Bad Boy Benefits: A Standalone Little Sister's Best Friend Romance

by JD Hawkins

  Pushing through, moving from the intense heat of the inside dancers to the cooler air outside, feels like coming up for air. I almost gasp it in, even though it still carries the fog of people and joy. I shove through the crowd to look out over the balustrade at the gathering there. It’s less packed than inside, but only just.

  The ice sculptures draw my eyes first. Glowing, colored, glittering ice sculptures in the shapes of various gems. I immediately connect them with Maeve—they’re so clearly her idea—and I stare at them as if they’re some kind of reflection of her. Imposing, attractive, impenetrable, cold. Things which seem clear, but only turn the light back on you.

  I feel a strange stirring in my gut again, a surge of the impulse to find her, to tell her, to confront her. Somebody calls my name but I continue to search the mass of beautiful people for a hint of her, a clue, something to chase.

  Then I catch it—or at least, I think I do. For a split second, that blonde pixie cut appears in the crowd, near the ice sculptures by the bar, on the other side of the pool.

  It could be anything, but hope alone is driving me now—hope alone is always what’s driven me.

  I shove my way back through the crowd on the landing and almost tumble down the steps.

  Out here the people aren’t dancing skin-to-skin, aren’t entirely lost to the passions of their own bodies, so when I push through, knocking drinks out of people’s hands, jolting them from their pleasant conversations, I leave a stream of grumbles and complaints that seem dissonant with the pleasantness of everything else at the party.

  But I don’t care. I need to find her, and I’m done taking the long route.

  Shoving and forcing my way through, I only feel the intensity inside of me growing. Oblivious to the exclamations behind me, the sense of rightness too powerful to listen to anyone else. Wading through the crowd, toward something like a light, nothing else seems important.

  I pause slightly when I see her twenty feet away, standing by one of the ice sculptures. Not just because I’m so close, not just because she looks as beautiful as ever, not just because actually seeing her only makes me one hundred times more certain that I need to do this—but because she’s standing with Asher.

  She’s looking up affectionately at him, giving him a smile as warm as she knows how to. All the turbulence I felt nights ago, seeing those images of them, reading about how they’re a “great couple” returns to my chest, mixing with my energy, turning it aggressive. When she reaches out and touches him on the arm, leaning forward, he laughs at something she says, and now my desire is painful, my intentions sharpening like a knife.

  Six years I’ve known her, and even then, when we met we couldn’t resist what we had between us. Six years of play-acting all the things that we actually felt. And now here’s this guy—that she met only a couple weeks ago—who’s taking a place I should be in. Who got to take her out and show the whole world. Who got to take her home when she should have been with me. And for no other reason than the fact that he was easier. More convenient. But it’s not right.

  I stalk toward her, hard with determination now.

  “Hey, Maeve!” I call out confrontationally, taking her arm when I’m close and pulling her away. “I need to talk to you.”

  She looks at me with shock, and Asher instinctively steps between us, his hand on my forearm.

  “Hey, buddy, easy there. Getting a little rough.”

  “Get out of here,” I snarl at him, unable to hide the resentment in my voice. I turn back to Maeve. “Listen—”

  “What on Earth are you doing here, Toby?” she exclaims, moving her shocked eyes to my hand on her arm.

  “Calm the fuck down, dude,” Asher says, getting more forceful as he shoves my shoulder, trying to pull me away from Maeve.

  Instincts take over. I’m nothing but inflated, wounded pride now. Nothing but frustration and yearning. Emotions too big not to be sensitive, the moment too important not to seize. I’m barely thinking. The atmosphere too euphoric, Maeve too achingly beautiful, the situation too wrong. I’m just the need to take Maeve away, and everything in my way is an obstacle I won’t allow—including Asher.

  I swing at him. It catches him off guard, and sends him flying into the ice sculpture. He grabs for it as he falls, but only manages to drag it down with him. The sound of a wine glass smashing can distract a room, but the sound of a six-foot ice sculpture hitting hard stone and shattering sounds like an apocalypse.

  “Toby!” Maeve screams at me. Her voice, the sudden, strange quiet of the previously-cacophonic party, the spectacular sight of ice smashing into small pieces that each refract and catch the light, as if it were a real magical effect—it all gets through my heightened emotions for a second.

  My blood thumps and my breath quickens, but I see a glimpse of what a scene I’m making, of what I’ve just done. A wave of regret, of the sudden realization that I’ve just done something I shouldn’t.

  Unfortunately, Asher doesn’t know how I’m feeling. All Asher knows is that I just sucker punched him and sent him sprawling into cold, hard ice.

  When he gets up, even the slipperiness of the ice crunching under his expensive shoes can’t stop him. Everyone watching, a few men who know what’s coming calling for him not to, and me standing there, stuck between wanting to apologize, and the suddenly understood fact that Asher isn’t the type to take a hit and turn the other cheek.

  He barrels into me with his head down, and if I didn’t pull back he’d have had me on my ass in perfect position to be pummeled MMA style. It’s only my reluctance to fight back that means instead, he bulldozes me a full five feet backwards until I crash into the tent-bar.

  The wood counter breaks under the weight of my back, feeling like I’m being hit from behind by a freight train, head slamming so hard it feels like whiplash. Even as we crash into it, all I can think is that the sound of a thousand bottles of alcohol smashing is pretty similar to that of a seven-foot ice sculpture.

  The two of us crash to the floor in a gigantic, cascading explosion of bottles and glass, the wood and cloth of the bar, the shrieks and shouts of the people around us. But in a fight you focus only on your opponent, and in the malaise Asher loses the upper hand, and I manage to shift his weight to the side.

  We both scramble to our feet amongst the rubble of the bar, both of us drenched in champagne, Asher’s face half bloody—the sting of a cut in my own cheek indicating I probably don’t look that different.

  He swings and I take the blow to the shoulder, then swings again and I manage to block it, delivering my own hit to his side. We’re circling like boxers now; the cries for us to stop may as well be cheering us on. I’m tougher but he’s faster, landing two on me for every time I touch him—though I can tell my punches hurt.

  Then he catches me on the chin and a sound like an atomic bomb shakes my entire body. I see stars, exploding in different colors. Then I stagger back and realize it isn’t me—the sky’s filled with fireworks. I regain my senses just quick enough to block a few more blows, and suddenly find myself teetering on the edge of the pool.

  There’s no way I’m losing this fight. In my unthinking mind everything has mixed up into this singular moment, this sudden situation. My feelings for Maeve, my need to tell her, my desire for clarity, to bring everything out from the forbidden depths where they’ve existed too long. This man, Asher, my obstacle, my rival, as if the obstacles between us were given a human form. Something to defeat in the physical world as well as the emotional.

  I’m fighting for her, I’m doing it for us. I’ll beat this man—whom I don’t even really know well enough to properly hate—into a bloody pulp if that’s what it takes to show her. I don’t even know what he’s fighting for, but it’s clear even as we exchange blows poolside that his heart isn’t in this as much as mine is. It’s obvious he doesn’t care as much as I do. I can only hope Maeve sees that.

  I start raining punches on him, exerting all the strength I can muster. Bad tact
ics, bad strategy—don’t waste your energy when fighting. But my energy isn’t even my own anymore, it comes from something deeper, from a pit of emotion that’s infinite. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t even be here, doing this.

  Asher blocks them as best he can, winding and stopping my punches like a pro, but I’m still pushing him back, threatening to break through.

  Suddenly the pool is even closer to us, and the idea is impulsive. I stop hitting and instead reach out, grabbing his clothing and setting my feet to throw him in there, to mark the fight with some kind of victory.

  He’s quick though, and grabs me in turn, so that even as I throw him he pulls me with him, the two of us crashing into the water as fireworks explode. I take a lungful of water and start flailing, then hands grab me, and as much as I try to fight them off there are too many to stop myself from being dragged in some direction…

  I’m pulled out of the pool spluttering and exhausted, as if my lungs had suddenly shriveled to the size of walnuts, not quite big enough to sustain me. The hands lift me to my feet and then leave me. Until one takes my elbow.

  I look up and there she is. Scowling at me like she’s thinking about throwing me back in the pool, and then she sets off, still holding me, and I oblige, all the resistance and tension and fight leaving my body now that she’s the one touching me.

  The crowd parts for her as she drags me like a naughty schoolchild through them, out of the party area, and into the dark trees far from the pool area. An unlit place so dark only the colored flashes of the distant fireworks illuminate her. And even there, even in that state, she looks even more magical than she ever has.

  Eventually she lets go, tossing my arm away as if disgusted with it, walks two steps into the dark, composes herself, then turns that scowl back on me. She looks at me, panting and wet, as if I’m the most ridiculous thing she’s ever seen. In her perfect black dress, looking like the kind of woman a man would dream about till death, I almost understand.

  When she speaks, it’s as if she has to wrench the words out of herself, as if words aren’t enough.

  “What…the fuck…are you doing, Toby?”

  I take my time answering, still catching my breath, still gathering up the courage for this critical moment.

  There’s only one explanation I can give her, for this, for me, for everything.

  “I’m in love with you, Maeve.”

  Her scowl turns into cold, blank surprise. As if I just socked a punch on her as well.

  “No…you’re not,” she says.

  “Yes, I am,” I insist, stepping toward her so she can see the unreserved sincerity in my eyes as I say it. “I’m in love with you. And you’re in love with me.”

  Maeve laughs. That same dismissive laugh that she uses to deflect everything—but I refuse to accept it now. I can hear the falsity in it, I know it too well not to notice that it’s a little different, a little less confident than usual.

  “You crashed my party…” she says slowly. “Caused an absolute scene… Thousands of dollars’ worth of destruction… Started a fight with a friend of mine… Made a fool of yourself…and me…so that you could tell me how I feel…”

  “Well, God knows you’re not going to say it,” I reply. “You could spend the rest of your life ignoring what we have between us. But I can’t. Not anymore.”

  “Toby, listen to me,” she says, stepping towards me now. “This is not love—this is just sex. Okay?”

  “Bullshit. You’re better at lying to yourself than you are to me, Maeve.”

  She turns away from me and sighs, folding her arms and walking a few paces away, shaking her head as if exasperated.

  “This is insane,” she mutters to herself.

  “Yeah, it is. Insane that you’ve started believing all your own hype. ‘Maeve the socialite—so cool and distant and fashionable.’ An ‘icon.’ Untouchable and invulnerable. Above everything. As if you don’t get lonely at night. As if you don’t ever feel the need for affection. As if you don’t yearn deep down for somebody—for me—to get close to you.”

  “What the hell are you even talking about?” She turns to sneer at me, but her attempt at her typical sardonic tone falters, and I can hear the hot blood underneath it.

  “I’m talking about all this shit!” I exclaim, gesturing behind me at the party, where the fireworks are still popping and crackling. “The parties and the dresses and the glamour and the photos in the magazines and the cult of personality and the fashion and the popular director you decide to pick up for a few months… Always jumping from one thing to another to convince yourself you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t need anything more.”

  “I am that woman,” she snaps back at me, forcefully and loudly, so that there’s no way I can deny it. Then she looks away angrily and shakes her head again.

  “Sure,” I say, stepping closer. I point at her. “But you’re also this woman right here. A woman who can’t even look me in the eye too long because she’s afraid I’ll see too much emotion in her. You’re afraid, Maeve, and too proud to admit it. That’s why you can go out and have the world see you with Asher—because you don’t feel anything for him. But not with me...”

  “And what, exactly, are you, Toby?” she says, turning to face me as if challenged now. She gestures at me. “What am I supposed to be looking at, huh? Tell me if I’m wrong—you are the expert, after all—but what I’m seeing is a man with bruises all over his face, drenched in alcohol, who’s just been dragged out of a pool. You want to talk about egos? It takes something to beat a guy like that acting as if he has the moral high ground.”

  Maeve says nothing for a few moments. Beyond us, the last of the fireworks explodes, and leaves nothing but the distant hum of the party. The sudden quiet feels like the space between us closing in. The fireworks end, leaving a calm that we never even realized we were lacking.

  “I love you, Maeve.”

  She turns to me quickly and replies, “Well I don’t l—”

  She stops herself and I smile. Then I laugh. Gently at first, and then a full laugh that causes her to look away again.

  “You can’t even say it… Because you know you do.” I grin. “God, you’re so full of shit, Maeve.”

  “I’m the one who is full of shit, am I?” she says, her eyes burning with a special kind of cruelty now. “Okay. Could you promise to answer me a question honestly then, sweetie?”

  I open my arms out to the side and shrug as if it’s easy. “Go ahead.”

  “How many times,” Maeve begins, patient and slow, like she’s about to twist a knife, “in the years I’ve known you, have you run to Mia and told her that you ‘love’ some random woman who was out of your reach?”

  “That’s different,” I say, feeling like I’m failing to block one of Asher’s punches.

  “Off the top of my head,” Maeve continues as if she didn’t hear me, “there’s the married Texan pop star… The Russian whose visa ran out… The older woman who’d been divorced twice and wasn’t about to do so a third time… Wasn’t there a lesbian in there somewhere?”

  “Come on, Maeve, you know that’s not the same.”

  “Oh, it’s never the same,” Maeve says sarcastically. “It’s always different this time, isn’t it, sweetie? Mia nailed you: you want only what you can’t have. And since you figured out that you can’t have me, I’m the one you want.”

  “It’s different,” I repeat.

  “How?”

  I step toward her to show my conviction.

  “Because I can have you, Maeve. I can and I will. We belong together. It’s just that out of the two of us, I’m the only one with the balls, with the honesty, to come out and say it. But sooner or later you’ll have to face it.”

  “You’ll be waiting forever, Toby.”

  “So be it.”

  There’s another silence between us. Maeve paces on the grass, still shaking her head and sighing. I watch her, trying to figure out how to get through to someone who’s spent their w
hole life not allowing people through.

  Eventually she pauses and looks at me, all of her composure back, no sign of her prior weakness. I know that I won’t get any further with her tonight.

  “If that’s all,” she says, “then would you mind leaving my party now?”

  I look at her and take a deep breath, knowing there’s nothing more I can do. I nod and turn away, then stop. One last thing burning in my mind so bright I have to say it, to get rid of it, to exorcise its spirit.

  “You know what?” I say. “I hate that I’m in love with you. You’re so…frustrating and…difficult. Nothing is ever simple with you. You get me angry in a way I never get with anyone else. Under my skin…in my head…driving me crazy… I wish it was anyone else. Someone easier, simpler, more convenient…but it’s you.

  “And even though I absolutely fucking hate you… I love you. That’s how I know this is real.”

  I don’t wait for her response. I know she won’t give me one.

  I turn and start walking, heading back to the large building, the stinging in my cheek suddenly sharpening in a breeze so that I touch it and check the blood on my fingers.

  It’s a long walk back, but I’m numb to everything, including time. The party is past its peak, but it’s still going strong. I avoid going through the building and instead take the long gravel path around it. There are still plenty of people there, drinking in small groups, moving between parts of the mansion, laughing and cheerful. I even hear a couple fucking in the bushes. Though I’m soaked and bloody, nobody seems to care—half the people here are soaked with sweat anyway, and I even catch sight of another guy nursing a fresh black eye.

  I keep my hand to my face, partly to suppress the stinging pain of the cut, partly so that nobody recognizes me and tries to start up a conversation. The last thing I’m feeling is in the mood for company.

  And yet after I’ve rounded the building, and I’m heading past the fountain, toward the long driveway that leads to the road, somebody calls out to me.