by Brit Benson
“Remember when we came here after homecoming sophomore year?” I ask as we sip our post-pizza espressos.
“Yep yep,” she says, studying me over her coffee cup. Then she arches a brow and her lips turn up slightly. “Why?”
“I thought it was a date. When I asked you to go with me, I meant for it to be a date.” I drop the truth bomb, and she sets down her cup, gaping at me once more.
“What? But we were with half the soccer team,” she declares in disbelief, and I shrug.
“Yeah, but I got us our own table. I ordered for us both. I was even planning to pay. In my head, that was a date.”
“But you started dating that Tasha girl on the girls’ soccer team, like, right after.” Her statement is pointed, her face puzzled and slightly annoyed.
“Mmhm. Two days after. I actually called her that night after I dropped you off at home.”
Ivy gasps at my confession.
“Ew! That’s gross, Kelley,” she admonishes. “Why would you do that? If you wanted to go on a date with me then why would you immediately call redheaded Natasha Winston, JV soccer team captain and one of the most popular people in our grade? It makes no sense.”
Despite the obvious offense in her words, I can’t stop the stupid giddy excitement that swirls in my stomach. Why does Ivy remember so much about my first girlfriend? I only dated Tasha for a month and she and Ivy were never friends.
“Ivy Jean Rivenbark, were you jealous?”
“Pfff, no. But Tasha was like you with boobs so of course I remember. I thought for sure you’d get married and have little ginger babies. They’d probably crawl out of her womb wearing soccer cleats.” She folds her arms over her chest and looks away.
She was definitely jealous.
I fucking love it.
Instead of toying with her some more, even though I really want to know about this teenaged jealousy because I could have sworn she had zero interest in me in high school, I relent and do my best to hide my pleased smirk.
“You remember what you said to me when it came time to pay the check that night?”
Her eyes snap to mine, once again searching for the answer, her eyebrows crinkled in thought. “I don’t,” she admits finally. “What did I say?”
“You said that you needed to make sure to pay your half because you couldn’t allow people to think we were on a date.”
Her eyes widen.
“You said the cheerleaders would steal your gym clothes to retaliate if you ‘claimed their favorite eye candy.’ You told me that they’d already messed with you for spending so much time with me.” I pause for minute to let that sink in. “So, I decided to make sure everyone knew we were just friends, even if that’s not what I wanted.”
I pay the check and grab her hand. We walk to the truck in silence, and her eyes are downcast. I don’t interrupt her. This is a lot, and I know she’s probably running through every memory, every decision, from the time we were kids to now.
She wordlessly hands me the keys, and I open the passenger door for her to climb in, then I jog around to the driver’s side. For a long moment, we just sit together silently in the cab of the truck. Ivy picks the blue cornflower out of the cupholder and studies it while I study her.
After a moment, she turns those stunning, shining eyes on me.
“How did I not see it before?” she whispers. “How did I not know?”
I reach out to cup her cheek and she leans into it, eyes still swirling with questions and wonder. I swallow.
“You know now.”
After taking her for ice cream at The Scoop, we make the drive home singing to the radio, and the only time I let go of her hand is when I have to shift gears. When I walk her to her door, she kisses me sweetly, and I resist the urge to press her against the wall and run my hands all over her body.
“This was perfect,” she whispers against my lips.
“You are perfect,” I whisper back.
I press one last kiss to her lips and step away. She opens her apartment door and steps inside, but her eyes never leave mine. Not until the door clicks shut.
I drive back to my condo with a stupid grin on my face, replaying every touch, every smile, and how she reacted to each of my confessions with awe. I’m a dopey lovesick fool and I don’t give a fuck. I’ve always been a bit soft for Ivy, but I’m a fucking marshmallow now.
When I get home, I jerk off to my mental soundtrack of her moans. Because my heart may be soft when it comes to Ivy Rivenbark, but my dick definitely isn’t.
16
“I’m here!” Jesse says as he pops out of the crowd and squeezes in next to us. “Just in time! I got out the door but had to turn around because I almost forgot these.” He holds up a reusable grocery sack, then reaches in and pulls out some scraps of yarn and hands one to each of us.
“What the fuck are these?” Kelley asks as he studies the knitted object. It’s a circular strip of blue and purple yarn, with a white B knitted onto one side.
“What do you mean what the fuck are these?” Jesse puts the object on his head, positioning the B directly in the middle of his forehead. “They’re sweat bands, man.” Jesse flexes his biceps like a body builder and growls. Then points to the B. “With a B, for Bailey the Baking Beast.”
“Oh, they’re so cute, Jesse!” I say earnestly as I put mine on. “Here, I made you a t-shirt.” I hand him over the tie-dye shirt that I decorated with little puff paint cookies and #TEAMBAILEY in all capital letters across the front.
“Sweeeet. Hashtag Team Bailey!”
As we stand in the back of the shop in our matching t-shirts and sweatbands, the excitement in the room is palpable. Bailey is set up behind a long counter, and she is next to four other contestants. Each contestant was allowed to invite up to four guests to watch the competition from inside the bakery. Everyone else has to watch it live on The Morning Show on Channel 5 News.
On the side of the room there is a panel of three judges, and the camera crew for the news station is set up in the corner, giving them a direct view of all the people participating in today’s competition.
I keep my eyes on Bailey, willing her to look my way. She was so nervous last night, and was already gone when I woke up this morning, so I wasn’t able to wish her luck in person. I did let her borrow my crappy car, though, because she couldn’t risk carrying the baked masterpieces on her Honda. Plus, she said she didn’t want to chance having helmet hair while live streaming on local television.
When she finally glances our way, I throw her two thumbs up and she smiles nervously. When Jesse sees her looking, he jumps out in front of us and throws up his arms.
“Go beast mode, Bailey,” he shouts as he flexes his biceps and points to the B on his sweatband. “Hashtag Team Bailey!”
Bailey’s eyes grow wide, and she scowls at him while subtly shaking her head. I roll my eyes at the exchange. I know Jesse did it for laughs, and Bailey might be embarrassed, but she’s not actually mad. Their friendship dynamic is so weird. It basically consists of irritation, bickering, and sarcastic eye rolls. Like siblings.
My attention is grabbed by the guy sitting next to her. He looks so familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He tries to stifle a laugh, which isn’t unreasonable because Jesse is ridiculous, but Bailey pins the guy with a scathing glare. The intensity and hatred behind it I’ve never seen from her before—and Bailey can get pretty worked up when she’s angry, so that’s saying something. If Bailey could shoot lasers from her eyeballs, this guy next to her would be cinders on the ground.
When the contestants present their cookie submissions, the guy next to Bailey introduces himself as Riggs Stanton, and she scoffs and rolls her eyes. It’s not loud or obvious, but I notice because I’m watching her closely. By the way Riggs stiffens, I can tell that he notices, too. Interesting.
The taste-testing and judging doesn’t take long—maybe an hour total, thanks to the pauses they need to take for commercial breaks. When it’s time to announce the
winner, the atmosphere in the room is tense, and I lock my hands with Jesse and Kelley, squeezing tightly.
I’m positive Bailey is going to win.
I’m absolutely sure of it.
Her submission was the most creative, and I know for a fact it tastes divine. One of the judges actually let out a little moan when he tasted her oatmeal raisin and carrot cake cookie.
So, when they announce the winner as Riggs Stanton, I am legitimately shocked, and the blank look on Bailey’s face gives nothing away. When she makes her way to us, Jesse throws his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in.
“Wanna go get high, Barnes?” he says, low enough so only we can hear.
Bailey nods slowly, as if still in disbelief, and says without emotion, “Fuck yes.”
* * *
“What kind of name is Riggs, anyway?” Bailey spits the name from her tongue like it’s poison, and I suppose right now it kind of is.
I’m relaxed on Kelley’s chest, his fingers are lazily running up and down my arm, sending electrified goose bumps from my ears to my toes, and I release a small sigh of contentment. I feel a twinge of guilt, being so happy while Bailey is miserable, but the thought dissipates when I feel Kelley press a random kiss on the top of my head. He’s so attentive and affectionate that I could cry. Who’d have thought?
Kelley passes the bowl down to me and I take a hit, relaxing as the haze blankets me. I let it quiet the questions in my mind, the what-ifs and the how-tos and the worries are silenced, and I let myself just be.
The only time I feel safe enough to do this, smoke weed or get drunk or do anything that could threaten my handle on reality, is when I’m with these three people. Only these three people. And with college ending, our lives changing, evenings like this probably won’t be happening much longer. So, instead of organizing my mental to-do lists, I sit back and let myself enjoy this moment with these people.
The past week with Kelley has been nothing short of blissful. It’s surreal and unexpected, but it feels like it’s always been this way. Like it’s how our relationship should have always been. I’m completely immersed in the ocean that is Kelley Pierce, only coming up for air to study and work.
I’ve managed to mostly ignore my concerns. When I start to feel anxious, I list out all the things currently going right in my life. I haven’t dropped the ball anywhere, so I let myself enjoy the bliss. I’m allowed to. I deserve this.
On an exhale, I tread lightly and say to Bailey, “I thought you guys knew each other. He acted like he knew you at the competition.”
“Nope,” she says quickly, emphasizing the P with a loud pop. “I definitely have never met that guy before. Ever.”
There’s more passion in her voice than I think she realizes, and even though I’m high, I can tell she’s hiding something. Because that picture she sent me from the night she went to Bar 31? The picture of the guy she was meeting? That picture was of Riggs Stanton, even if she won’t admit it. She may have said his name was Alex, but I’ve pulled the text back up and studied it. It is, without a doubt, Riggs Stanton. I want to ask her more, but she’s had a crappy day, so I let it drop for now.
“I can’t believe he’s a baseball player,” I muse after a few seconds. “It’s just so unexpected.”
“He’s not a baseball player,” Kelley chimes in. “He’s the baseball player. Pretty sure Riggs Stanton was courted last year by two different major league teams.”
“Then why is he still here?” I question.
“Dunno,” Jesse responds. “He just...turned them down, I guess.”
I pass the bowl off to Bailey, and we’re silent for a few minutes. I close my eyes and bob my head to the low music floating out of the Bluetooth speaker.
“Urrrrg!” Bailey yells, causing me to snap my eyes open and watch as she angrily blows out a huge puff of smoke, passing the bowl to her left. “I want to take his stupid palets de dames aux raisins and shove them down his stupid, ass-kissing throat and watch his beautiful stupid face turn purple while he chokes on them. And then I’ll do a dance on his corpse. While wearing my biker boots.”
I snort out a laugh at her horrible attempt at a French accent, and Jesse’s eyes bulge as he takes the bowl from her.
“Whoa there, killer. Weed is supposed to make you calm, Zen, not turn you into Ted Bundy. Say it with me now, woosah.” He reaches up and tries to rub her ear, but Bailey bats his hand away with a vicious growl.
“Hands off, Hernandez, or I’ll bite you. I can’t help it that I have a violent imagination.” She sighs and adds wistfully, “It’s a fatal flaw. I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge it as a problem, but I don’t care enough to do anything to change it.” Bailey shrugs and shoves a whole fudgey brownie cookie into her mouth.
I reach out and take her hand. “I’m sorry, Bails. I know how hard you worked for this. Your cookies were really, really good.”
“That’s a fact.”
“They were, B.”
“Thanks guys.” Bailey sighs again. “I just feel like the dick cheated. He only made palets de dames because he knew the owner is French. Like from France. And I guess she still owns a patisserie in Calais or something, too. It was a total brown-nose, sleazy move. I just know it. He probably doesn’t even like French pastries.”
“I mean, he did say his mom is French,” Jesse says, but Bailey shoots him a death glare and he throws up his palms.
“Whatever,” Bailey says with a scowl, mouth now full of cherry cheesecake bar. She’s eating her feelings. “Mark my words. Riggs Stanton is a dirty dealing, boot-licking charlatan. He’s no good, and he’s gonna regret fucking with me.”
No one says anything for a good minute, and then we all crack up, laughing at the same time.
“Who are you, Al Capone?” Jesse snorts. “Take it easy, Barnes. We don’t need a murder on our hands.” She tosses a pillow at his head and laughs when he’s too slow to dodge it and it smacks him in the face.
“Seriously, thanks for being here, guys,” she says quietly. “You’re the best.”
Hours later, after ordering a pizza, watching a movie, and sobering up, Jesse announces that he has to take an Uber home because he has a volunteer shift at the hospital in the morning.
“You can totally crash on the couch if you want,” Bailey calls from the kitchen where she’s washing the empty cookie containers. We demolished almost every cookie she’d had in the kitchen, and after her week of frenzied baking, it was a lot of cookies.
“Ha, no thanks. Last time I crashed here I woke up terrified, thinking I was paralyzed because I couldn’t feel my feet. I’d cut off their circulation because I had to drape my damn legs over the arm of the puny couch just to fit.”
“Our couch is a perfectly acceptable size,” I defend.
“It’s a couch for gnomes. Pixies. Itty bitty children. It is a couch for ants!” Jesse counters, laughing at himself. “How do you expect a man to sleep comfortably if he can’t even fit on the cushions?”
“Zip it, Zoolander and get in your Uber already,” Bailey yells around the corner, and Jesse guffaws and blows her a kiss.
“You comin’ with?” he turns to Kelley who then looks to me. Kelley raises an eyebrow at me in silent question.
“He’s gonna stay, J,” I answer for him, then Jesse and Bailey both make awwww and oooohhhh noises in jest, which makes me blush. Basically, our friends are jerks. But I love them.
They’ve been extremely accepting of this new dynamic. In Bailey’s words, “it’s pretty much the same, except now you touch more and kiss, and you know what his dick looks like.”
I didn’t bother telling her that I actually don’t know what his penis looks like, but I’m hoping to remedy that tonight. I’ve been waiting for this night all week. All my fun bits tingle just thinking about it.
When Jesse walks out the door, Bailey yawns dramatically and loudly announces that she is going to her bedroom to listen to music with her headphones in. I ignore her smirk and take Kelley
’s hand, leading him to my room.
He closes the door behind him, and for a moment, we just stare at one another. His eyes lick over every inch of me, and I fist my hands at my sides, trying to harness the intense excitement ripping through my body and warming my blood.
How much of this connection is pure attraction, and how much of it is more?
Do I want to know?
No. Not right now. I’ll think about it later.
“Kelley,” I rasp quietly.
His eyes are smoldering, his lips smirking, his hair sexily mussed, and dang it, I’m so turned on. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m already aching for him.
I’ve never, ever wanted a man like I want Kelley.
I’ve never craved anyone as fiercely as I am craving my best friend right now.
“Ivy,” he growls in response.
His voice is gravel. Pure sex that tightens my nipples and heats me up all over. The fragile leash I had on my control snaps, and I launch myself at him.
He grunts, gripping my hips and lifting me up, capturing my lips with his. I wrap my legs around his waist and moan into his mouth when he moves his hands to my butt and squeezes. I run my fingers through his luscious auburn hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. His tongue strokes over mine, hot and wet and soft, and I want to devour him. I want to taste every part of him, savor him, and then swallow him whole.
Thank you, Goddess of Sex, for making my best friend an erotic masterpiece come to life.
My nipples are hard, and I rub my breasts across his solid chest to create friction, but it’s not enough. There’s too much fabric in the way. I reach for the hem of my t-shirt, breaking our kiss only long enough to pull my shirt over my head and toss it. When I attempt to bring my mouth back to his, he pulls away, and I whimper.
“Hold on, baby,” Kelley pants. “Let me look at you.”
I watch his pupils engulf his hazel irises as his eyes eat up the view of my chest. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he grinds out, and then he places open mouth kisses to the swell of my breasts. Sucking and nipping, marking me up.