Instant Gratification

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Were you made fun of for that? It’s a lovely name.”

  “Most people don’t get it. They think I’m Trudy. Or Julie. Because it’s not a name; it’s a freaking adverb. But it’s fine. My parents loved it. What can you do? And I suppose I really don’t mind it now.”

  “I think it’s quite pretty. And it suits you.”

  She holds my gaze for a lingering moment, swallows, then sighs. “Listen, I saw my brother this morning. I told him I’m spending more time with you.”

  I flinch, unsure what to make of this admission. “He knows we hang out. Why would you feel like you had to confess something?”

  “I didn’t tell him what happened six months ago. I simply mentioned over breakfast that I was going to be doing this with you. I told him because this here”—she gestures from her to me—“this deal, it feels more personal than taking a class or working out together. I know we flirt and joke.”

  “Wait. You flirt? It’s more like you tell me you don’t flirt.” I hold up a stop-a-moment finger. “Oh, that’s hate-flirting. My bad.”

  Twin spots of pink spread across her cheeks. She looks away then back at me. “Whatever. You know I’m attracted to you.”

  Those words. Attracted to you. I shouldn’t let them send a charge through me. But hell, they do, an electric jolt. She’s been so damn good at denying, evading, dodging.

  But right now, she is confessing, and it’s a turn-on exactly when it shouldn’t be. And maybe because emotions are the devil but desire is angelic, I give in, brushing my fingers down her arm. “I’m wildly attracted to you.”

  Her breath catches. She leans closer to me, out of the friend zone and into the more zone. Her gaze swings down to my hand on her arm. “That’s a little tempting.”

  “It is.”

  “Maybe too tempting.”

  “I should stop.” I run my finger down her bare skin, savoring the electric sensation of touching this woman again. The air between us crackles, and all it would take is . . . well, it would take deciding to cross a line we don’t want to cross.

  Lines exist for a reason.

  So you don’t give in to lust.

  So you don’t let your dick or your heart control you. You don’t give in to instant gratification when you have a lifetime of friendship between you.

  I swallow, take a breath, find my voice again. “Are you . . . dating anyone?” I choke out the words. They taste like last week’s compost bin.

  Laughing, she shakes her head. “Sounds like you’d rather I didn’t?”

  I shrug, affecting a relaxed pose. “You’re free to date.”

  “And so are you. But I’m not seeing anyone. I’m too busy with the expansion plans right now. Dating is not on my agenda.”

  “Same here. My business, that is. Too much going on.”

  “So we’re both in the same position. And we’ll stick to the plan.”

  And while I’m terribly tempted to make a joke about positions, or things sticking, I resist. “I understand. I know what’s at stake.”

  “I know you do, Jason, but sometimes you make it hard. The way you flirt. The way you touch me.” Her tone is earnest, full of need. It stops me in my tracks. Normally we fire zingers at each other, we toss bouquets of flirtation. But there’s something almost sad in the way she’s speaking right now, like she desperately needs me to change.

  “Do I touch you too much?”

  “Too much for my own good.”

  Dear God. Too much for my own good. “I get that. I can stop.”

  “You need to know I don’t want you to, but we probably should. Because I like this.” She points from me to her. “I like this, but not as much as I dislike the idea of losing you or hurting Malone. I like how we are. I like seeing my brother for breakfast, like I did earlier today, and for baseball games, and when he hangs out to chat after he sings at Gin Joint. I’m at a point where things are clicking in my life. The bar, the business—everything. I don’t want to feel the way I’ve felt in the past, where I’m losing the people I love.”

  I have to keep things on the level for her, and for me. I’m a serial monogamist for a reason—I don’t want to be Claire’d again. Commitment and I have kept each other at arm’s length ever since I came to the States in my early twenties to take care of my dying nan. When I left England, Claire took me to the airport, teary-eyed and looking like a Nicholas Sparks heroine, saying she’d wait as long as it took for me to return. And a month later, when I was still away, she took up with the barber down the street.

  “I understand,” I say. “I don’t want you to lose what you care about. Not work or your closeness with Malone. And you know my deal. I’m not keen on anything more. So it’s best this way.”

  “I do. I understand that,” she says, since she’s up to speed on the basics of what went wrong with Claire.

  “All that said, there’s something vital I want you to know.”

  “Sure. Tell me.”

  My lips curve up. “Are you aware I’ve been attracted to you since I met you?”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  Because I’m on an honesty kick, and I take my time, letting a wicked grin spread across my face. “So you know it’s something of a miracle that we’ve only ever fallen into bed once.”

  There’s that sharp stare I know so well. The oh no, you didn’t look. “You’re aware that falling into bed is exactly what we can’t do?”

  “Indeed. And my point is, I’ve been exercising restraint with you for a long time. I can keep it up.”

  She settles in on the bench, staring at the sun, putting on her shades, taking her time. At last she responds, a smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose you can. You do have excellent stamina.”

  12

  Jason

  That evening, I round the bases, high-fiving Nick and Malone as I cross home plate.

  Nick gives me a fist bump. “Hallelujah! Miracles do happen.”

  “And you two tossers are the beneficiaries, seeing as I knocked you in.”

  Nick takes a bow. “I humbly accept your RBI, especially since it’s so rare.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Dickhead.”

  “That’s five years on the team, and it’s your first dinger, right?” he asks.

  “It’s not even my first home run this season.”

  Malone claps me on the back but locks eyes with Nick. “Now, now, don’t sell this guy short. He manages to whack a whole pair over the fences each season.” He turns to me, intensely serious. “We are so proud of you for that kind of consistency.”

  I point to the field. “You do realize we just took the lead because of that home run?”

  “That’s it. I’m getting you a plaque. Best One-Homer-a-Season Hitter,” Nick says.

  “Don’t make him feel bad that he’s not at our level,” Malone cuts in as we head to the dugout. “We need to keep his spirits up. After all, if we didn’t have Jason on the team . . . well, we wouldn’t have enough players, and we’d have to forfeit.”

  I groan, taking off my helmet and dragging a hand through my hair. “I just hit a home run. Or a whopper or a dinger or whatever it is you call it here.”

  Nick rattles off the names. “Tater. Goner. Blast. Bomb. Jack. Like, you jacked one over the fence.”

  “You’re so classy here with your jack talk.” I make the requisite offensive hand gesture.

  “You could also call it a long ball,” Nick retorts, gesturing to his crotch. “That better?”

  “Loads.” I glance at the bleachers, spotting Harper and their two kids grabbing front-row seats. “Your wife and kids just returned, so try to be a civilized bastard now. I know that’ll be hard for you.”

  “Sooo hard. But I can do it.”

  When the game ends, Nick takes off with his wife and the kids, scooping up his little redheaded daughter for a piggyback ride.

  “Tell your dad you want another rescue dog, Skye!” Malone calls out to the little tyke, his cousin’s kid. “Vet se
rvices are on the house.”

  “I already told him I want one. He said yes!”

  “Because he’s wrapped around your little finger!”

  “I’m going to work on my list of dog names tonight.”

  “Please consider Jason,” I call out.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, making my way out of the park with Malone.

  “You want a dog named after you?” he asks.

  “Hell yeah. That’s the ultimate compliment.”

  “Good point. I’ll aspire to convince her to choose Malone now. Or Truly. I bet she’d like that. Speaking of, I hear my sister’s going undercover with you.”

  My brain speeds up, spinning, as if I need to fashion an excuse. But I shut down that matchstick reaction. There’s nothing wrong with her going undercover with me. Just as there’s nothing wrong with me spending time with her. This exchange of favors is no different than us going to jujitsu, or for a bike ride or a hike.

  I pretend our plans are a state secret, bringing my finger to my lips. I shush him. “I don’t want anyone here to know.” I glance around the path as if we’ve entered enemy territory.

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone has followed you to document your whereabouts.”

  “You never know. I’m rather famous in this city.”

  “Or in your own mind.”

  I tap my temple. “I’m a legend up here.”

  “No doubt. I find it amusing it took the two of you this long to figure out she would be a perfect companion.”

  I snap my gaze to him, surprised at his comment. “What do you mean?”

  Malone scratches his jaw, chuckling as we head toward the Columbus Circle side of the park. “It’s hilarious, the idea of you two pretending to be a couple at a wedding.”

  Is he onto something? Trying to get under my skin and extract intel? But then I talk sense into myself because that one night was months ago, nothing more has happened, and we never let on. And since nothing has transpired in six months, isn’t that proof of either a supreme lack of interest or supreme resistance?

  I vote the latter and pat myself virtually on the back.

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s pretty amusing. Since we’re obviously not a couple.” I laugh for good measure, like I’m selling my case.

  What the hell? I don’t need to make him a pitch. Truly and I are not a couple. Maybe I should remind him that the ocean is wet and sugar is sweet.

  Malone cracks up, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

  Now I’m thoroughly confused. “What do you mean, then?”

  “Seriously? You don’t know?”

  My skin prickles, the back of my neck growing hot. Shit. Fuck. Bugger. He does know I shagged his sister. He found out somehow, and he’s going to toy with me. Malone is a clever bastard, and perhaps he’s sliding the knife under my skin, ready to fillet me. I don’t want to be filleted, or grilled, for that matter.

  And I don’t want to lose a good friend.

  Especially over something that won’t happen again. So I lean on my skills. I can fake this. I can pull off nothing-to-see-here. “No clue what you’re on about.”

  “The two of you bicker so much you seem like a real couple. It’s so believable that the two of you could be together.”

  I jerk my gaze toward him. What the hell did he say? “Your sister and me?”

  “You argue enough to fool anyone into thinking you’ve been together forever.”

  He hums a tune under his breath as we turn onto Central Park West, and I chew on that observation, wondering if it means anything or nothing.

  I decide it’s positive. It’s a damn good thing if Truly and I appear like we’re a couple over the next few weekends.

  But at the end of the day and the end of the night, we are only fiction.

  * * *

  Later that night, I head to my office, also known as the coffee shop near my apartment. But unlike half the other patrons at cafés these days, I don’t FaceTime in public or conduct conference calls at top volume while sipping my mochaccino.

  Like I drink mochaccinos.

  With a cup of tea in hand, I settle on a leather couch in the back corner, and Troy and Sully arrive shortly.

  “Gentlemen,” Sully says, spreading his arms wide. “What is up?”

  “This is what’s up. Did you know two of Shakespeare’s plays were translated into Klingon? Just learned that this evening in my playwriting class,” Troy offers.

  “Do you speak Klingon?” Sully asks.

  “Working on it. Thinking about maybe writing my next play in half verse, half Klingon.”

  “Or maybe write it in all verse, wait till it blows up and Lin-Manuel Miranda partners with you, and then translate it into Klingon,” I suggest.

  “Good suggestion, boss man,” Troy says.

  We dive straight into wedding business. “Are you guys ready for this weekend?”

  Sully rubs his palms. “I am pumped. My wife is too. She’s stocking up on tissues. She loves weddings. Cries at every single one, even if she doesn’t know the couple. Doesn’t matter. She goes full waterworks.”

  “And she likes this? Crying over people she doesn’t even know?” That’s Troy’s style—he hasn’t met a question he’s afraid to ask.

  “She says declarations of love hit her right here.” He taps his chest. “She likes weddings because she cries.”

  “That makes no sense. How does that make any sense?” Troy asks.

  “I guess you’ve never needed a good cry,” Sully says with a shrug and a sip of his coconut latte.

  “If I need a good cry, I watch Brian’s Song,” Troy says.

  “If I needed a good cry, and I literally never have, I think about the day The Beatles broke up,” I offer.

  Troy furrows his brow. “You weren’t even alive then.”

  “That’s what makes me sad. I’ll never see them perform.” I tap my phone and return to the details. “Here’s everything you need to know about the wedding.”

  We review the plan. When I’m done, Sully counts off on his fingers. “Surf and turf bachelor dinner? Check. Woman? Check. Tux? Check. But the big question is, can I wear my new Nikes?”

  Troy jumps in. “Nikes as in sneakers?”

  “I don’t mean Nike as in a boutonniere. Unless Nike got into the boutonniere business.” He grabs his phone. “Side note: look into viability of lapel decor as possible new business venture.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him that florists have already cornered the market on boutonnieres. Instead, I focus on the practical, even though I already know the answer to my question. “Is Nike making tuxedo-wear shoes now?”

  “That would be awesome, but no.” He slides his thumb across the phone screen, showing us a gorgeous set of gleaming white shelves filled with . . . sneakers. All sorts of sneakers. “My latest score is the new Air VaporMax FK. Check ’em out. They’re dope.”

  “You actually collected all those pairs? For what? To look at?” Troy asks.

  Sully scoffs. “Dude, they’re like stocks. I’m going to turn around and sell these babies. Well, not the VaporMax, because they’re too sick for words. But the others. If you buy quick and sell fast, you can make a nice profit. Always hustling, always looking for an angle.”

  “I completely understand where you’re coming from with the hustle,” I cut in. “That said, I don’t think you should wear sneakers to the wedding.”

  “For what it’s worth, I never wear sneakers when I’m working,” Troy offers. “Not a wedding and not at my other job either.”

  Sully finishes off his latte, considers a moment, then stares at Troy. “Hey. What’s your other job? Writing plays?”

  Troy glances away, his voice lowering. “That doesn’t pay the bills yet.”

  “What does, then?”

  “I do a bunch of stuff at night,” he says, his cheeks reddening a bit.

  “Like what?” Sully presses. “You know what I do. Manage a Foot Locker.”

  Troy
takes a breath like this is hard for him. “I do a little construction, a little fire service, some delivery.”

  Sully claps his shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed, man. Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, or an honest night’s labor.”

  Wait. Is Troy’s night job what I think it might be?

  “Speaking of honest work, Jason, who’s the lady you’re bringing with you this weekend?” Troy asks.

  “She’s just a good friend. That’s all.”

  Troy snickers. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

  Sully slaps his palm on the table, shouting, “Hamlet!”

  “But can you do that line in Klingon?” I ask, successfully sending the conversation down a new rabbit hole and away from Truly.

  When she texts me later to tell me the location for Tuesday’s pub visit, it feels vaguely like a date. Like we’re a couple.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  This is simply a project, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

  And that’s all I want.

  13

  Truly

  The next morning, I stare at my closet for longer than I should. I don’t know why I’m looking at my clothes, already considering options for tonight. I’m not a clotheshorse or a shoe hound. Besides, there aren’t that many choices. My wardrobe is simple—black with a side of jeans.

  And really, what I wear this evening when I go lab-ratting with Jason doesn’t matter much, right? I’ll just dress like me.

  I spot my favorite skinny jeans. Yes, those. Can’t hurt to wear those.

  I flip through blouses and tops on hangers. Not that one. Not this one. Oooh. How about this little number? The way it slides off the shoulder will be perfect.

  Perfect for research.

  That’s all I’m doing. I’m simply selecting clothes for my work project.

  I set the outfit on my bed. It’ll be ready later when I come home to shower, redo my makeup, and freshen up.

  Wait. Any good outfit needs the right shoes. Scurrying back into the closet, I find the perfect pair.