by K. Bromberg
Especially when every time I look up, she’s right there, front and center, shaking her ass on the dance floor.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I haven’t looked down once. Hell, I haven’t taken my eyes off her. I feel like the creepy asshole standing in the darkness of the patio, leaning against the rail with a drink in my hand, staring at her.
Friendship, my ass.
Is that what’s bugging me? That friendship is the last thing on my mind when it comes to this woman and yet that’s what she asserted? That’s why I’m pissed?
Or is it just the plain question of who is this woman?
She’s so very different from the teenage girl who feared being the center of attention. The one who shied away from groups and preferred her romance novels to interaction at times. The wallflower who is most definitely now shining.
She is in the middle of the dance floor with her arms in the air, her head thrown back, and her hips swaying to the beat in a way that should be illegal. Talk about breathtaking.
Confident.
Sexy.
Stunning.
I can’t take my eyes off her when every part of me knows I need to.
She’s like a Juliet whose family led to the demise of mine.
Yet I’m still looking, still watching . . . still trying to rationalize how I could be with a woman like her when all is said and done.
And if my parents were to find out? The fight we had a few years back would pale in comparison to what this one would be. Am I willing to risk that?
But how can I say I’m not to blame for the sins of my father when I’m blaming her for hers?
“Fuck,” I mutter with a shake of my head.
There are other stunning women here tonight. In fact, there are plenty of them. Some I’ve spoken to. Some whose eyes I’ve met across the room and politely smiled back at.
But not a single one has held my attention like Brexton has.
I grit my teeth as a man moves onto the dance floor and begins dancing with the group of women. But he has his sights on her. Anybody can see that.
Or maybe I’m the only one who’s watching.
When he steps in front of her and they both laugh before moving to the beat, I tilt back the remainder of my old-fashioned.
It’s time for me to go.
Or I’ll do something I might regret.
BREXTON
I SWAY TO THE MUSIC still playing in the open courtyard behind me as I make my way through the gardens, onto the patio, and toward the lobby.
My feet are sore, my buzz is still strong, and there’s a smile plastered to my face because that was fun. I can’t remember the last time I danced the night away without caring who I was dancing with or who was watching.
It was just what I needed.
A little release from a stressful few weeks. A lot of hope that true love really does exist. A lot of happiness seeing old friends again.
And yes, I’m just plain ignoring whatever the hell was going on with Drew. At the end of the day, he doesn’t get to steal my sunshine because he chose to be a thunderstorm.
I have a bounce to my step as I head out the entrance, uncertain if I want to head home yet or just have a breather. Regardless, I startle when I see Drew there.
His ass is resting against a brick retaining wall that lines the path, the neck of a beer bottle is between his fingers, and his head is angled to the side as he takes me in where I’ve stopped a few feet in front of him.
It’s funny how you spend years and years not seeing someone and then in a span of a week you see that person several times. Almost as if once your body is aware of him, it just gravitates toward him.
And believe me, mine is aware of him—even when I don’t want it to be.
“You’re still here,” I say.
“Yep. That I am,” he says with a laugh. “I’ve been standing here for way too long, trying to decide if I should stay or leave.”
“Good for you.” I nod.
“Seeing as we’re friends and all.” His eyes narrow as our eyes meet.
“Yep. Friends.” I offer a tight smile and cringe at the word.
“We should make that a drinking game. Every time that word is said, we take a drink. Like this. Friends.” He lifts the bottle of beer to his lips and takes a long swig. “Friends.” And another. “Being friends is so much fun,” he shouts with his arms out to the side. It’s then I realize that his smile is a little lopsided. He’s just as buzzed as I am. “Do you like being friends, Bratty Brex?”
“So now you’re going to make fun of me?” I take a step forward, uncertain if I want more attention from him or if I’m mad at him. None of this friend shit is making any sense. “We’re not teenagers anymore, Drew. I have no problem standing up for myself now.”
“I’m sure you don’t.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask on the defensive. I’m so done with his shit.
“That means you have a reputation for being a ball-busting bitch who doesn’t take no for an answer.”
“And the problem with that is what?” I snap.
“Not a goddamn thing,” he says but the sarcastic chuckle he emits eats at me and eggs me on.
“Since we’re into being honest,” I say. “How about I let you in on a little tidbit?”
“Lay it on me, Brex,” he says pushing himself off the wall and holding his arms out, not caring who walks by or if they see anything. “I’m all fucking ears.”
“I look at you and see one of the most gifted and talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen but the man beneath is too goddamn afraid to step into the limelight. It’s hard to score if you never want to touch the fucking field, Bowman.”
“This is where you stop talking,” he says, anger in his voice, but oddly no belligerence. There’s clarity in his eyes, a challenge, that frankly is the most honest thing he’s shown me yet.
“You don’t have the right to tell me what to do anymore,” I shout. “Just like you didn’t when we were teenagers in the Keys.”
“Bullshit,” he sneers. “I had every right to.”
“Give me one reason why you think you can.”
“Because . . .” His eyes roam the length of my body, but this time they don’t do a very good job hiding what they’re thinking like they did earlier. This time they telegraph every goddamn thought. Lust. Need. Greed. And I’m confused why we’re fighting when he looks at me like that. “Because . . .”
And with no pretense or preamble, Drew Bowman steps into me while dropping his bottle to the grass. His hands frame my face, and he kisses me.
It’s heat and need. It’s demand and desire. It’s a soft tongue but a greedy mouth.
He tastes of anger and longing, and every ounce of pent-up frustration I feel toward him I sense it back from him.
There are no thoughts of the people at our backs. No second given to where we are or how this happened. It’s just Drew and me and a teenager’s fantasy coming to fruition.
“This is wrong,” he murmurs and then kisses me again. “So fucking wrong.” He rests his forehead to mine, his hands still on the side of my face, my own pulse so loud in my ears I swear he can hear it.
“Drew.” My breath is unsteady.
Much like my heart is.
“Just friends.”
It’s my turn to laugh, step back, and look at him like he’s the lunatic he sounds like.
“Are we back to the drinking game again?” I ask.
A sheepish grin slides onto his lips and every single thing about him right now—disheveled hair, crooked tie, incredible eyes—owns me completely.
“If I keep saying we’re friends it will remind me that we are. That I haven’t thought about you way too many times in the past few days. That we don’t have a tangled history neither of us want to address.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about our history.”
He throws his head back and emits the craziest laugh that has me shaking my head, trying to figure
out if he’s losing it.
“Do you know how many years I’ve waited to do that? To try that? Ever since that stupid goddamn game of spin the bottle.” He runs a hand through his hair as he hangs his head sheepishly, stumbles slightly, and chuckles. “Now I know.”
“Now you know,” I repeat, more than shocked at his confession.
Wasn’t he the one who hesitated to kiss me when the neck of the bottle landed on me? More importantly though, did our first kiss affect him as much as it did me?
But if he was interested, how come he never acted on it? How come . . . But I know why. It was the last night of our trip and teenage crushes fall to the wayside when your family life falls apart.
He takes another step back and looks at me with astonishment. “That ball-busting bitch thing? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just needed something to get mad at you for so I wouldn’t want to kiss you.”
“Obviously,” I say as Drew goes from angry to sweet in a matter of seconds.
“Because I like that about you. I like that you’re not afraid to go after what you want. I like that you stand up for yourself.”
“And how exactly would you know that?”
“Because I asked around.” He shrugs like a little boy, odd given the person who just kissed me was all man. “I wanted to know more about you. In fact, I kind of needed to know.”
“Okay.” I fight my smile as he bites his lip, as if he’s trying to make sure he just said what he needed to say.
But the two of us stand there in the early fall evening, staring at each other, and trying to figure out what just happened.
Or maybe not so much what happened, but more like, what to do about it.
“Fuck,” he barks out and laughs crazily.
“What?”
“Why does it have to be you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Of all fucking people, Brexton Kincade, why is it you,” he shouts, pointing both hands at me, “that I can’t seem to get out of my head?”
“I—uh . . .” I’m at a loss of what to say, because he’s shouting but he’s not angry. He looks bemused and perplexed and astonished simultaneously, and there is something about it that makes him even more endearing to me.
Before I can answer him, he jogs a few steps away from me before turning back around and laughing.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’ve been drinking.”
“Clearly.”
“And since I’ve been drinking”—he points a finger up as if he’s just had the best idea ever—“I need to go home.”
“Okay, then.” I draw the words out. He’s definitely cute when he’s drunk.
“Oh, and I have a game too. On an airplane.” He holds his arms out and mock flies in a circle like a little kid.
“You’re playing on airplanes now?”
“I have to take one to get there, silly.” He waves a hand at me and rolls his eyes, then his face suddenly turns serious. “So this can’t happen yet.”
“This? What exactly would this be?” I ask.
“Me wanting you.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that I stumble for words.
“Brexton Kincade,” he shouts.
“Yes?”
“The next time we kiss . . .”
“There’s going to be a next time?” Did I really just say that out loud?
“God, I hope so,” he says and closes the distance between us before planting another kiss on my lips. “Because next time? Next time I’m going to be sober so I don’t miss a fucking thing about doing this thing we just did.”
“You mean kissing?”
“Yes. That.” He starts to head away from me and stumbles. “Mildred’s right, you know,” he says, turning to face me, his arms out at his sides, the pathway light directly overhead, illuminating a circle around him.
“Right about what? Mustard?”
“No. About hate fucks. They’re awesome. But not for the first time.” He shakes his head.
“Oh.” Parts of my body ignite at the dark promise of his words. “That’s good to know,” I all but squeak.
“You.” He points to me. “Goddamn you, Brexton Kincade. You made me start to believe. You made me want. And now I have to figure out what the hell that means.”
I’m sure that makes perfect sense to him, but now isn’t the time to ask. Now is the time to stand here and watch him walk away with his laugh echoing around me and the warmth of his lips still on mine.
What just happened?
And more importantly, when can it happen again?
DREW
10 years earlier
SPIN IT.
Spin it.
The twenty or so teenagers sitting around Deadman’s Cove chant the taunt over and over.
It’s late, but I have no worries. It’s our last night here in the Keys, and our parents let us roam free. It’s safe in this small paradise where we rented a house for two weeks with the Kincade family, and besides that, I’ll be seventeen in a couple of months so I can take care of myself.
Add to that? Mom and Dad partied a little too hard with the Kincades today and are no doubt fast asleep.
Today? More like this whole trip.
But that’s okay. That means they won’t know how many beers I’ve had because they won’t remember how many they drank.
A fucking win for me.
It also means I’ve made fast friends with the locals here. Anyone who can supply the beer is someone they like. Besides, they’re starving for outsiders to save them from the boredom of this small-town, island life.
“Let’s go, Bowman. It’s your turn. Whoever you land on you get five minutes of heaven alone with them behind the Coconut Shack,” the local ringleader Hank says, referring to the beachfront walk-up ice cream stand that’s now currently closed.
I stare at the empty bottle sitting on top of a piece of cardboard and wonder who it’s going to land on.
“Fine. I’m game,” I say, willing to try anything once.
“So you know the rules?” he asks.
“Yeah. You draw four numbers and whoever has those numbers are the contestants. I spin and whoever I land on is who I get time with.”
“Yep.”
“Fine. Sure. Bring it on, man.”
I’ve kissed plenty of girls. Ones I like. Ones who like me. Ones who just want to kiss Gary Bowman’s son so they can say they are that much closer to the future Hall of Famer.
So I’m game. What guy is going to turn down a chance to sample the goods to see who he wants to hook up with again during the rest of his vacation?
Not this guy.
Not on your fucking life.
Hank stands atop a wood stump beside the bonfire raging at our backs. “Drumroll, please,” he says as he digs his hand in a bucket to pull numbers from. “Number ten.”
“Right here!” Sassy Sarah steps forward with her hand raised and her tits bouncing. She’s known for that teeny-tiny bikini she loves to wear and for her dad giving us discounts when we buy snacks at the bait shop he owns down the pier.
No complaints there whatsoever.
“Number two,” Hank continues.
“Woohoo!” comes from the darkness as Delilah from Kennebunkport jogs forward. Her grandparents own the house next to our rental and, so far, the chick has been down for anything. I’m not sure if that scares the shit out of me or excites me.
Maybe both.
“Number three,” Hank shouts and cheers go up to the right of him.
“I was hoping I’d get picked,” Glenda says. The local guys here refer to her as the Good Witch behind her back, because she’s fast and easy and usually willing. “I need some variety.”
I have her pegged as all talk, but I’m a horny sixteen-year-old guy who’s sick of using his hand and the Internet for inspiration.
“And lastly,” Hank says as the three ladies sit cross-legged in the sand around the board, “number twelve.”
“She’s right
here,” someone shouts in the back.
I strain to see through the darkness at the girl walking forward slowly.
And when I see her, I open my mouth to protest but don’t say a word.
It’s Brexton.
Fucking Brexton.
With those huge hazel eyes and that shy smile. With . . . all that going on. That meaning every part of her that every guy here tonight is currently looking at as she makes her way to the circle. We parted ways on our Christmas ski trip with her looking like a baby giraffe—gangly and clumsy—but she showed up here for our summer trip with curves and that red polka-dot bikini that she’s currently wearing.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
“Spin the fucker already,” Hank says as chants of spin it fill the air again.
“Yes. Sure.” I look across the cardboard the bottle’s on and smile at Sarah, Delilah, and Glenda. I can’t bring myself to look at Brex. Not now. Not like this.
She’s just a kid.
She’s just . . .
Hoots and hollers carry against the crash of the waves on the beach as I spin. The brown glass bottle goes around and around until it slows down and lands pointing directly at Brexton.
I stare at its neck but don’t meet her eyes, as everyone starts clapping and shouting.
I would have kissed any one of them by now. Sarah. Delilah. Glenda. I would have pressed my lips to theirs, and given myself something to remember for the spank bank later.
But Christ, this is Brexton, and . . .
“Let’s go, Bowman. Don’t be a pussy.”
I lift a middle finger in the air, roll my eyes as the guys laugh, and hate that as I rise from my seat in the sand, I know what every guy here is thinking about and wanting to do with her.
But it’s Bratty Brex, and I’m struggling to figure out why all of a sudden I’m nervous to kiss her, when I’m never nervous for shit like that.
“Hi,” she whispers when I step up to her. “I’m sorry it’s me.”
“Don’t be. It’s just . . .” But there’s something about the way she looks at me that stops the words on my lips. It’s the flames from the fire reflected in her hair. The quick intake of her breath. The way her eyelashes flutter when she looks at me.
Jesus, when did she become so pretty?