Blurred Lines

by Lauren Layne

  “Shhh!” I hiss, looking around.

  She glances toward her cube wall. “Chris, are you over there?”

  Nobody responds, and Lori gives me a perky smile. “See? He’s at lunch. Nobody around to hear about how lonely your nether regions are.”

  “I’m so leaving now. No more talk of my female bits until I’m at least three drinks in.”

  “Fine. But wear your good panties!” she calls after me. “Just in case!”

  I smile as I walk away. Since tonight is more an opportunity to warm up my flirting skills than it is a full-blown sexcapade, I’m pretty sure nobody’s going to be seeing my panties.

  Still. The fact that it’s even an option makes me feel…tingly.

  Chapter 6

  Ben

  In theory, spending a random Monday night at a trendy bar with two hot girls is every twenty-something guy’s dream.

  But when one of those women is my untouchable best friend, and the other is her equally untouchable work friend, the reality isn’t exactly my best-case scenario.

  Especially since they’re also dressed to kill, which means the women I can touch are likely to keep their distance.

  Still, no way am I going to let Parker do this weird sex-stalking thing alone. Her wide smile and loud laugh aren’t fooling me for a second. The girl’s two days off a breakup from a relationship that lasted years. She’s fragile.

  And she needs tonight. I get that. Needs to rock the tight black dress and high heels and sexy makeup to shake off the sting of rejection. But she’s out of practice with this, and I’m not convinced she’ll be able to weed out the total douchebags.

  That’s where I come in.

  And if I happen to take a hot girl home in the process…bonus.

  “Another drink?” I ask Lori and Parker.

  “What about that one?” Parker asks, ignoring my question as she takes a sip of her vodka tonic. “The guy in the blue shirt.”

  I follow her line of vision. “That blue shirt is denim. So that’s a no.”

  “I second Ben’s assessment,” Lori says. “Denim shirts work on a Texan cowboy, but in Portland it’s just wrong.”

  “What, so I can’t even talk with him because you two don’t like his shirt?” Parker asks.

  “What about that one?” Lori says, pointing. “Black shirt, six o’clock. Great shoulders.”

  Parker and I both turn our heads to look.

  “But he’s already with someone,” Parker says.

  Lori and I exchange a puzzled glance.

  “The redhead he’s talking to?” Parker says, looking at us like we’re dense.

  “Oh, they’re not together,” Lori says.

  Parker frowns in confusion. “How do you know?”

  “Because he came in with his guy friends just a few minutes after we got here,” Lori explains patiently.

  “And Redhead was here before we arrived,” I add.

  Parker gives us a baffled look. “How do you two know this?”

  Lori reaches across and pats Parker’s hand. “This is why you brought us, sweetie.”

  “Why, so I can learn how to stalk people? I wanted help with picking up guys, not CIA training.”

  “It’s not so different,” I explain.

  Parker gives me a look. “Puh-leeze. I’ve seen how often you’ve watched Jason Bourne. Keep your guy-spy fantasy out of this.”

  “No, he’s right,” Lori says. “It is a little bit like spying.”

  I give a thank you, Lori smile, and she smiles back, holding my eyes. I jerk my gaze away, lest Parker catch on. Lori is ridiculously hot, and in any other situation, I’d absolutely have made a move months ago.

  But strangely enough, I sort of get why Parker’s so determined not to let me hit on her friends. In a perfect world, Lori and I could hook up, scratch the itch, and move on. But despite Lori’s sex-kitten vibes, I hear about all the dates she goes on from Parker.

  Real dates, not drunken hookups.

  I’m not looking for that. At all.

  “So, wait,” Parker says, taking another slurp of her drink. “You’re telling me that I should be…casing the joint?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, managing to keep a straight face. “Be sure you bring your pistol, too.”

  She shoves her glass across the table at me. “Okay, smartass. I reject your sarcasm but accept your drink offer. So does Lori.”

  “One vodka tonic, one Jack and diet coming right up,” I say, scooting out of the booth. “Also, Parks? Watch and learn.”

  I ignore her puzzled Huh? and make my way to the bar, deliberately positioning myself on the other side of the redhead who’s talking to the guy in the black shirt.

  The bartender doesn’t see me, but I don’t rush to catch her eye. I have a lesson to teach.

  Black-Shirt Dude is talking Redhead’s ear off about football.

  Big mistake, dude.

  But his mistake will make my job easier. I’m almost bummed. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good challenge.

  I raise my hand to get the attention of the bartender. A futile gesture, because the tatted-up blonde’s back is to me and she’s shaking the heck out of some cocktail, but it accomplishes what I need it to.

  My elbow barely—just barely—hits the shoulder of Redhead, who’s standing to my right.

  My hand is already touching her forearm in apology as she’s turning toward me.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, laying it on a little thick. Most dudes would grunt an apology, if at all. But this kind of over-the-top courtesy has gotten me the girl more than a couple of times.

  My fingers linger on her forearm as she turns all the way toward me, surprise flickering over her face. And the face is a good one. I was expecting her eyes to be hazel or brown, but they’re blue. She’s got a full mouth, which I like, because, hello, and her body’s as good from the front as it was from the back.

  “No problem,” she says, a slow smile sliding over her face. It’s a predatory smile, which is kind of a turnoff, but I’m not marrying the girl, so it’s cool.

  “Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even?” she says.

  Yup. I’d been right. No challenge here. Still, just as well. The little lesson I’m putting on for Parker could not be going any better.

  You’d better be watching this, Parks.

  “I think I can do that,” I say easily to the girl. “What are you having?”

  She pushes a near-empty glass toward me. “White wine. Whatever she’s pouring back there, I’m not picky.”

  “You got it,” I say, before flicking my eyes to the dude in the black shirt who just now seems to be figuring out what’s going on here. I’m stealing his target.

  “What are you drinking?” I ask him, to soften the blow. I’m not a total dick. Plus, I need him to stick around. With any luck, Lori will understand what I’m doing here and somehow maneuver Parker into this guy’s path. Not because I have any intention of letting her go home with someone who looks slightly dead behind the eyes, but she said she wanted practice, and this guy’s harmless.

  “Um, beer?” he says.

  I hide a grimace. Whitehorse Tavern has more than twenty beers on tap, some of them pretty damn good microbrews. Beer doesn’t quite cut it as far as descriptors go. I’m about to ask if he wants to be a bit more specific, but the scent of familiar perfume catches my attention. Parker wears Chanel Chance. I know this because I buy it for her every Christmas. It’s expensive, but it’s a win-win, because she squeals in delight every time, and I don’t have to do any thinking.

  I turn around to find her looking at me in exasperation. She points at the glasses in front of me. “You forgot our drinks.”

  “I didn’t forget,” I say, giving her a meaningful look.

  She tilts her head in confusion, clearly understanding that I’m trying to tell her something, but not comprehending what.

  Good lord. I glance around for Lori, and find her back at the booth where I left her, engaged in
conversation with a hipster type. Some wingwoman. I’m on my own.

  “Parker, this is…”

  I turn toward the redhead, using the opportunity to get her name.

  “Terri,” she says warily, her eyes doing a not-so-subtle once-over of Parker. This is why I don’t usually try to pick up chicks when my best friend’s in tow. She scares everyone away. Tonight in particular, she looks good, dressed in tight-as-sin jeans and a plain white T-shirt that should be harmless but fits her sort of perfectly. Her hair is in a ponytail, but not a messy gym ponytail; it’s one of those careful, preppy ones that girls do.

  “Parker,” she says, extending a hand. I hope Parker’s friendly smile will put Terri at ease, but Terri’s eyes merely narrow, and I mentally sigh.

  “My cousin,” I say to Terri.

  I don’t look at Parker, but I can feel her disapproval. She hates when I lie, and I’m not a fan of it myself. But it’s a necessity tonight, because Redhead is definitely thinking that Parker is competition.

  Terri smiles at my new (false) revelation, which is good, but what’s even better is that the dopey beer guy in the black T-shirt also seems to jump to attention. His eyes move over Parker, his gaze as assessing as Terri’s was, but with a wholly different agenda. He smirks a little, and it sets my teeth on edge, but if this is what Parks wants…

  I clear my throat meaningfully at Parker before turning back toward the bar, this time going all out in my effort to get the bartender’s attention. I need a drink. Stat.

  Five minutes later, everyone’s drinks are full and Parker’s apparently figured out my game plan, because she’s leaning back against the bar, elbows propped up on the wood, and she’s laughing at something Black T-shirt is saying. I have to think her laugh’s fake; the dude seems like a bore to me, but this doesn’t seem like her fake laugh. I’m pretty familiar with Parker’s fake laugh, because I’ve heard it turned more than once on some of my ditzier sleepover buddies.

  For my part, I’ve been trying to engage in conversation with Terri the redhead. She’s not one of the ditzy ones, which, I guess, is refreshing, but I’m not really feeling it because she’s kind of…mean. I can overlook plenty of personality flaws in the name of extreme hotness, at least for a one-night stand, but the edge on this girl is exhausting.

  “I just don’t get what they expect me to do,” she’s saying. “Like, use one of my vacation days so I can shuttle my grandpa back and forth between his nine million doctors’ appointments? But if I say no, I’m a bitch, right? My mom almost bit my head off when I suggested a cab.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, noncommittally, even though I barely know what she’s talking about. Something about her grandfather being diagnosed with some degenerative disease and everyone in the family taking turns getting him to various appointments.

  A setup that Terri’s apparently not a fan of.

  I can’t help but think back to when Parker’s mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and Parker dropped everything to help out with the chemo appointments and the devastating aftermath of the appointments.

  Hell, so did I.

  Mrs. Blanton all but became a surrogate mother during my college years when my own family was on the other side of the country. I’d have moved heaven and earth to be there for her on those afternoons when she lay weak and nauseous on the couch as we watched nonstop reruns of Gilligan’s Island, or whatever show she felt like binge watching.

  My attention skips away from Terri once again as I watch Black T-shirt, whose name is Tad—seriously?—touch Parker’s hip.

  Atta girl.

  She may need a little help with the setup, but clearly she’s got enough moves to reel him in. Still, she can’t possibly be thinking—

  I meet her eyes, and, sure enough, she’s glancing at me as often as she can without being obvious, and when our gazes lock, she widens her eyes slightly.

  I hide a smile. Okay, so obviously we’re going to have to coach her on the setup and the gracious exit. I’m mentally running through my long list of fail-proof excuses when Lori appears in front of us.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Blanton, but it’s eleven,” Lori says, hitching a thumb over her shoulder toward the door.

  “So?” Terri asks bitchily, giving Lori the same once-over she gave Parker.

  Lori barely looks at her, focusing instead on a confused-looking Tad. “Parker and I made a pact. We’ve got to be heading home by eleven or we’re really going to regret it at our eight a.m. meeting tomorrow.”

  Parker’s nose scrunches for a second, and I suspect she’s about to point out that they don’t have an eight a.m. meeting tomorrow. And I know for a fact that there’s been no previously discussed eleven o’clock curfew, but Terri and Tad don’t need to know that.

  I push back from the bar. “All right, fine,” I say, fishing a few bills out of my wallet as a tip for the bartender. “But next time you two drag me out, do it on a Friday,” I say with a little wink for Terri.

  She frowns. “You’re leaving?”

  I shrug. “I’m their designated walker.”

  Lori snorts, but I actually mean it. Parker and I are about a ten-minute walk from the bar, and Lori’s a fifteen-minute walk, and no way am I letting either of them do it alone, even if it’s a tame Monday night in even tamer Portland.

  Lori gives Parker about thirty seconds to mutter something soothing to Tad before reaching forward and grabbing Parker’s wrist. “Gotta go.”

  When we’re outside the bar, Parker skids to a halt and stares at the two of us. “Wait, so that’s it? We’re done?”

  “You said you wanted practice,” Lori says with a shrug. “You got it.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No way were you going home with that dude,” I tell her, catching her elbow as she teeters just slightly in her high heels.

  “Yeah. No, I mean…no, I didn’t want to,” she says. “He spent the entire time talking about football plays. But what about you guys? I don’t want the evening to be a total waste just because my first attempt at a hookup was a dud.”

  “Oh, not a total waste,” Lori says, grinning as she fishes a business card out of her back pocket and flashes it at Parker. “I got myself the phone number of a guy who’s co-owner of that new Mexican place on Twelfth.”

  “Of course you did,” Parker says with an indulgent sigh, before turning to me. “What about you? That redhead was totally giving you signals.”

  “Ah, Parks,” I say, hooking an arm around her neck and pulling her in the direction of home. “I know.”

  “But…don’t you want…you usually…”

  Mimicking Lori’s motion just seconds before, I fish a cocktail napkin out of my pocket with a phone number scribbled on it.

  Parker stares at it dumbly. “How…when?”

  “She shoved it in my pocket as we were leaving,” I explain, shoving the napkin back in my pocket, even though I have no intention of calling bitchy Terri.

  “I have so much to learn,” Parker says with a sad sigh.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” I say. “Soon you’ll be a female version of me. Just not as good-looking.”

  She punches my side, and I grin.

  But as I walk the two girls home, I can’t stop the strangest, most nagging thought.

  I don’t want Parker to become a female version of me.

  Chapter 7

  Parker

  A year and a half ago, my mom called me up on a random Wednesday and asked if I wanted to grab coffee.

  It was a weird request. Not because I don’t like coffee, and not because I don’t love my mom. But not only do my parents live in the suburbs, but my mom works in the suburbs, too. She’s a high school science teacher.

  So there was absolutely no reason she should be downtown on a random Wednesday, but somehow my brain didn’t register alarm bells.

  It should have.

  Cancer.

  She and I sat in at the café for nearly two hours, but when I walked away
, only that one word stuck with me.

  Later, much later, I would bone up on the details.

  Lump. Stage Three. Chemo. Radiation. Mastectomy. Prognosis.

  All, terrible, terrible words, stemming from that one destructive c-word.

  The months that followed were as horrible as you’d expect. I cried. A lot. Even worse, my dad cried. My mom never did, and that almost made the whole thing worse, because she was the one who was sick, and she was so much stronger than any of us.

  She lost her hair. She was sick and frail, but never weak in spirit. I went over there at least three times a week to see her, usually more, and even on the worst days she never once failed to greet me with a smile.

  I’d wanted to shave my head to be in solidarity with her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I’d gotten my thick, dark, wavy hair from her, and she’d insisted that I keep mine long so her own hair wouldn’t be a stranger when it came back.

  So many evenings we’d sit quietly in the living room with a cup of tea, listening to her favorite female jazz musicians as she’d French braid my hair, me on the floor, her on the couch behind me, wearing one of her brightly colored scarves on her bare scalp.

  It got worse before it got better. Grim doctors’ appointments where the prognosis would give us a thread of hope, and not much more. A double mastectomy where she bravely had her own breasts cut away and replaced by something that looked the same, but wasn’t.

  And then…

  And then my mom got better.

  She’s been in remission for five months now, and as full of life as she is, it seems like it’s been years since we got the good news.

  Her hair’s still short, but sassily so. Her body’s growing stronger every day. So much so that we’re running a 5K together next month—a breast cancer fundraiser, where she’ll proudly pin a survivor bib onto her shirt.

  I couldn’t be more proud.

  Anyway, during my mom’s sickness, I always knew that I wasn’t alone, but I tried really hard not to let her sickness be about me. When I cried, it was late at night, when nobody was around. Not Lance, and not even Ben, although Ben knew that I was crying. I knew he knew, because some mornings I would find him asleep against my bedroom door, almost as though he’d set up camp there to guard me in my grief.