The Boy Friend

by Mika Jolie

  “Where’s your date?” I ask.

  “His name is Brandon. He had to answer a call for work.” A smile spreads across her face. She waves at someone over my shoulder. “Oh, he’s right here.”

  I turn and my gaze collides with the man who is obviously Cori’s date. He’s about my height, lean with tousled dark-brown hair, blue, serious-but-friendly eyes, distinct cheekbones, and an angular, clean-shaven jaw. Cori was right. He’s a pretty boy, the type you see on billboards for Abercrombie and Fitch.

  Releasing my grip on Cori’s waist, I stand to my full six-two frame and exchange a firm handshake with the Ken doll lookalike. “Hey, man, I’m Dean.”

  “Brandon.” He places a hand over Cori’s shoulder, marking his territory. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  His tone doesn’t reveal much. But his eyes, they are assessing me as if I’m his competition. A small smile plays on my lips, as my gaze shifts back to Cori’s pretty face. “Yeah, all good things, right, Coriander?”

  “Some.” She hooks her arm through Brandon’s and holds on to him.

  Do you notice how she bats her eyes and makes that cute little girly laugh? That’s my Cori flirting.

  Not with me.

  We don’t do stuff like that, but I’ve been around her long enough to know her mannerisms.

  Goddamn it if I don’t feel a zing of envy. For so long, I’ve been the guy she leans on for the good and bad times. Not that this guy is the one, but I’m a man, and I recognize right away, this dude is in it to win her over. Even when Barry existed, I never felt he’d taken my spot as the one who holds her steady in place.

  I shove down the resentful longing and wave toward the private room where the rest of our party is waiting. “Let’s join the party.”

  Cori starts to walk ahead of us, stops, and looks us over. “You’re coming?”

  “Yeah, in a sec,” I answer and watch her sashay her way to the private room. Neither Brandon nor I move. He cocks his head in a way that speaks of a fighter appraising his opponent.

  Rolling the cuffs of my black fitted shirt, I let him size me up.

  Men don’t intimidate me. It’s the opposite. But Brandon is giving me the vibe that we’re equals. Instead of feeling bothered, I find his cockiness quite amusing.

  Neither of us speaks. Words are not needed. My message is clear—break her heart, you’re fucked.

  The smirk on Brandon’s face relays what’s going on inside his head: Move over, big guy, there’s a new man in Cori’s life.

  Dinner will be fun.

  CONTRARY TO WHAT YOU’RE THINKING, we survived dinner. I can sing “We are the World” during a feast with anyone. But let’s establish one thing. Although Brandon was bearable during dinner, his presence buzzes around me like a fly I could not swat. I don’t care much for the prick. He’s too touchy. For two hours, his arm remained draped over Cori’s shoulder.

  Seriously, I get it. He’s into her.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  She’s fucking beautiful. My admiration for her is deep-seated and long-lasting.

  On the flip side, she’s also my friend, who is feeling a bit vulnerable right now. While I’m around, no man is going to take advantage of her. At any rate, it’s fair to say, Brandon and I have already made up our minds. We are enemies.

  Nonetheless, he’s Cori’s date, potential future husband and father to her children. I have to play nice.

  We left Paragon about one hour ago. After we ate and drank, we decided to keep the celebration going. We headed to a club for late-night revelry, with dancing, cocktails, and tequila slammers.

  The club is electric tonight. Lights are pulsing in time with the blaring bass of the music. Dancing bodies tangled together. Neon signs aligning the walls. Good vibes are flowing like a virus . . . a good one.

  I spot Lucas and Kate. They are moving as if their limbs are made of spaghetti. The chick who managed to catch Cam’s attention has her tongue down his throat. They push through dancing bodies tangled together towards the exit. In the midst of the chaos, he manages to wave goodbye. God, I love that man.

  Where am I? Why am I not part of the shenanigans, with my hands up in the air, jumping in a huddled group like Tic-Tacs being shaken in a box?

  On any other night, that would be me. But I’m right here, leaning against the bar, white-knuckling my scotch. My heart is keeping time with the heavy bass, pumping the music through my veins. The Latin music should be cranking my joy right up, hijacking my brain. Nerves are trying to take over my body.

  With my glass of scotch clutched tight in my hand, I look through the crowd. She’s still dancing with Brandon. About a half hour ago, I slipped through the crowd and made a bee line for the bar. I’m still here. My gaze lowers to my drink. What is this, my third now? I can’t remember. The alcohol isn’t doing its job. I’m not numb.

  A smile is painted on my face as I listen to the pretty brunette, with the fuck-me rack, going on and on about her strong social media presence. Apparently, she’s one of those Instagram stars who gets paid to travel and post pictures while on location.

  Over the roar of the music, she’s telling me about her most recent trip to Brazil. I can barely make out anything she’s saying, so I lower my head closer to her lips. In the process, I catch a glimpse of her black lace bra and luscious scoop of flesh.

  My dick doesn’t even stir.

  What the hell is that about?

  Sometime soon, I’ll call a car service and let the chauffeur drive us around while we go at it. So wake up, buddy.

  “You should follow me on Instagram.”

  For the record, I don’t do social media much. I have a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Both are sitting there collecting dust. I have no desire to post every single thing I do in my life. “Not a social media guy.”

  “You can’t take your eyes off her,” the brunette observes and she’s not talking about her twin towers.

  In the dark of the room, my attention is glued to the dance floor, but not on the fast dancing of the crowd. If a single pearl had the power to hypnotize, imagine just what the effect would be if hundreds of luminescent beads were meticulously sewn into one of the most seductive shapes ever.

  That’s Cori.

  A force larger than myself holds me hypnotized to the movement of her body, bathing in the dim, purple glow of the club, the sway of her hips enough to tempt any man.

  I’m not impervious to her effect. My aesthetic senses seem to have awakened. My eyes are eating her up like a child feasting on his birthday cake.

  A remix of Rhianna’s “Work” is playing. Cori is moving in her sexy, wide-legged, black pants to the crazy beat as if her hips were made to rock to the rhythm. The bass seems to thump in time with her heartbeat as though they are one, filling her from head to toe.

  My skin tingles, and my lungs feel like mush.

  I like RiRI. I liked this song . . . until now.

  She does a butt jiggle-wiggle combination. The sequins of her pink camisole catch the glittering disco ball that illuminates the sunken dance floor. The legs of her pants move one millisecond later than her body, then continue moving one millisecond after she stops. Brandon’s head tilts back, bliss on his face. He wraps his hand around her waist and pulls her against him close enough to feel his junk.

  She’s fluid, sensual, elegant, and bold.

  This is where the Cori I know and love would politely establish some distance between her and the asshole. Instead she looks up at him. Asswipe lowers his mouth to her ear. Whatever he said must have been like winning the fucking lottery, because her lips curve into a smile. An odd feeling cranks over my chest.

  Protectiveness, I decide.

  “When are we leaving?” the brunette purrs.

  I tear my attention from the dance floor and focus on the pretty brunette. Her curves are pressed against me, all hyped and ready for a good time. “I’m here with friends.”

  Did I just turn down sex? Who is this person talk
ing?

  Sadly, it’s me.

  I can’t believe I just turned down sex. What the fuck is wrong with me? The only logical thing I can think of is, I’m looking out for Cori. Friends don’t let friends go home with a total stranger. Do they?

  Technically, Brandon isn’t a stranger. As I’ve learned during dinner, this is the douchebag she went out with the other night. You know, the one we’re still trying to get an update on. This is date number three. From what I’ve heard, that’s typically scoring night, right?

  A pain stabs my chest like a knife piercing my skin.

  The brunette motions to the bartender and mouths her drink of choice. Then she follows where my gaze was glued seconds ago. “She looks to be having a good time.” She takes a sip of her drink that has just arrived. It’s one of those fruity things with both a fruit skewer and a paper umbrella. “I bet you he scores tonight.”

  A muscle ticks in my jaw. “No one is scoring.” Sadly not even me, especially on my fucking thirtieth birthday. My heart betrays me and lugs my attention back to the dance floor where Cori is living it up with Brandon. “Listen, babe, I have your number. We’ll get together.” I down the last drop of my scotch. It tastes more like anguish than a twenty-three-year old scotch. Setting the empty glass on the counter, I say, “Gotta go.”

  Immediately I head for the dance floor. Wedging my way through sweaty bodies rubbing against each other, I head straight toward Miss Happy Feet and Sir-Touch-A-Lot. Time to break up their little foreplay. The music switches to a remix of Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own.” The fucker—AKA Brandon—now has his hands on her lower back. A look of pure bliss on his face.

  My pace picks up.

  Halfway there, my sister grabs my wrist and drags me off the dance floor, back to the bar, where Lucas is watching us with an amused expression on his face. The brunette is no longer there. I guess she moved on to her next prey.

  “What’s that about?” I ask.

  “You look pissed off,” Lucas notes. What a genius he is.

  “You can’t put her in a glass and expect no one to break through. She has needs, just like you and me.” In case you’re wondering who is talking, that’s my sister.

  “And me,” Lucas reminds us.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, brows glued together.

  Kate smiles in that I-know-it-all way she does when she’s sure of herself. Lack of self-confidence does not exist in my sister’s vocab. She’s classy, sassy, and a bit bad-assy. “You want Cori. It’s obvious.”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “You’ve lost it.” For confirmation, I glance over at Lucas. The mofo shrugs.

  “You’re jealous. That’s not a bad thing,” Kate continues.

  “What have you done to my sister?”

  “I agree with Kate,” says Lucas. And I always thought he was smarter than me. That theory is now up for reconsideration.

  “Hey.” Kate picks up where Lucas left off. “A little jealousy in a relationship is good.”

  Jealousy is a one-stop word for all the roots of evil in the brains of humans. I’ve never been jealous of anyone in my life. I glance back to where Cori and Brandon are dancing. The dude is still copping a feel. That’s when I am finally forced to acknowledge the green flowing through my veins . . . at least to myself. “I’m not in a relationship with Cori.”

  “Not yet.” She brushes her blond bangs from her eyes. “It’s nice to know there’s one woman you don’t want to lose.” Kate wedges her way between Lucas and me. “Who’s driving me home?”

  Lucas tips his imaginary fedora, and then extends his arm in her direction. “At your service, m’lady.”

  “By the way, I don’t care if we’re siblings.” Kate pokes me in the shoulder and narrows her eyes at me. “There’s a lot at stake here. Before you go on your quest, make sure you’re serious. Otherwise, I’ll get someone to kill you. I know people.”

  “I’m not going to make a play for Cori,” I argue, but I don’t even convince myself.

  “Right.” She tiptoes and places a kiss on my cheek. “Just remember, she’s my friend too. And if you hurt her—”

  “Again, I don’t want Cori.”

  Lucas says nothing.

  “Right,” Kate says. “Happy Birthday.”

  After Lucas and Kate make their exit, I contemplate my next move . . . staying or leaving. In the end, I pad over to the dance floor, shake Brandon’s hand and hug Cori goodnight.

  “You’re leaving?” Her voice is a whisper in my ear. It’s intoxicating.

  Something unfurls in my gut, and I’m pretty sure it’s desire. “Yeah,” I answer, voice low and filled with gravel. “Work in the morning.”

  A part of me waits for her to tell Brandon she’s leaving with me. Instead, she smiles. “I’ll see you on Saturday,” she says, referring to my parents’ dinner extravaganza in my honor.

  Jesus, she’s staying behind with what’s-his-face. A wave of disappointment hits me, and it’s ridiculous, because Cori and I are friends. She’s the type of friend when, after we die, I hope we stay ghost friends and scare the hell out of people.

  That’s all we are.

  And I’ve never not been okay with our situation or wanted more . . . and then the kiss happened.

  I release Cori and establish a bit of space between us. As I turn on my heels to walk away, Cori grabs my wrist and pulls me to the side. Her eyes—a sweet combination of innocent and wild—search my face with gentle concern. “You look morose.”

  I don’t care how grounded you are, everyone needs one friend who understands what we’re not saying. Her concern tugs my heartstrings. I thumb her cheek and give her an ‘I’m-okay’ smile. “Be safe, and be good.”

  She leans into me, climbs on her toes, and places a kiss on my cheek. “Always.”

  After a nod, I find the exit. As tempting as it is, I don’t look back. Cori can dance the night away with whomever she wants. I have no claim on her.

  “Friends are connected heart to heart.”

  FATE HAS A THOUSAND WILES. Lust is one of them. It’s manipulating my senses, making me yearn for the one person who isn’t available.

  Two days after my birthday night, the disappointment that slammed my chest, from watching Cori with Brandon continues to gnaw at me. You’d think that would knock some common sense into me.

  On the contrary, whatever this thing is that I’m feeling has intensified. Everything in me is saying, screw the what-ifs and go for it.

  I want her. I want her bad.

  Blame it on the kiss. In that moment the world stopped, where everything melted away, leaving us alone in our own little world.

  Pure fucking bliss.

  I want to do it again. Every hour. Every minute. Every day.

  The idea gives me an adrenaline rush, makes my heart beat faster.

  My dick stirs in my pants.

  Jesus H. Christ, I’m this excited over a far-fetched possibility.

  I’m fucked.

  Exhaling, I scrub a hand over my face. This is just a little glitch, a natural course in our friendship. Cori and I came of age side by side—acne breakouts, braces—and through all other growing pains, we’ve remained friends. This reaction is par for the course.

  I mean, at some point in an opposite-sex friendship, one person usually develops some sort of feelings for the other, right?

  A small obstacle.

  All I have to do is maintain the appropriate boundaries. First, stop mentally fucking her. Second, get my dick to stop thinking about her.

  Control of both heads at once. A difficult task, but it can be done.

  The idea of risking our friendship, just to turn all the things I’ve done to her in my deep dark secret fantasies into reality, isn’t worth investing any effort. The romantic comedy section of Netflix might say yes, but we all know reality’s a little more complex and totally unscripted.

  Is she fuckable?

  Fuck yeah!

  If there were a perfect world
, where I could hook up with my only female friend and it wouldn’t jeopardize our friendship, I would totally do it. With that said, a best friend with benefits relationship is not an option. That comes with a boatload of complications.

  What if she were to come to me and beg?

  Okay, I’d consider the proposal, but warily. Anyway, that will never happen. Let’s face it, relationship-wise, we’re on different paths. Cori loves romance; she’s the happily-ever-after type. On top of that, it’s common knowledge, no one ever transitions well from friends to dating, let alone remaining friends after a hook-up.

  My point, my friendship with Cori overpowers hotness. Anything that may negatively affect the closeness we share is a deterrent and needs to be locked up. Even the possibility of mind-blowing sex is not worth losing everything . . . a girlfriend. I mean a girl friend.

  Girlfriend? I shake my head dismissing the idea. We’d never work. Based on my track record, the attraction factor eventually fades. What then?

  A lot of awkwardness.

  It’s not as if we can go our separate ways and never see each other again. As my sister pointed out, our world is a never-ending continuum. Everything I am is woven into everything she is. My parents are friends with Nora. We share mutual friends. She’s my sister’s best friend. No point beating a dead horse and go on about how much I value our friendship.

  Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know the possibility of hooking up with Cori has all the makings of a complete clusterfuck. And yet, I can’t stop contemplating—to pursue Cori or not to pursue? You’ve got to admit, this question requires some serious thought.

  Enough of this self-actualization. Back to work. In thirty minutes, I have a meeting with one of my clients. Yeah, the one divorcing his wife of thirty years. Fun.

  I take a sip of my bulletproof coffee—Cori’s favorite way to drink it. My gaze swivels to the vintage ruby desktop clock beside the stack of folders. A smile tugs on my lips. The clock clashes with the rest of the room’s executive motif, but it’s a present from Cori. A little trinket she picked up at an antique shop and gave to me after I graduated from Wharton. What the timepiece lacks in elegance, it makes up in sentimental value.