by Sara Ney
“Won’t? You liar—you’d love dating me. I’m awesome.” She yawns again, tired and sleepy but not allowed to spend the night, though I haven’t actually said that yet. “Why do you keep saying you can’t date? It makes no sense. Are you the beneficiary to some fortune and the will stipulates you must remain single until your thirtieth birthday?” Abbott jokes, doing her best to make light of an awkward situation.
Her, in my bed as I try talking her out of it.
“I just can’t date anyone right now.”
“Why? There has to be a reason.”
There is, but it’s an embarrassing one, one that would get me in serious trouble with her and change the way she looks at me forever. And while I can’t date her now, I don’t want to risk our friendship by destroying that, too.
So I shrug. Feed her the smallest crumb of information. “I have this thing with my friends. If I started seeing someone, I would lose out on a few…opportunities.”
“What opportunities? A job? A promotion?”
“Not like that.” She has it all wrong, but I can’t tell her about the Bastard Bachelor Society. The guys and I swore we wouldn’t discuss it with women.
Abbott studies me, eyes raking over my face. “Like how, then? Just tell me—it’s not a big deal. I won’t judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s going to sound stupid.”
Abbott studies the hem of my cotton sheets, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure it will. Half the shit you do is stupid.”
“Gee, tell me how you really feel.”
Her narrow shoulders shrug as if to say, ‘I just did.’
“A few months ago, we started this society, and dating breaks some of the rules.”
Obviously she’s already given me shit about being in a club, so she ignores that little factoid and wants to know, “Which rules?”
“All of them.”
She’s propped up on an elbow now, intently watching me from across the short expanse of mattress. If I reached out, I’d be able to touch her or pull her back into my arms. “How many rules are there?”
“Why are you asking so many questions?”
She sits up, affronted. “Because, Brooks—we just slept together. Because, Brooks…” My name doesn’t roll off her lips in the loving, adorable way she was saying it earlier today. This tone is sarcastic and unpleasant. “I care about you. So forgive me for asking a simple question about the guy I’m letting screw me when the mood strikes him. Apparently that’s all I’m good for these days—oral and fucking.” Abbott shoves back the blankets, scooting her ass to the edge of the bed, wiping my cum off her stomach with my clean sheet. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s your business, but I’m not going to lie here and put up with the stonewalling—message received, loud and clear.”
“I wasn’t stonewalling you—I was talking.” Just not giving her the answers she desperately wants.
She steps into the slippers next to the bed—my slippers—glancing over her shoulder to glare down at me. “Don’t be so literal.”
She disappears into the hallway, throwing clothes on as she stalks back into the bedroom a few seconds later. I watch her step into underwear. Snap on her bra, locking away the memory of her perfect areolas…how they tasted…
“It’s not on purpose. I just am not at liberty to say.”
“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Abbott stands, and I can’t stop my eyes from skimming her ass, clad in the cutest panties I’ve seen in a long time. “So cliché.”
Ugh, fuck my life.
“Can you not tell Nan about this?” I beg, shoving down my blankets too, intent on following her.
Abbott scoffs. “Oh. Oh! Can we not tell Nan about this?” Now she’s pissed. “We’re telling Nan—oh boy are we telling Nan!” She’s huffing, yanking her pants on. “Wait until she hears about this! No more treats for you, a-hole.”
“Abbott! Come on!” I trail along, desperate and buck naked. “Don’t!”
She spins. “You’re afraid of a little old lady but not of me? What the hell, Brooks?”
“For the record, she’s not little and she’s not old. Nan is scary as fuck.”
“Yes, I know she’s terrifying because she’s my grandmother, not yours! You should be scared of her—she’ll eat you alive.”
“Pfft. I’m not afraid of Nan!” I love Nan. She’s my nan, too. She feeds me and brings me treats and actually gives a crap about me. Nan is the fucking shit, and if Abbott squeals on me and she gets mad at me too, I’ll…
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost them both.
Fuck.
If I lost them…
Without Nan, there would be no Abbott. Without Abbott in my life, I won’t have Nan. They’re like family.
Ohana and all that bullshit.
What does that mean?
“All you care about is the cat and Nan.” She tosses her hands up in surrender. “I’m so flattered.” Marches over and pokes me in the chest with a pink fingernail. “If we were dating, I’d dump your ass right now. But we’re not, so I can’t—because of some stupid club you won’t tell me about, with its stupid rules you won’t tell me about.” Grabbing her keys from the kitchen counter, she pulls her shirt over her head before yanking the door open. “I hope your boys, and your useless rules—whatever they are—are enough to keep you warm at night, you turd.”
“Abbott,” I feebly call out after her.
But she’s already through my door, slamming it behind her, and in the hallway, shouting, “Bye!”
I’m an idiot, and instead of going into the hall, I stand there in my foyer with my head tipped back. “Abbottttt,” I yell, sounding suspiciously like Rocky Balboa—what the fuck?
“I said bye!” she yells back, still in the hallway. Her place is only feet away; she could have easily gone inside rather than lingering outside my door. “Find your own nan!”
“I never had a nan—mine died!” I shout the lie to be dramatic and hear her loud gasp through the door. In three strides, I yank it open again and stare at her. Abbott remains in the vestibule, immobile in front of her own apartment.
“Put some damn clothes on!” She gapes at me, actually covering her mouth with the palm of her dainty hand. “And don’t you dare play off my sympathy to get your own way. You have a grandma—she’s alive and well, so get your own nan!” she shouts again, so fucking loud I can hear a neighbor down the way cracking their door open to see what the fuss is. “And cover your dick.”
I can’t help it; I laugh.
Abbott’s potty mouth, coupled with the indignant expression on her face and the fact that I’m standing here naked—the entire situation makes me laugh until a tear drips from the corner of my eye. I swipe at it.
Abbott crosses her arms and shoots daggers across the corridor. But how pissed can she actually be if she’s still standing there glaring at me?
“Pfft, I’m going inside,” she huffs again. “If you came into the hall to stop me, you’re too late.”
“I didn’t come out here to stop you.”
Her head tilts. “Well you can’t, so…”
She hasn’t budged an inch.
“Then why are you standing out here, staring at me?” This confrontational side of her is totally uncharacteristic and a total turn-on. Based on what I know about her, based on the few short months we’ve been hanging out, Abbott isn’t one to pick arguments or even participate in them. She’s kind and loving. Well, fine—not too kind, but enough that she’s not a total asshole and wouldn’t deliberately get into a quarrel.
“I’m staring because you’re naked, duh. Plus, I wanted to see if you had the balls to follow me.”
The balls to follow her—who is she right now? Jesus she’s cute.
Her eyes stray to my balls and I laugh again, pointing to them. “Big balls.”
“Apparently.”
If I listen hard enough, the feeble mews of Desi coming from the i
nside of her apartment can be heard. That cat freaking loves me, bless its evil little heart.
She adds, “I just assumed my balls were bigger than yours.”
That’s the thing I love about Abbott—her ability to say dumb shit that makes me laugh and not care. She’s not trying to impress me with her intellect, although she’s wicked smart. Abbott makes me feel…
Good.
She makes me feel good.
Her family feels like the home I never had.
What the hell I’m supposed to do with that information is beyond me; I have way too much to lose by backing down from that bet, no matter what my feelings are toward her.
I cannot give up my season tickets. They are the only thing I’ve ever inherited, will ever inherit, and maybe someday I’ll have a son or daughter to take to the game…
A son or a daughter? Down boy, you’re not even in a relationship, let alone impregnating anyone. And for the sake of the Bastard Bachelor Society, you’re not allowed to be in one, anyway.
I feel Abbott watching me, can see the questions in her eyes that she doesn’t dare ask.
“Whatever is holding you back, I…” Her throat constricts as she swallows. “I won’t push you. I’ll leave it be. So.” The brown hair she just had highlighted gets tucked behind her ears. “This is me telling you to go live your best life.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” The words leave my lips before I can think twice about what I’m saying.
Her laugh is sardonic, despite the sad look in her blue eyes. “We’re not dating, remember? You went down on me once, slept with me once, and now I doubt you were even going to let me spend the night. Probably some rule about that.”
Leave it to Abbott to throw that back in my face.
“Abbott, I can’t be in a relationship, but I also don’t…” I pause, struggling to find words. “I don’t want…this.”
I don’t want it to be weird. I want what we had yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
Why do sex and feelings complicate everything? I should have known this shit was going to happen, dammit. Should have pumped the brakes when I had the chance. Should have pushed her away once and for all before sticking my dick inside her.
But she smells so fucking great and she is fucking great and why do I have to like her so fucking much?
Watch the mouth, Brooks.
“Well what is it you want then? To be besties? I’m not going to sleep with you according to your whims—I deserve more respect than that. And since you won’t tell me anything about your secret club, there is nothing I can do about that, either. So…” Her back hits her door and she continues watching me warily. “It is what it is.”
“I mean…” My door is open behind me and I lean against it, crossing my bare arms over my bare chest, nuts and berries still dangling for all the world to see. Well, the security cameras at least. “Plenty of people sleep with each other and they’re just friends.”
“Friends.” It’s a deadpan reply, no question mark tacked onto the end. “Ah.”
“I’m not going to ghost you, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re the one who blew up and stormed out of my apartment.”
“Not ghost me? We’re friends! What do you think this is?” She motions at the empty space between us in the hall. “I’m not going to settle for someone who only wants to be my friend in public and is someone else behind closed doors and pity-fucks me. That’s total bullshit and completely unfair.”
Wow. She’s sworn at me twice now. Okay, so maybe the word balls doesn’t count as profanity, but it’s not like she curses on a regular basis, so it still sounds odd.
She must be hurt.
“Can you keep your voice down and get out of the hallway? Come back to bed.”
Her answer is a shocked laugh. “Come back to bed? Ha!” She makes a show of looking up and down the stark empty hallway with its cream paint, cream trim, and gold sconces lining the exteriors of every door. “Who’s around to hear us? No one. So say what you have to say, or don’t say it—no one cares. Except Desdemona, and she’s pissed at you, too.”
Behind her, the cat scratches on her door and meows pitifully.
“Desi isn’t pissed at me.”
“Yes, she is.”
“How do you know?”
Abbott’s chin goes up defiantly. “She does what I tell her to.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
Abbott’s nostrils flare. “It’s my cat, and my nan, and that’s that. Get your own, you mooch.”
Lose the bet, Brooks, and the Abbott and the nan and the cat can all be yours. Lose the bet, lose the bet, lose the bet—those three words repeat in my head, over and over, and will probably haunt me for the rest of my damn life. Tell her you love her. Be a man and say it, pussy.
As if on cue, Desi mews.
Pitiful. Pathetic.
A feline actress sent to torment me.
“Well…I should go inside. As you can tell, the cat’s going crazy.”
I would hardly call a few meows going crazy, but I’m not about to argue with her when she’s already crabby at me. Abbott needs to cool off. In a few days, I’ll stop by her place and we can have a serious talk.
After I figure out what the fuck I’m going to do. How do I explain that I want and need her to fit into my life but can’t have her right this second—on the spot like this, conversing in the hallway of our apartment building where anyone could overhear us? Abbott might not think anyone is listening, but I know for a fact we have a few nosey fucking neighbors; we don’t see them often, but they’re lurking.
Which is hardly the point.
The point is…I need time to think.
23
Brooks
I stop by her place a few days later. Then the next day.
Then the next. And the next. And the fucking next, and I don’t know if Abbott has been home any of the numerous times I’ve knocked on her door, but she isn’t answering. My texts? They aren’t being answered, either.
She’s shutting me out, and it’s crushing me.
Crushing me in a way my heart hasn’t known since Stacey Kipplinger broke it in sixth grade, checking the “no” box when I passed her a note asking if she liked me and writing I would never date someone who wore hand-me-down jeans in the blank space at the bottom.
I wonder what that bitch is up to these days.
The Basement isn’t kind to me tonight, either. I arrive to a crowded bar, a crowded dining area, and my friends, who are already three sheets to the wind and itching to joke around.
They’re wearing their blue jackets while I’ve left mine at home, in no mood to wear the damn thing when it smells like Abbott and her baby powder.
I would know, because I checked.
Sulking, I slouch down in my chair, not thirsty, ill-humored and horrible company.
“Dude. What’s your fucking problem?” Phillip is shoveling one too many free mints into his mouth, feet propped up on the coffee table, dress shoes shined to an unnatural gloss. Where the hell did he shine those up, the airport?
“Nothing is my problem, dude.”
That’s not true, but it’s not like I can confess my girl problems to these idiots. They’d be up my ass so fast, calling forfeit and roasting me.
Lose the bet, Brooks, and the Abbott and the nan and the cat can all be yours.
Lose the damn bet and get Abbott back.
Back?
You fool, you never actually had her.
I shake my head, disturbed. These voices in my head have got to shut the fuck up—they’re messing with my work, my sleep patterns, and my fun.
Life without Abbott sucks.
I stopped by her place a few nights ago after work, gave her door a few knocks.
Nothing.
This morning before leaving for the office, I tried again, early enough that I knew she was at home. Abbott isn’t an early riser—the girl hates waking up, never skips breakfast. The only response to my
knock?
Desdemona’s pitiful mewing at the door. Fucking tore at my heartstrings.
“You’re being a bitch.” The tip of Phillip’s dress shoe bumps the calf of my dress pants.
I throw my hands in the air. “I haven’t done anything.”
“It’s not what you said, but how you haven’t said it.” Blaine is suddenly the authority on my mood swings? Like I’m not allowed to feel like shit? Or be crabby? Or have a few fucking moments of peace and quiet?
Phillip pops an olive into his mouth, adding, “I speak fluent body language.”
“Is that so? What am I saying now?” I throw up my hands again, this time with two middle fingers tossed in his direction.
“You’re showing us the size and girth of your dick.” They both laugh, smacking each other in the arm.
It’s official: they’re the village idiots.
You’re their ringleader, Brooks. You’re responsible for their behavior just as much as they are. The club wasn’t their idea, it was yours. Blaine and Phillip are like two children, taking my lead and running with it. They’re not saying or doing anything I haven’t done myself or told them to do.
They’re simply playing by the rules we made; meanwhile, I’m questioning them.
Because you fell in love, dipshit, and refuse to admit it.
Refuse to lose.
Lose Abbott.
It’s one or the other.
Phillip interrupts my thoughts. “Wow, you sure have a lot on your mind. For real, bro—do you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah dude, you actually look like you might cry.” Blaine backs him up, as usual.
I look like I’m going to cry?
I run a finger along the bottom of my eye and sure enough—it’s damp.
What the fuck?
“I am not going to cry.”
“I didn’t say you were—I said it looks like you might cry.”
Too late.
I already am kind of.
Except I’d never fucking admit it to these two. It would only lead to more tears, not to mention twenty questions that I have no intention of answering.
“Guess I’m just…” I pause, searching for a plausible lie. “Stressed out.”