The Boy Friend

Home > Other > The Boy Friend > Page 1
The Boy Friend Page 1

by Mika Jolie




  Table of Contents

  Explicitly Yours, Dean Conrad Morello.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Old-Fashioned Recipe

  The Boy Friend Playlist

  About Mika Jolie

  Also by Mika Jolie

  Publisher My Happy Chaos Publishing

  www.mikajolie.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Explicitly Yours, Dean Conrad Morello.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Old-Fashioned Recipe

  The Boy Friend Playlist

  About Mika Jolie

  Also by Mika Jolie

  OKAY, HERE’S THE DEAL, I’m going to share my story with you. Let’s get a few things out of the way. There’s going to be sex. Some details might be a bit explicit. I curse like a motherfucker. The plot will be a little wonky and will not always follow some forced narrative. Sure, there will be conflict, climax, resolution . . . Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. But don’t expect me to be a fucking Prince Charming. I’m the tall, dark, and handsome Casanova the nuns warned you about. Hearts will be broken. Tears will be shed. Friendship will be tested. Eventually, I’ll realize the mess I’m in isn’t fictional, and I’m the motherfucking star of my own story.

  With me so far?

  Okay. Grab a Pinot Grigio, a warm fuzzy blanket, and join me on this wild ride.

  “Friends buy you lunch. Best friends eat your lunch.”

  SEE THAT GUY SITTING BY the window inside the rustic-yet-trendy bar? The one with the broad shoulders filling out a half-zipped, blue plaid pullover and slim-fit, black cargos? He’s dragging a hand through his short, dark hair, and his strong brows are pinched together in a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he stares at the attractive woman sitting on the other side of the round table. Yes, the pretty boy with the what-the-fuck look on his face—that’s me, Dean Conrad Morello.

  Why am I having difficulty breathing, you ask?

  It’s because of the woman sitting across from me, wearing the fitted gray bomber jacket, and the skinny jeans tucked into black leather knee boots with fuck-me heels. She’s staring at me with eyes the color of the Laphroaig single-malt in my hand. Right now, they have a connotation of decadence and pleasure as she chews on a few truffle fries.

  “So, what do you think?” She tosses her rich dark brown hair over her shoulder. Several streaks of indigo highlights, almost the same shade as her jeans, play with the light. And I can’t help but notice how it shines, even in the dimness of the bar.

  This is Cori—short for Coriander—Phillips. She hates her first name. I think it’s cute. One wouldn’t describe her as quirky, or ethereal, or alien, or any other condescending adjective used to depict women who are decidedly not “the girl next-door.” Basically, what I mean is: she’s undeniably beautiful in a not-quite atypical way. However, she’s much more than a pretty face. She’s smart as hell, deeply perceptive, unfailingly kind, witty, and happens to be my BFF—you know, best friend forever—so don’t get any ideas.

  She also just dropped a bombshell on me.

  “I want a baby,” she repeats.

  Maybe she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time. The noise level around us is amped—customers are talking, arguing over sports, complaining about work or spouses—it’s Friday night, after all. But I have the eyes of a hawk and ears of an owl. We’re at Une Pression—French for beer on tap—a popular restaurant in town. Make that the only restaurant in town. Our little town has three commercial establishments—Une Pression, a gas station, and a garden shop.

  If you live in Alpine, New Jersey, your nights are either spent in Manhattan or here. Tonight, the place is jam-packed. Waiters are scurrying by, arms overloaded with trays of drinks and plates piled high with food.

  Every Friday night, Cori and I meet here for our non-date date for a couple of hours, bullshit for a bit, and then go our separate ways.

  “Why do you look like you’re about to faint?” Amusement fills her voice. Cheeks, dappled with freckles as chaotic as the fall leaves, lift in a smile. When I don’t answer, her chair scrapes the floor. She’s ready to get to her feet and give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation if necessary. “Are you okay?”

  I press a finger to my eye before it twitches right out of my head. Surprise isn’t an emotion I’ve ever expressed well. Generally, someone gets hurt, and it’s never me. Almost robotically, I grab my scotch and swallow a big gulp, letting the oak flavor muscle its way down my throat as I process Cori’s news.

  My first thought is that this is her way of proposing one of those wacky let’s-make-a-baby-together bullshit ideas. Women are crazy like that. I’ve heard plenty of “if neither of us is married by this age, then we should have a baby, or we should hook up.” Seriously, that’s insane.

  Anyway, Cori is not like that. Thank goodness. She’s a confident, straightforward chick. I like that about her. Which means, if she wanted me to be her baby daddy, she’d come right out and ask.

  I’d say no, of course.

  But she hasn’t asked, so no need for any panic attack.

  This knowledge offers no solace. My gut tells me, whatever she’s thinking is not going to sit well. I arrange my face into someth
ing I hope is calm, cool, and collected. “Where the hell did that come from?” My mind still swirling, I mutter, “A baby.”

  “I know.” Full lips, shimmering with pink gloss, rise into a smile. “Can you believe it?”

  No. I can’t fucking believe it.

  One of her elbows is resting on the rough wood of the round table separating us. By the way her body tips forward, I know her delicate, floral, half-moon tattoo, with the words, ‘Stay Wild Moonchild,’ inscribed in thin italic font on the right side of her lower back, is revealed just enough to give a boner to most men within gawking distance. She also has a tiny anchor on her right inner ankle.

  She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her Old Fashioned cocktail, lowers her gaze, and looks straight at me again. “I love children, you know that.”

  Yeah, I’m aware of her love for children. But loving other people’s kids for eight hours twice a week and choosing to want one of your own are two different things. In any event, before I jump on the let’s-get-Cori-pregnant bandwagon, I need to understand the drive behind this decision.

  “A baby is a game changer. Lots of responsibilities,” I point out. Friends are supposed to talk friends from walking off the ledge, right?

  I mean, close friends are life’s treasures. Cori falls in that category. Other than my mother and my sister, Katharine, any woman you see me with, I’ve either fucked, or I’m about to fuck. So I bet you’re thinking the term I should be using to describe our closeness is BFFWB—best friends forever with benefits, of course.

  That’s a big presumption on your part. Let me assure you, I can have a platonic relationship with a woman.

  Okay, you’re not completely wrong.

  But there’s an exception to every rule. My friendship with the dark-haired beauty who is currently eating the fries off my plate, and who appears completely oblivious to every man checking her out, has been platonic for over two decades and shall always remain that way.

  No fucking way!

  Yeah, I know. But Coriander Phillips is the one woman who is permanently off-limits.

  “I think . . . ” She twirls the thin black straw from her drink between her fingers, then places it on the white paper napkin. “No, I know it’s time.”

  “Your twice-a-week fill of snot-nosed six- and eight-year-olds is not enough for you?” My gaze roams around the packed bar on this wintery night. On my right, the beautiful brunette from the live band is singing her rendition of “Maneater.” Prior to Cori’s news, I was enjoying the vibe; now all of it has become white noise.

  “They are not snot-nosed brats.” She tilts her head back and laughs, exposing the long elegant stretch of her neck. “I love teaching those kids about art.”

  My Coriander Stay Wild Moonchild grew up to be an artist. A few years ago, she purchased an old farmhouse and converted it into her studio, gallery, and one of those trendy classrooms where women paint while sipping wine. She also teaches art twice a week at our former elementary school. While success didn’t happen overnight, it’s safe to say that she’s one of those artists who is earning a living doing what she loves.

  As for me, I grew up—somewhat—followed my dad’s footsteps, and became a financial genius. I love my job. We’ll get to that later.

  My eyes drift to the wall of alcohol bottles and the upside-down stem glasses in racks above the bartender’s head. “Kate didn’t talk you out of this?” Kate is short for Katharine, my younger sister by twenty-two months. She’s a replica of our mother—petite and blond—except, she inherited our dad’s brown eyes, like me. I, on the other hand, am a full-blown version of my father—bronzed skin, dark-brown hair verging on black, chiseled jaw.

  “She’s supportive,” Cori answers after taking another sip of her cocktail.

  Of course, my sister is encouraging this absurdity. I should have known. Every female has a crazier female friend who will help them do the craziest shit. Needless to say, Cori and Kate are very close in a way only another woman can understand. They’d take a bullet for each other without any hesitation, not in the head, but the leg or something.

  Flashback to twenty-three years ago, on the school playground at our super-exclusive private school. In strolled a scrawny little girl in an aqua T-shirt that read, ‘Stay Wild, Moonchild,’ and purple-blue hippie harem pants. I remember that day as if it happened yesterday. She couldn’t be missed. She marched straight up to me and demanded I apologize to Katharine. After I pulled one of her two pigtails and dared her to make me, she punched me in the gut with her seven-year-old strength.

  Why?

  Because she thought my buddy Lucas and I were bullying Katharine.

  Everyone knows everyone in our enclave, and our school was the size of a lunchbox—not cramped, but small. But that was apparently Cori’s first day, and she had no clue Kate and I were siblings.

  Anyhow, Cori and I have been inseparable ever since. We’ve never slept together, never been to first base, never kissed. We have a platonic friendship. Nothing more. We have no romantic interest in each other.

  While I would fuck the majority of the female population, I have no interest in actively pursuing that goal with Cori. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean she doesn’t enter my strictly sexual fantasies every once in a while. Perfect example, look at the way the tip of her tongue brushes against that cocktail cherry between her lips. I can’t help but think I’m the lucky recipient of her tongue touching my flesh, licking down my chest or further south.

  Of course, my dick stirs in my pants, that’s a common physiological reaction.

  But understand, these are occasional, fleeting thoughts. I’ve never jerked off to Cori. Nope. I have some scruples. My mind teetering out of Friendtopia into HornyTown, USA is beyond my control.

  Look, that’s just the way the mind of a man with a strong sexual appetite works, especially one with a hot woman as his best friend. I fantasize about having sex with a lot of women I see in my daily life, that doesn’t mean I want to pursue or actually have something with them.

  My point is, putting the time and energy into exploring whether sex is on the table between Cori and I, or making it happen, isn’t worthwhile, too many obstacles. If shit goes bad, then what? Yeah, not worth it. We have a healthy, guy-girl friendship.

  Trust me. Both of us are happy and comfortable with my role in her life. I’m the boy friend. Every woman should have a guy in her life she can go to when she needs help understanding the male species.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “ANYHOW”—CORI LEANS back in her chair and runs her hands down the thighs of her jeans— “my mind is made up.” There’s a clear, calm, decisiveness in her voice.

  No. No. No. I feel stuck in the same spiral staircase. No matter if I go upstairs or down, I’d keep coming back to the same spot.

  Cori wants a baby.

  Out of desperation, I say, “You’re not married.”

  One of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows rises. That’s Coriander’s stop-being-a-moron face, saved just for me.

  Yeah, I got the memo. This is the twenty-first century, pantsuit nation, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

  Whatever.

  I’m aware some women choose the single mother route and tackle life alone while chanting, ‘I’m woman, hear me roar.’

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Seriously, please take a chill pill.

  Call me sexist if you want. I don’t really care. I’ve also witnessed my mom roughhoused by two terrors, and we had two nannies and a hands-on dad. More importantly, this is my Cori. She deserves the white picket fence, the big backyard, and the two-point-five kids, with a loving husband. The whole shebang.

  “Why not start with a boyfriend?” I continue with my cross-examination. When your best friend for the last twenty-three years decides to drop a bombshell on you, it’s time for some third-degree. “You don’t even have one.”

  She reaches onto my plate for a fry. “Whose fault is that?”

&nb
sp; What the hell does that mean? I don’t cock-block . . . ever. Or get jealous. Perhaps a bit protective, but this is Coriander we’re talking about. She’s . . . you know . . . a part of my universe, one of my best friends. I don’t like to see her hurt, broken, or sad. We’ve been down that road twice. Her college boyfriend, Mike Dubois, and recently, Barry chicken-shit Clemens.

  Miles away, I was able to break down the components of their relationship and determined pretty-boy Mike was an asshole. When I warned her he was a douche and not as in love as he had claimed to be, she trusted him with her virginity anyway.

  They broke up by Christmas break. Katharine and I helped her recover. But it was me who weathered the storm with Cori the most. For a few months, I became her boat, kept her head above water.

  If I’m not doing the happy dance, it’s due to caution, nothing about cockblocking. “What brought this on?” I ask after a long minute.

  “I’m turning twenty-eight.” She snatches another fry from my plate and tosses it in her mouth.

  “And I’m turning thirty,” I remind her. My birthday is in two weeks. Hers is in April. Two months from now. “Your age isn’t a reason to have a baby.” I lean forward, holding her gaze. “A baby is a life changer—lots of responsibilities, dirty diapers, lots of crying.” Most importantly, Cori would belong to someone else. Not the baby, I’m not worried about a fractious little person latching onto one of her nipples.

  “I can handle a baby. More importantly, I want this.” She leans forward and puts her hand over mine, her brown eyes serious. “Please support me.”

  Needing a moment, I swallow another gulp of my scotch. It’s not the baby. My concern is the asshole who ends up planting his dipshit seed in her. They’d probably end up married or, worse, fall in love. Eventually, the dickhead would develop some sort of hostility toward my place in her life.

  See where I’m going with this?

  No, it’s not all about me. I’m not egocentric, all wrapped up in myself. For the record, my friendship with Cori has been tested a few times on both sides. There was the girl I slept with on a regular basis in college. I think her name was Maribel or something, a hot Venezuelan with a body handmade by Jesus H. Christ himself; H is for Harry—picture Prince Harry. Not that I think they look alike, but I like Prince Harry. The guy is a prince and spends his time sleeping with gorgeous women or flying military jets. Total badass.

 

‹ Prev