The Best Mistakes (The Amherst Sinners Series Book 3)

by Elena Monroe

  I could see his expression in my mind, like when you accidentally get the Sour Patch Kids color you dislike and the sour bites back.

  Me: You can stay over after…

  Hunter: That’s required if I have to hang out with people I don’t like. Your boy gonna be there?

  Me: I don’t know. Maybe?

  Hunter: We’ll find out the hard way. I’ll pick you up at 8, babe.

  We weren’t dating or together, but he made the lonely nights bearable. I didn’t want to risk my heart with new people or dating apps. Hunter knew me; he knew what I liked and didn’t; and I didn’t have to explain pining for a guy I hadn’t spoken to in years. There had been run-ins over the years at milestones the Sinners hit, like Caden signing to the Red Sox, Hayley’s first art show, Aspen celebrating his success as a lawyer. I always ran away before he could even get a word out. I didn’t want to know if he was sorry or not. I would overthink his words to death, until the meaning was drained from them altogether.

  I got dressed and made sure I had my earbuds. Luckily, I didn’t need a car here. I worked a close fifteen minutes and the walk helped me decompress. I would turn up my music, block out any surrounding sounds, and force myself to stop overthinking. Sometimes it worked, and other times I just circled the same thought: Does he miss me too?

  T he bookstore was especially busy today. The coffeeshop was almost overrun, and the two girls who worked that area kept sending me S.O.S. signals through their harsh eyes. There was no author spotlight or special event tonight—our only saving grace. The owner of the shop didn’t want to hire more help until the revenue justified it more consistently. That was my main role as their manager: to keep track of the money coming in and out. That was what I was hired for: to balance their books. Thankfully, it turned into a daily gig, while I still applied nonstop to every start-up and company in Boston with a finance department.

  At the end of my shift, everything was sore. I felt like collapsing in bed with Hunter, while watching Netflix like we both didn’t expect to have sex. We always beat around the bush when it came to sex, it wasn’t natural or organic most of the time. I think he knew I wanted him to be Oliver.

  I locked the door behind me and jiggled the knob to make sure it was secure. When I turned around, I saw Hunter leaning against his muscle car, not meant for the quiet side streets of Boston.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  He opened the door for me, and I hated myself for thinking of Oliver. Hunter had his flaws, but he was there and tried for me, when no one else was.

  I had been overthinking all day, about tonight, Oliver, Hunter, love, sex… I wanted my mind to quiet enough so I could take a deep breath.

  As soon as Hunter sat down, I tugged his shirt into me, and I pushed my lips to his in this needy way. I was starved, and he tasted like salvation.

  He tensed up slightly, shocked at how forward I was being, but I could feel him melt into the kiss the same way I was. He leaned towards me further, with his hand on the door panel to keep him from sinking too far, while he pushed his tongue in my mouth. I moaned in another needy way between our mouths. He pulled away to look at me like he always did, like he needed to make sure it was real and me.

  “Damn, baby. Why didn’t you say so?”

  He sat back in his seat and drove the short distance to my place. The apartment was dark, which didn’t necessarily confirm that Maddison and Aspen weren’t there, though; they were probably doing what we’d soon be doing.

  My room was a dark grey with purple touches and a giant bed. I had a stack of books on the nightstand and still owned just as little as I did in college. The painting above my bed was by Hayley, at a discount. It was one of the many pieces of memorabilia of the Sinners’ accomplishments—Red Sox tickets, Aspen in the paper for his case, Liz’s charity gala tickets, Hayley’s painting… but nothing of Oliver.

  He was a ghost.

  Hunter shrugged his jacket off, tossed it on the armchair next to the door, and kicked his boots under it. His fingers lightly manipulated my hair out of his way so he could kiss my neck, while I let my sweater fall down my arms lazily.

  “How do you want it this time?”

  I grew accustomed to him asking me this in his husky voice. I don’t know if it was the fear of the past, or he simply wanted to mold himself to whatever I wanted. I pushed my jeans down my legs, and I felt my ass push against his crotch as I bent over to pull them off all the way. His hands quickly found my hips pushing his erection into my ass. His kisses felt too overwhelmingly good on my neck, as I ground my ass into his stiffness against his zipper, teasing him.

  I knew him just as well. Hunter didn’t like the wait, the teasing, or even foreplay. He was constantly ready, if I pushed the right buttons.

  I turned to face him. “Sit down,” I whispered against his chest.

  He pulled his shirt over his head before tossing it on my bed, giving me a glimpse of all his small scattered tattoos on his chest and upper arms—not many, not covering the amount of real estate I was used to. I straddled his lap without hesitation, and my hands staying between us so I could undo his belt and jeans. He leaned back on his hands, watching me slowly torture him. His lips crashed against mine again, but my hands didn’t stop until his pants gaped open.

  His lips tasted like coconut and the faint taste of the paper he wrapped his pot in. His hands skimmed up my sides under my shirt, pushing it up with his hands, until it was off. I undid my bra myself, not in the mood for slow torture but to be the one torturing this time.

  He stood up, only long enough to switch our position. I withered on the bed, with my hips squirming and legs rubbing against each other, hoping to relieve the ache between them. He pushed his jeans down with his boxer briefs in one motion. I saw his hard cock bounce out and taunt me as his hand wrapped around his length, stroking while he looked at me.

  My voice was just as soaked as my panties as I pleaded, “Hunter, stop teasing. You never tease.”

  His fingers tugged my panties down roughly in one pull as he pushed himself between my legs, getting comfortable before he gave me what I wanted. On his knees between my legs I watched him roll the condom down his length, and I bit my lip too hard.

  His delicate fingers made sure it was secure, and his gaze watching his own movements sent me in a wild desire for him.

  His palm covered my cheek as he hovered above me, staring down at me for too long before he spoke. “Is that what you want, Layla? Hard and fast?”

  I nodded my head, refusing to talk.

  Leaning down further into me, he kissed my neck down to my chest, while he whispered against me, “Wanna know what I want? I wanna taste you, Layla.”

  My back arched, as his kisses moved down me to my sensitive parts between my thighs.

  He purposely wasn’t giving me what I wanted.

  His tongue pushed into me, immediately swiping over the bundle of nerves that ached.

  “Oh my god, Hunter!”

  I knew his devilish smirk spread across his face even with his tongue buried between my legs. My hips rocked slowly to meet his mouth in a desperate attempt for more. When I leaned up, I saw him touching himself as he licked me, and it sent me over the edge of desire. My desire turned into a fierce need. He must have known I needed him inside me, because he kissed my lips again, letting me taste myself, while he pushed his length into me. I moaned into his mouth, feeling him fill me, stretching me even.

  Right away, his hips thrust inside of me, pushing himself deeper, before pulling out again. My legs wrapped around his legs, and my hands gripped onto his biceps as his pace quickened. I whimpered, panted, moaned into his neck as he wrecked through me. He only slowed down to half speed to tease me when he knew I was close.

  He whispered between us, “Stop fighting me.”

  It took most of my life to understand what that meant. It was the same thing he groaned between us that horrible night I drank in high school. He never meant me or my body; he always meant my he
art. He wanted me to stop fighting giving into him, and I never understood.

  My arms wrapped around his neck, staying silent. I didn’t know how to ever give into him, not then and not now—not with Oliver haunting my every waking moment.

  I pressed my lips to his, hoping it filled the heavy silence as his pace resumed, and he brought me to the edge.

  “Hunter, I’m coming.”

  I clung onto him as the orgasm raked up my body from my toes. His mouth fell open, watching me come because of him and his body. He looked almost proud of himself as he came.

  I was trying to catch my breath, but I was failing.

  Hunter rolled off me leaving me exposed, sheet-less, when he got up to toss the condom he came into.

  He pulled his boxers back on quickly. He made this a habit, skipping the pleasantries of a shared post orgasm to get up and create space. I always wondered if he expected to be asked to leave or if this was how he treated other women. I pulled my throw against my body, scolding myself all the way to the edge of the bed, as I watched him get dressed.

  “Why do you do that?”

  He looked at me wildly confused, making my point of him knowing exactly what he was doing.

  “Pull away so quick.”

  He pulled his shirt over his head again, before he leaned down, meeting his dark brooding eyes with mine. “I don’t like sharing, Layla.”

  He didn’t pull away, and his gaze sunk into mine, looking for guilt or remorse for knowing what he meant.

  “It’s been years, Hunter. You aren’t sharing anything.”

  He stood up, annoyed that I didn’t give in and admit he was right. He had every reason to pull away to protect himself from me and my poisoned heart.

  “I’ve been sharing you with him for a long time, Layla. Isn’t that why I’m going with you tonight? To share and hope he notices?”

  I stood up from the edge of the bed, moving swiftly to the bathroom and whispering almost under my breath, “I’m gonna get ready.”

  He pounced on my bed, getting comfortable and switching the small television on that clung to the wall. I closed the door slowly, realizing I was poisoned with haunting memories, but I was also poisoning everyone around me—even Hunter. He had to protect himself from me, so he pulled away quickly, only letting himself have small tastes of me. The worst part was that I hadn’t bothered to notice until now.

  He knew I felt guilty without having to admit it, as I lingered in the doorway, watching him get comfortable. I looked at myself in the mirror the same way I did in college, inspecting my body for visible changes to match the mental shifts. I dropped my throw, letting it fall to the floor, as the nerves finally gripped the numbness I felt for years and tore it down. My stomach felt like adrenaline and nerves battling for dominance, as I debated putting no effort into tonight. It was a losing battle either way. If I put effort in, they’d assume it was for him, and if I didn’t, the pity would pour out in a horrid way. The whole room would assume I wasn’t over him, and they’d be right.

  Hunter sat up, watching my naked body go to my closet with intent. He ate up these moments. I ate up his attention, poisoned heart or not. I spun around holding two dresses in front of my nakedness.

  “Which one?”

  “You mean, which one will he like better?”

  I rolled my eyes, feeling guilty enough by his actions and my realizations. “I know which he’d prefer. I’m asking you.”

  His feet hit the floor, and he looked more closely. “Black. I like when you’re tough, broken, and pissed off.”

  He was the only person who saw that snide part of me—the part of me that was angry with the world for the events that tore Oliver from me. Really, I was angry with myself for my own actions and was on the verge of hating myself. I always played with the amounts of the versions of myself, forming new concoctions.

  I looked at the time, panicking slightly. We were going to be late, and I was never late for anything. I got ready quickly, slipping the dress on by stepping into it and strapping heels to my ankles. I tossed my hair around letting it fall perfectly in loose curls that looked like I didn’t try. I only coated my eyes with mascara, a faint pink gloss, and minor tinted moisturizer. I was somewhere between effort and exhausted. With one last look in the floor-length mirror in the corner of my room, I smoothed down my black baby doll dress, biting my lips.

  Hunter pushed his foot into his boots and pulled the bun of hair to tighten his blonde hair from escaping. He walked up behind me, and I automatically let my head drop to one side, giving his lips access to my neck.

  T he apartment was still lightless, with no trace of Maddison or Aspen. I shot her a quick text, as I followed Hunter to the door: I’ll meet you there. Going with Hunter.

  The proverbial three dots bouncing didn’t have a chance to appear when her text vibrated in my hand: Sweet. Holy. Hell. That’s a statement.

  I shoved my phone into my clutch that wasn’t realistically fitting anything in it. All I could fit was a lip-gloss, my keys, and phone—no supplies to support a breakdown. The whole way there, I clamped my lips shut, scared my nerves would pour out into stupid sentences.

  We pulled up to the Supper Club, parking behind the building, where I’m sure only employees parked. Hunter made his own rules, and it was exhilarating. It was one of the few things that knocked me out of the numbing monotony of everyday. Every time he broke a rule, I had to fight the smile it gave me. The danger felt real, and I wanted it to last longer each time.

  He pulled the door open for me—not to be a gentleman, but because I had lost time, soaking in the adrenaline of his most recent rule breaking.

  I took his hand, cursing myself for the heels that made the uneven gravel difficult to walk in. That was one aspect of being a women and adult I hated: I couldn’t wear my Converse with dresses like this anymore and have it be charming. I looked up at Hunter, giving him a small smile for steadying me—not just my stride, but my nerves too.

  My fingers dug into his forearm, begging him to stay close, as we walked up the three short stairs into the Supper Club, where everyone would be already. We were late; my phone lit up, showing me we were almost twenty minutes late.

  The pretty hostess showed us to the private party upstairs, blooming onto a patio, with twinkle lights and a view of the city people would kill for—a view above all the bullshit, the skyscrapers, and emotions.

  Hunter’s eyes didn’t leave her ass, and I couldn’t help but laugh, hitting his arm gently.

  I whispered to him, “Damn. How many squats do you think she does?”

  “Don’t trap me into looking. I know your tricks.”

  We always poked each other, pointing out attractive features on strangers and laughing when we were right about each other’s preferences.

  Hunter paused before we walked through the doorway, making my nerves jump into my throat, unprepared for this moment. He looked at me quickly and said, “Breathe.”

  I tried. I was actively trying. My lungs ceased to work, no matter how much I begged them. I knew it was pointless. I wasn’t going to breathe until I saw Oliver and his family.

  I took a confident stride, borrowing pieces of my old self and eliminating the current ones not needed right now. Playing with the amounts of myself until it was just right for this moment.

  Elizabeth almost knocked me over, even though I saw her just last week for bridesmaid’s slavery—I mean, duties. We scoped out possible venues the entire weekend, until one finally satisfied her taste. She stepped back, taking me in, clearly pleased with the effort, instead of joggers and my Converse.

  “Oh my god, Layla! You look human.”

  I squinted my eyes at her, unamused. Her attention went flat before she raked her eyes over Hunter’s still brooding, “gives no fucks” attire, like no time had passed for him at all. He wasn’t going to change for anyone, not time or even the adult label. He was cemented in who he was. I admired that.

  “Hunter, good to see you. You look h
andsome.” There was a twinkle in her eye when the word “handsome” slithered from her lips. At the same moment, Hunter’s arm laid across my shoulders and pulled me into his side.

  “Where’s the drinks, Liz? Stop holding out on me.”

  I followed him with little choice, since he glued me to his side. He ordered my drink, and I felt even more guilty, knowing he was paying this close of attention.

  “Gin and tonic for the lady. Vodka cranberry for me.”

  After sampling everything in college, my constant became gin and tonic. I sipped the harsh liquid through the stirrer that no one actually drank from. I was unconventional—the amount of that was unwavering.

  We made the rounds of pleasantries with each Sinner and some strangers too. I was a smiling face, but I didn’t offer anything constructive to any conversation. Instead, I kept scanning the room for his face, and my heart kept skipping beats every time it could have been him.

  When Maddison stepped right in front of me, grabbing my wrists too tightly, I knew he was in the room. Sheer panic stole the color from my face and the moisture from my mouth, and my chest suddenly felt dense and tight. I could feel all my feelings bubbling up to make my cheeks flush a hot tone. I felt my chest heaving in a way that needed air; he sucked the air out.

  This was why I always ran away from everything when he showed up. We couldn’t be in the same room without one of us being crushed under the pressure.

  She whispered, “Don’t freak out.”

  Hunter swatted her away with a rude hand gesture, taking her place in front me, blocking out most of the room in my vision.

  “Maddison is just being overly dramatic. Relax. Hey… hey, look at me.”

  I turned, looking into Hunter’s deep, dark eyes that were engulfing me. His hand was on my hip, pulling me into him and making the whole room disappear with one kiss—one simple kiss. His soft lips pressed against mine for only a minute before he pulled away, while his hand still cradled my cheek.

  I closed my eyes, moved my face closer into his palm, and took a deep breath, as he said to me, “Be brave, Layla.”