Tempted

by Megan Hart

  “Bitch, please,” said Alex. “I worked my ass off for that company. Taking a month or two off doesn’t make me a bastard.”

  “Hell, no,” James said. “You were a bastard long before that.”

  Alex snorted, moving closer. The three of us made a triangle with Alex at the apex. Two handsome men and me. What woman wouldn’t enjoy being part of that party?

  “Damn, that smells good.” James sniffed the air and kissed my temple, half-distracted. “What is that, steak?”

  “Alex cooked,” I offered.

  James let go of my neck to lift the grill lid and hoot in approval of the three huge, juicy steaks inside. “Dude. Nice job.”

  Alex slipped his lighter into the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s eat, asshole.”

  Asshole. Fucker. Bitch, even. Women might tease each other with bitch, but you had to be very, very good friends with a very, very good understanding of how that word was being used. Men tossed off insults like they were pet names.

  We ate on the deck, the three of us knee to knee to knee around our small and somewhat rickety table. The food wouldn’t have tasted any better if we’d been sitting on teak. The men talked. And talked. And talked some more. I stayed mostly silent, listening, searching for the key to this friendship.

  What made it tick? What had kept it going all these years? What had nearly ended it? And what had brought it around again?

  “Ho-lee-shit.” This was said by James in a tone of utter awe as Alex brought out a layered dessert made of cake, custard and fruit. “Look at Julia Child.”

  Alex put the dessert, which had been assembled in the footed glass trifle bowl we’d received, like the wineglasses, as a gift. Seeing the layers of goodness inside, I couldn’t believe I’d never used it.

  “Fuck you, man.” Alex flipped James the bird, right in his face.

  James swatted the hand away. “And the horse you rode in on.”

  Alex sat and stuck a spoon into the bowl. “Serve yourself.”

  I caught his eye. He didn’t look displeased with James’s teasing praise. Both had drunk wine with dinner, but now Alex had opened a bottle of beer. He sipped, set it down and leaned forward to grab the spoon again.

  “But Anne first.”

  “I’m stuffed,” was my first protest, but neither James nor Alex would hear it, and I ended up with a serving anyway.

  “Dinner was delicious, Alex. Thank you.”

  He waved an indolent hand, his attention on James. “Don’t mention it.”

  “I still think you should give James some lessons,” I said casually. “He can barely make oatmeal.”

  “That’s because his mommy packed his lunch for him until he went away to college,” Alex said, though fondly. “And mine was usually too much of a mess to cook anything at all.”

  Another moment of awkwardness fell over us, and it took me a second to understand I was the only one feeling it. Whatever Alex’s home life had been, it was obviously something he and James had been quite used to.

  “You’re a long fucking way from grilled cheese and bologna sandwiches, man.” James licked the tines of his fork. “Man, when we were kids, Alex used to make the best fucking GC&B.”

  They both laughed. I made a face. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup I’ve had. But grilled cheese and bologna? Ew.”

  Alex drained his glass. “At Jamie’s house we got stuff like PB&J with the crusts cut off and Cracker Jacks.”

  “At his house we got grilled cheese and bologna and Jack Daniel’s.”

  They laughed again. James finished off his dessert. Alex had pushed most of his aside. I looked up from my plate. When Alex had said he didn’t have anyone to take care of him, I’d assumed he meant now.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Alex had been looking at James, but now he favored me with his gaze. “No. I have the dubious honor of being the first person to ever get our little Jamesy-Wamesy fucked up.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen.” James shook his head, still eating. “We drank half a bottle of Jack we snuck from Alex’s dad and read porn mags and smoked a pack of shitty little cigarillos we bought off some kid at school.”

  “Black Market Pete.”

  “Who?” I looked from one to the other. The conversation was losing me.

  “This kid who could get anything for anyone.” James laughed. “Black Market Pete.”

  I was content enough to listen to them talk and trade stories. It was sort of like listening to secrets. I was fascinated by these glimpses into my husband’s past.

  “How did you two meet, anyway?” I asked.

  James looked to Alex, who answered. “Homeroom. Eighth grade. Mrs. Snocker.”

  “Good old Hocker Snocker.” James snickered.

  “Heather Kendall had moved away the summer before school started.” Alex gestured, expansive. He filled his glass again and put the bottle, empty, aside. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Kennedy, Kinney,” James explained. “He sat in front of me. First day of school, Alex shows up in this fucking leather jacket with fucking zippers all over it like Michael Jackson—”

  “It was black, fucker,” Alex said without animosity. “His was red.”

  “Anyway. Ripped jeans, white T-shirt, black motorcycle boots and black fag jacket.”

  Alex’s eyes flashed. “That you borrowed from me every chance you could get because your mommy wouldn’t let you dress like all the other boys.”

  “Cold, man. Cold.” James drained his beer.

  I felt like I was at a tennis match, listening to the volley of their words. Fag jacket? I’d never heard James call anything or anyone fag. The word had a harshness to it that didn’t sound right coming from his mouth. He didn’t even tell ethnic jokes.

  Alex didn’t seem offended. “Jamie’s mom used to make him wear the queerest madras shorts and polo shirts. And deck shoes. Jesus. And sweaters over the shoulders. Good Christ, it was like he walked out of the frigging Buttfuck Sailor catalog.”

  By this time James was laughing so hard all he could do was wave his middle finger in the air. Alex, who appeared to be trying to keep a straight face throughout the description of James’s teenage wardrobe, finally burst into a flurry of guffaws. Their conversation deteriorated into gasping insults while I looked back and forth, amused.

  “…frigging reject from Grease…!”

  “Mr. GQ, pretty frosted hair all slicked back! Mr. Pink Izod shirt!”

  “Fuck you, man, that shirt was cool!”

  “Sure, sure. So you say. Let me guess, Anne’s taken over dressing you, cuz you sure as hell look a lot better than you used to.”

  “Excuse me, America’s Next Male Model.”

  The insults faded into chuckles and obscene hand gestures. In unison they turned to me. I was caught, not sure what they expected me to say.

  “You dress him, don’t you, Anne?”

  “I don’t, actually.” I looked at James, who was now flipping a triumphant bird. I hadn’t realized how many emotions could be conveyed with one single hand motion.

  “She doesn’t.” James sat back with a sigh, hand on his stomach. “Fuck. I’m stuffed.”

  I looked at his work clothes, a pair of grimy jeans and an equally stained T-shirt that bore the logo of his company. Kinney Designs. A baseball cap or hardhat often completed his outfit along with a pair of steel-toed work boots. But when he wasn’t working, James knew how to dress really well. It had been one of the first things I’d noticed as I got to know him, how much time he’d spend coordinating his clothes. I looked from him to Alex, and back again. I wondered if James had learned his sense of style from the same place he’d lifted that smile.

  “Thanks for dinner, Alex. It was delicious.” I stood to gather plates and napkins.

  “Hey, Anne, don’t do that.”

  I looked up. “What?”

  “Don’t clean up. Sit with us for a while.” Alex reached for another cigarette and lit it,
sucking in smoke and blowing it away from the table before looking back at us. “Talk.”

  I sat, though I had nothing much to say. They had years of history of which I had no part. It was a little hard to keep up my end of the conversation. I didn’t mind, really. When I got together with my sisters or old school friends it was the same way. I understood it.

  “Look at that water.” James patted his stomach again.

  We all turned to look. Night had dipped along the lake, though the sky was clear and the moon and stars gave enough light to reflect in the water. It was lovely and reminded me anew why I loved living by the water as much as I didn’t like being on it.

  Alex stood. “You know what we’ve got to do, man.”

  James started laughing. “No. No way.”

  “Yes. Way.” Alex leered. “C’mon. You know you want to! Anne, tell him he wants to.”

  “What does he want to do?” I asked, wary but laughing, too.

  “No way, man! We’ve got neighbors!” James held up a hand against Alex’s grabbing fingers.

  “Come on, ya pussy!” Alex hooked the edge of James’s shirt and tugged. “You want to do it.”

  Obviously James did, because he got up, batting away his friend’s hand. “All right, all right!”

  “What are you going to do?” Their antics were both amusing and alarming.

  Alex stripped off his shirt. His hands went to the button on his jeans. He looked at me. He smiled. I swallowed, hard.

  “You up for it, Anne?”

  I looked out at the water, rippling so gently under the moon. “Swimming? Now?”

  “Skinny-dipping.” James snorted lightly and tugged his shirt over his head. “She doesn’t swim, Alex.”

  “She can swim.”

  Our eyes met. Alex’s fingers slid open the button and undid the first couple notches on his zipper. It felt like a challenge, one I lost because I let my gaze go to his crotch before swinging back to his face.

  James pushed his jeans over his hips and stood in his briefs. Hands on his hips, he jerked his chin toward the lake. “C’mon, pussy. Thought you were going in.”

  “I’m waiting to see if Anne’s coming, too.”

  “No.” I shook my head, our little moment lost. “You boys have fun.”

  “Sure I can’t convince you?” He put on more charm.

  “I don’t swim in the lake,” I said, keeping the smile on my face and meeting his gaze head-on without flinching.

  James had spent enough nights being woken by my dreams to understand why I wasn’t going to join them, even if he didn’t know the reasons for the dreams themselves. He reached to stroke a hand down my hair. I looked at him, and he bent to kiss me.

  “C’mon, man,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Alex had made himself a portrait, a moment frozen in time. He cocked his head and watched us, his fingers still lingering at his crotch. His pupils looked like they’d swallowed the rest of his eyes. Darkness. I waited for him to ask me why, though he must have known.

  The moment passed. Grinning, he shoved his pants over his hips and thighs. I squeaked and covered my eyes at the sudden nudity, which made them both laugh. I heard the pounding of feet on the deck, then whoops and splashes as they ran down the beach into the water.

  I got up to lean on the railing to watch them. They roughhoused a little bit, splashing and wrestling. Then Alex ducked all the way under the water and came up a moment later, shaking his hair. James did the same. They swam and floated. I heard the rise and fall of their conversation, though not the words.

  I cleaned up the table while they swam. I brought out towels, lit the chiminea and made coffee, too. At last they ran dripping out of the lake and back to the deck, where naked James grabbed me and dipped me for a long, thorough kiss.

  “You’re wet!” I protested, squirming.

  “Are you?” He whispered, naughty, his eyes gleaming.

  “Anne, you’re a goddess,” said Alex upon discovering the towels and the pot of coffee on the table. “Jamie, move out of the way and let me have my chance.”

  I must have looked alarmed, because James laughed and set me upright on my feet again. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood between me and Alex. “Put some clothes on first, man.”

  “Both of you put some clothes on,” I said. “You’re going to get sick.”

  Alex saluted. James bowed. They moved in unison without even noticing how alike their mannerisms had become. I turned my back and poured coffee to give them both time to dress, my heart pounding a little at the thought of Alex having his chance.

  For what?

  Chapter 07

  I didn’t get to find out, because by the time they had both pulled their clothes on again Alex seemed to have forgotten his intentions to show his appreciation in any physical manner. Dinner and swimming hadn’t tired either of the men, though I was yawning behind my hand. James tugged me next to him on the lounger and wrapped us both in a large throw blanket against the chill coming off the lake. I’d bought some scented long-burning cords for the chiminea, and they gave off a steady, woodsy fragrance the package had called Forest Fresh.

  “Smells kind of like ass, to me,” said James. “Sweaty ass.”

  Alex smirked. “And you know this how?”

  I’d tucked my feet up on the edge of the chair, the better to snuggle close for warmth. James’s shoulder made a bony pillow but I rested my cheek there, anyway. It brought me close to him and let me see Alex at the same time.

  “Yes, James. I want to hear the answer to that.” Beneath the blanket, his hand moved between my thighs. His fingers were a little cool but quickly warmed.

  “I’m just saying. It’s not ‘fresh’ anything. Hey, man, give me one of those.” James gestured at Alex’s pack of cigarettes.

  Alex tossed him the pack. James pulled out one of the slim tubes and held it up to me. “Anne?”

  The look I gave him was one he’d fondly termed the what-the-fuck look. As in, what the fuck are you doing, asking me if I want a cigarette?

  “Let me guess,” Alex said as he sucked in smoke and held it. “You don’t smoke?”

  “I don’t. James doesn’t, either. Do you?” I sat up, putting some distance between us.

  “Only when I’m drinking, babe.” He lit the cigarette and drew in some smoke, but let it out in a small fit of coughing.

  “Ha! Ya fucking pansy.” Alex grinned and blew a smoke ring.

  They traded more insults, and to my relief, James stubbed out his cigarette without taking any more drags. He pulled me back down next to him. His hand slid beneath my arm to cup my breast. His thumb eased back and forth across my nipple, bringing it to a tight point. His lips found my temple and lingered.

  Across from us, Alex had fallen into shadow lit by the occasional flare of his cigarette and the square of light from the kitchen window. He and James had been matching each other bottle for bottle, and now he lifted another to his lips.

  “Don’t swim. Don’t drink. Don’t smoke,” he said in a husky voice. “What do you do, Anne?”

  “That’s me. Goody Two-shoes.” It wasn’t true. Didn’t feel true, anyway.

  “Just like Jamie.” Alex propped his feet up on the edge of our lounger, one between James’s toes and the other along the edge of mine. His feet dented the blanket tangling around our heels.

  “Why do you call him Jamie?”

  Under the blanket, James’s hand kept up the slow stroking. He’d moved it beneath my shirt, his fingers skating the edge of my lace bra. I was pretending not to notice, though it was impossible to ignore.

  “Why don’t you?”

  It didn’t seem fair that they were both drunk and I wasn’t, yet I was the one left without a witty answer. “Because…his name is James.”

  “Alex is the only one who calls me Jamie.” James’s mouth moved against my temple.

  A chill skittered down my neck at the combination of hot breath and tweaking fingers. I shifted, which pushed my
foot against Alex’s but allowed James the chance to slip a hand between my thighs again. He put it much higher, this time the edge of his thumb pressing against my clit.

  “Why? Why not Jimmy? Or Jim?”

  Alex couldn’t see what James was doing to me and might not have cared. James had drunk enough beer to make certain he didn’t. I was the one who ought to have had more restraint. I didn’t have the luxury of blaming booze for my lack of composure.

  “Because his name’s Jamie,” said Alex, like that explained it all.

  Maybe to both of them it did, but I was still on the outside. I hadn’t heard half of their inside jokes and didn’t understand the ones I had.

  James left off pressing between my legs to shift my hand over the bulge in his jeans, then returned his hand to its previous spot. His cock pushed against the denim. His thumb pushed against me. His other thumb dipped inside my bra to fondle my nipple.

  I wasn’t drunk, but I was feeling a bit lightheaded. I wasn’t averse to a little subtle poke or pinch now and again, but James was full-on trying to get me off.

  It was working, too. My clit had gone as tight and hard as my nipples, even though there were two layers of cloth between his hand and my body. It was the steady push-push against me that was doing it. It hit me just right. It was…perfect.

  James and Alex kept talking, sharing memories, though I noticed they avoided any further mention of Alex’s parents or the years after high school. They mocked each other mercilessly, saying things I’d have bet would have earned other men a punch in the face.

  They talked. James stroked and kneaded me and every now and again pushed his crotch with growing insistence into my hand. My arousal grew slowly, like the first drip-drip of melting ice that threatened to become a torrent.

  It was my husband touching me, but his friend whose face I watched as my pussy got slick and my clit throbbed. The two of them, James so light and Alex his dark counter-part, seemed to work together. James’s hands, Alex’s voice as he told us stories about living in Asia. About the sex shops there, where you could buy anything you wanted.