in my hands.
“How rough could your day have been if you ended it with drinks?” I’m curious to know, already chewing on a vegetable.
“I had drinks with my friends because it was rough, and somehow that made it worse.” I note with confusion that he hasn’t met my gaze.
“So you wore your jacket to work?” I know it holds some kind of sentimental value—no way did he wear that out in public.
“I brought it to work and changed into it afterward.”
Ah, so I was right. It’s a special jacket, for special occasions.
“What did you and your friends talk about? What are they like?” The friends he will not set me up on a date with because they are douchebags.
“My friends are…” Brooks pushes broccoli across the plate before spearing it with his fork and putting it on his tongue. “Professionals. One of them just broke up with his girlfriend, but all he does is sit and whine about that.”
“Whines? How? If he broke up with her, why is he bellyaching about it?” Inquiring minds want to know.
Brooks’ broad shoulders shrug, and I peel my eyes away in time to hear him say, “Dunno.” Chomp, chomp. “He was on the fence about it. Must feel guilty about dumping her.” Chomp, chomp. “You know how guys are.”
No, actually, I don’t know how guys are. You�
��d have to have a myriad of experience with men to know how guys are, and I? Do not. I’m no Bambi Warner, who is all legs and boobs and long flowing hair—she must spend an hour each morning curling it before work. Styling it. Hours on her makeup and skincare.
I bet she shaves her legs a few times a week, unlike myself.
I’ve been friend-zoned more times than I can count, stick to myself when I’m at bars, and rarely get hit on. I’m a veritable wallflower. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
The last time I had a dick inside me was…jeez. Who even knows?
“What else do y’all do besides sit around and drink?”
Brooks has the courtesy to swallow before responding. “The usual. Bars, go to the gym and play hoops. Grab coffee, smoke stogies.”
“That’s what you do when you’re together? Go to the gym, play hoops, and grab coffee?” It all sounds so disappointingly ordinary. I ponder this information. “Huh.”
“What does huh mean? None of that excites you?” His chuckle is good-humored and served with a smile.
“Surprises me, that’s all. I thought you were going to say something like, ‘We go to biker bars, car shows, and strip clubs.’”
His eyes go wide. “Right away your brain takes you to a strip club?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t know why that popped into my mind, it just did.” Another vegetable gets eaten, giving me time to think about what I’ll say next.
“Got strippers on the brain, do ya?”
“No! But let’s be honest, some very beautiful women are exotic dancers.” I shoot him a shy glance.
“You’re beautiful, but you would never do a striptease.”
Hold up—let me take a nanosecond to overthink this: is he imagining me doing stripteases now? As in, prancing around and getting naked in front of him?
Or…is that him saying I’m a beautiful woman? Or is he calling me a prude?
“Are we talking about stripteases or exotic dancing? They’re not the same thing,” I point out.
“Both.”
“You don’t think I’d ever do a lap dance?” I pivot my body so I’m facing him. “How stuffy do you think I am?”
“One doesn’t do a lap dance—one performs a lap dance.” He’s amused by the topic, at least. “It has nothing to do with you being stuffy.”