by Amelia Stone
Weirdly, the sight soothed something in me, and I closed my eyes, relief flooding through me. Whatever else was going to happen now, at least the desire hadn’t been one-sided. I hadn’t been the only one who felt that urgency, that all-consuming heat. He was right there with me.
Although, what did it say about me that I hadn’t given a single thought to his pleasure? I’d taken, but it hadn’t even occurred to me to give in return.
“Besides, I am always happy to help you with whatever you need,” he added, giving me a smile that I’d seen a million times.
It was his you’re-my-best-friend smile.
Oh gods.
I scrambled, pulling myself upright. I needed to get away from this game. Because I couldn’t play it. Not right now, not ever.
Because this was a game where only one of us would win. And it wouldn’t be me. It was never me.
I turned my back while I put my bathing suit to rights. It seemed silly, since he’d just had his fingers in my body, but I didn’t want him to see me when I was three-quarters naked. When everything was once again covered, I reached for the beach towels, using one to clean myself up. Then I wrapped the dirty towel with the clean one, stuffing them both in the bag I’d brought with me.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice so close behind me I could practically feel it vibrating in my eardrums. His breath fanned across my shoulders, and I jumped.
“Yes,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat, then tried again. “Yeah, I just, um. I need to get home.”
When I wouldn’t turn to face him, he stepped in front of me, looking unfairly sexy, even though his ridiculous swim trunks were hanging off one chiseled hip, and he had cum smeared all over his abs. Also, said abs seemed to be carved from stone, even though I knew for a fact he hadn’t kept up his fitness level after he left the major leagues.
See? Unfair.
“You sure you don’t want to stay here?” His tone sounded off, but I couldn’t make myself think about that right now. “I can clear some of the mess, make some room for you.”
I shook my head in reply, my gaze landing on his shoulder. I found myself completely unable to meet his eye. I couldn’t handle whatever would be there. Or not there, depending on how you looked at it. I didn’t want to see what I expected to see, what I dreaded most – the confirmation that this meant nothing to him. That he would make room for me in his kitchen, or on his couch, or even in his bed. But not his heart.
So I looked away, grabbing my coverup and pulling it over my head. When I opened my eyes again, they bounced around, taking in bits and pieces of him. His beautiful red-brown skin, glistening with sweat and water. His powerful shoulders, which had pulled more than their own weight tonight. The little gold replica of Hanuman’s mace his mother had given him when he was a baby, which he still wore around his neck, strung on a traditional red cord.
Finally my gaze fixed on his tattoo. I’d seen it once before, when he was featured on the cover of the ESPN Body Issue a few years ago. I may or may not have still had a copy stashed in my nightstand, at home in my apartment.
In my defense, the photo had been nothing short of incredible. All that beautiful brown skin had gleamed in the California sunshine as he squatted behind home plate, the camera strategically angled so that his mitt obscured the juncture between his legs. His massive thighs and calves seemed to support his weight effortlessly, though the ropy scar on his knee from the first of what was now many surgeries proved that his balance was hard-won.
Still, I remember thinking he looked absolutely freaking majestic, from the steely glint in his eye, to the game-tested muscles, to the ink staining the skin above his heart.
I knew, as any native of this tiny hamlet would, that the tattoo was a silhouette of South Bay Island. But the inside was filled with what looked like a galaxy, with stars and nebulae swirling through a miniature night sky in various shades of blue and green. The colors looked vibrant as I stared at it now, and I wondered if he’d had it touched up recently.
“Krista,” he growled, sounding very much like he had just a few minutes ago, when his fingers had been expertly strumming my most secret places.
You know, when he’d helped his best friend out. Beating up bullies who destroyed my book. Swooping in to save me at the school dance. Teaching me about dating. Giving me an orgasm.
All favors for his pitiful friend Krista.
“Look at me,” he demanded. Not a request, not a plea. A demand.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my courage. Then I opened them, though I had to blink to clear the dampness gathering in the corners.
“I’m fine,” I assured him, because I could see the concern in his beautiful brown eyes. “I’m just tired, and like I said, I have that conference call in the morning.” I glanced at the time on my phone, seeing it was nearly two a.m. “Um, well, you know, later this morning.”
He stared at me for a beat, and then another, his eyes sweeping over my face like he was trying to decide if I was telling the truth. Eventually, his lips tilted into a smile, like everything between us was normal.
But it would never be normal again. Not to me.
“On a Sunday, though?” he asked, and I had to rack my brains to remember what I’d just said.
Right. Work. Another soul-sucking meeting. I nodded, shrugging as if to say, hey, what can you do?
“We’re putting in a lot of OT right now. We have this big thing coming up, and we’re not ready yet, so we’re kind of scrambling.”
He nodded. “Well, I wish you the best of luck with that super-vague thing you’re preparing for.” He grinned at me, and my stupid self-defeating heart fluttered.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I just…”
I just didn’t want to tell him about my company or my money, because I didn’t want him to look at me differently. More differently. Differentlier.
I huffed. One freaking orgasm, and my brain had turned to soup.
He didn’t seem too put out by my evasiveness, though. “It’s cool,” he assured me. “You can tell me some other time.”
I nodded, and we stood in silence for a beat. Finally I turned to go, but his voice stopped me.
“So when can I see you again?”
I bit my lip. “Um, well, I think I’ll be at that beach thing tomorrow. Jess said I had to come.”
I frowned, because a party – especially a party with all the people I’d just made a fool of myself in front of at that damn reunion – well, the idea of it exhausted me, and it hadn’t even happened yet.
And then there would be the added pressure of pretending, every time I even so much as glanced at Seth, that no part of tonight’s game of Fooling Around with Friends had meant anything to me.
No thank you.
But I was too overwhelmed right now to give too much thought to any of that. And trying to divert Hurricane Jessica and her determination to drag me into being social would probably prove fruitless anyway. So I pasted on a smile, assuring Seth we’d maybe sort of hang at the beach party. A little bit.
Then I ignored the searching look in his eyes and dodged the goodbye kiss he tried to give me. I declined his offer to walk me home, since the journey to my parents’ house was only a two-minute walk on a perfectly safe block. Then I breezed out of there and hightailed it back down the street as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me.
Once home, I took a long, hot shower, washing the evidence of tonight’s escapades from my stupid sexy bathing suit, and my stupid skin in turn. Then I put my pajamas on and crawled into bed, trying to blink away my stupid tears and get some sleep.
The sleep never came. But neither did the tears.
Little victories, my friends. Little freaking victories.
“I’m bored. Come get snacks with me.”
My stomach growled at the mention of food, but I ignored it. Just like I ignored Ward, who obviously thought we were teenage girls, if he was asking me to wait in line at the concession stand with him just because he
needed to be entertained. He probably wanted to gossip like a couple of middle schoolers, too.
No thank you.
“Dude.”
Something hit the side of my head, landing in my lap with a thunk. I looked down to see he’d thrown a bottle of sunblock at me. The top had popped open, splattering bright blue zinc oxide all over my leg.
“Snap out of it,” he added.
I turned to glare at him as I wiped the sunblock off, but a flash of red over his shoulder caught my attention. A weird growly noise escaped me as I took in the tall, freckled drink of water walking toward me.
Krista was here. Finally.
I had been going absolutely fucking insane ever since she’d left my house last night. Luckily for me, it didn’t take a genius to figure out she was freaked out about what happened after her hydrotherapy lesson. Even though we hadn’t gotten any farther than third base, it had been the single hottest experience of my life. But obviously she didn’t feel the same, since she ran away so fast she left vapor trails in her wake.
And I hadn’t forgotten how hard I’d had to work to make her come, either.
When I texted last night to ask if she got home all right, she’d given me a one-word answer. And she hadn’t responded to my texts from earlier today asking how she was doing and when she was coming to the beach party. I could have gone to her parents’ house, but I was trying to give her the space she obviously wanted. As a result, I felt like I’d been waiting all goddamn day for her to show up, the anticipation building and building and fucking building until it boiled over into something almost like rage.
Where the motherfucking fuck was she?
But now, finally, she was here, walking toward me. It looked like she was wearing the same bathing suit and teal blue not-a-dress as last night, but today she’d added a gigantic pair of sunglasses and a sun hat. She looked casual and effortless and fucking edible.
Her arms were also full of stuff, and I was up and out of my beach chair before I could say ‘ow, my knee.’ I limped toward her, intending to help her with her burdens, and maybe get a chance to talk to her before all the vultures descended and she got swept up in the nonstop chatter of our group of friends.
But before I could reach her, a dude walked up beside her, some ’roided-up asshole who had to be six-and-a-half feet tall if he was an inch, and with gym muscles for days. He put his fucking Hulk arm around her, smiling down at her like he had the right, and I immediately calculated the odds of winning in a throwdown against him.
“Okay,” I heard Ward call after me. “I see how it is. I’ll just go get my own snacks, then.”
I ignored him. I had no idea what he was bitching about now, and I honestly didn’t care, either. I was too busy debating whether a nut punch as an opening salvo was a violation of the unwritten street fighting rules. On the one hand, it was the lowest of low blows. On the other hand, it was efficient. One hit, and the big man would be out for the count.
Since I didn’t know how to do a Hadouken in real life, I decided the sac attack was my best chance to take down an opponent who had at least sixty pounds on me, judging by those fucking tree trunk legs. I mean, I had huge thighs, thanks to years of squatting while wearing forty pounds of protective gear. But I had nothing on the asshole who was currently hanging all over Krista.
Someone near me laughed, and the noise was enough to pull me out of my bizarre thoughts. I shook my head, wondering what in the wooly fuck had come over me in the last couple of days. When had I become this irrational, moody, jealous beast? And on a related note, did I have a goddamn death wish? When had I decided it was okay to challenge someone who was, by the looks of him, an up-and-coming MMA fighter, and all because he hugged my wom-Oh, hell no! Did he just kiss her temple?
I stopped walking, slowing my breaths until I could look at the situation rationally. I had no idea who the absurdly large dude was, but yesterday morning, Krista had told me in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t seeing anyone.
But that was before my colossally dumb ass had planted the idea of practice dates in her head. Was that what was going on here? Was he a fake date? Or even—
Oh, fuck. Was he a real date?
I had no idea. But the idea that Krista had gone from having my fingers inside her pussy to bringing a plus-one to a beach party in less than twelve hours made me feel like I was either going to puke or punch something.
I tried to talk myself down as I watched her say something to the meathead. But then he laughed, squeezing her in another hug.
Well. Real or not, he was getting awfully fucking fresh with her. Hands and arms and lips all over her on a first date?
“I don’t think so, buddy,” I muttered. “I don’t fucking think so.”
My nostrils flared with every breath as I watched him drop his arm at long last. Then he took some of the shit she was carrying, adding it to the things he was already carrying, until his arms were full and he had all kinds of stuff dangling from those unnaturally beefy forearms – several lounge chairs, a couple of huge beach bags, a cooler. Jesus. That was a lot of shit to carry.
Okay. Obviously those gym muscles were working for him. I closed my eyes, trying to calm the hell down and think for a second. Nut punching notwithstanding, starting a fight with Krista’s maybe-date was not my smartest idea.
A good man uses his wits, not his fists, to solve his problems.
I took a deep, calming breath, like I’d learned in that one yoga class I went to, before I’d determined my limbs were just not supposed to bend that way.
Okay, Holt. Think. Use your fucking wits for once in your sorry life.
After a moment, I decided to make a list of my problems. Once they were identified, I could tackle them one at a time. There. That was nice and reasonable. If my dad could see me now, he would be so proud.
I let out a snort loud enough to startle the seagull who’d landed a couple of feet from me. My dad would be mortified if he could hear my thoughts right now. But as long as I turned it around and acted like the man he wanted me to be, he’d never have to know.
Right. Time to make a list of the issues I needed to tackle.
Krista was (possibly) on a date with another man.
1a. The aforementioned other man could easily squash me like a bug, thanks to those frankly egotistical gym muscles. I mean, not even Slammin’ Sammy Sosa was that big in his record-breaking prime. Unless this asshole was a lumberjack or, I don’t know, someone who lifted cars over his head for a living, he didn’t need all that shit.
“Leave some PEDs for the rest of us, dude,” I muttered.
Then I chuckled evilly, because steroids would almost certainly shrink his junk. And it was no more or less than the woman-stealing punk deserved.
But I digress.
See above re: 1 and 1a.
I did not like the idea of Krista dating someone else. Not at all. When I’d suggested the practice dates yesterday, I thought it would be a good way to ease her into the idea of dating me. Because of course now that the alternative was before me – namely, Krista loving it up with CrossFit Ken and his shriveled junk – I realized that had been my intention the whole time. I just couldn’t admit it to myself yesterday.
Shit, I couldn’t admit it to myself fourteen years ago, when I’d first realized I had a crush on my best friend.
But now it was all crystal fucking clear to me: I wanted to date Krista. I wanted to take her out to dinner, to the movies, for ice cream at Sarah Jane’s, et cetera, et cetera. I wanted to do all the romantic couple-y shit, because I liked ice cream and movies and all of that. And I liked her.
And then I wanted to take her home to my construction zone and fuck the living daylights out of her.
Yup. Okay. Problems identified. End game visualized. Now to get from point A to point B.
My feet were moving again, and thankfully, so was my brain. I just needed to get her away from the ’roid freak long enough to convince her she’d rather be dating me. I had plenty of
smooth, seductive lines. All I needed was the opportunity to use them.
Simple as pie, really.
“Hey,” I barked, taking those last few steps until I was right in front of her. “How are you on this fine Sunday afternoon?”
“Uh.” She looked up at me, her brow wrinkled, and though I couldn’t see her eyes behind her huge sunglasses, I imagined they were probably narrowed in confusion. “Fine, thank you.”
“I texted you last night.” I was practically yelling at her now, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.
Super smooth, Holt. Super fucking smooth.
She frowned. “I know that. I replied.”
“And I texted you this morning, too.” I stepped closer.
“Sorry, I was napping.” She tipped her face up, and the set of her jaw was almost defiant. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
Neither did I, but that was beside the point.
“And I texted again this afternoon. And five minutes ago.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but she was cut off by Gymmy McGymmerson.
“Oh shit.” The idiot dropped one of the folded-up lounge chairs in the sand and extended a hand to shake. “You’re Seth Holt.”
I glared at his hand for a beat, just to make it clear how I felt about him. But then I took it, squeezing as hard as I could.
He squeezed harder. Fuck. Okay, so the nut punch was back on the table. But I decided to deploy it only in extreme circumstances, like a boob grab or marriage proposal or something.
“Wow. It is so cool to meet you,” my archnemesis gushed, like a twelve-year-old girl being introduced to Bieber for the first time. “My buddies are never gonna believe this. Hey, do you think you could maybe sign something for me?”
“I doubt he has a pen. We’re at the beach,” Krista reminded him.
“Oh, right.” The meathead grimaced. “Sorry, man. I know I’m being a dork right now, but I’m just a big fan.”
Then he gave me an awestruck smile, and I hated him just a little bit more. I was just a washed-up nobody, but he was fanboying like he’d just met One Direction. The dude needed to find some fucking dignity ASAP.