Fight For It

by Jessie Harper

  “Are you sitting or not, Cassie?” Graham’s impatient bark cuts through my indifference.

  “Fine, I’ll sit if it means you stop grimacing like you have been. It’s creeping people out.” In reality, I’m sure no one’s been paying as much attention to Graham’s discomfort as I have. Maybe Julia’s parents have noticed since they love Graham like a son. I’m sure they were hoping the two of them would end up together after she moved back to our hometown. Everyone else, however, is focused on Julia and Zach and the happy little bubble they’re floating around in.

  “Is it that bad?” he asks. “I just hate events like this.” He reaches for his drink and finishes it in one gulp. “You empty? Up for another round?”

  I settle myself on the stool next to him and catch a whiff of his cologne. Why do the guys who are the biggest jerks always smell so damn good? There should be some karmic retribution for jerkiness that prohibits guys like Graham from smelling like I imagine Superman smelling.

  “Oh, I’m getting another drink. That’s the only way I can keep smiling through this.”

  “Upset about always being the bridesmaid and never the bride? Afraid of becoming an old maid, Mama?” There’s the caring commentary I’ve come to expect from Graham. And he threw in my old nickname from when I was the fat girl. Extra points for that.

  “Hardly. I’m just not excited to do all this wedding stuff another time. How about you? Getting used to having your girl swiped out from under you again? I would think you’d be a pro at that by now.”

  Graham ignores me and motions for the bartender.

  “It can’t be easy to watch your dream girl get married to someone else. Again. Did I say that already?” I can’t help but poke a little at what I’m sure is a soft spot.

  Graham doesn’t give me the benefit of a reaction; he’s used to my biting remarks by now. The only reason we ever hung out was because of Julia and now we’re stuck together again. I have no idea how she put up with him when they were together and no idea why she does it now. Obviously we’re at each other’s throats.

  “She hasn’t been my girl for a long time now.” Graham goes back to ordering drinks. Julia considers him more like a brother now, not that she tells him that. The thought of actively choosing to make Graham an honorary family member makes me gag.

  “But she still managed to convince you to be a bridesmaid,” I remind him. “She asked and you didn’t even think about it, just said yes.”

  “Old habits, I guess.” Graham slides a tequila shot over. “And I thought we agreed to drop the ‘bridesmaid’ thing. She asked me to be in the wedding party.”

  “So no matching dresses then?” I feign disappointment. “But you would have looked so nice in something frilly.”

  Graham gives me a slight smile but doesn’t fight back. Instead he motions to the salt shaker. “You salting up or just drinking?”

  “Who said I was drinking tequila?”

  “This situation. If you and I have to sit here and deal with all this then we’re getting drunk.”

  From the back corner of the room one of Zach’s friends starts another toast. I can barely hear what he’s saying, but the repeated aahs from the crowd let me know I’m going to be drinking to that for sure. I lick the back of my hand and sprinkle it with salt before giving it another lick. Graham does the same and we lift our glasses, clinking them together.

  “Then here’s to making sure we don’t remember any of this happy night,” I say.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We both knock back our shots. I shove a lime slice in my mouth to combat the burn of the tequila. “Keep ‘em comin’,” Graham tells the bartender and she sets us up again.

  “And here’s to the best set of bridesmaids anyone’s ever seen,” he jokes, giving me a wink. Maybe spending all this time with Graham won’t be nearly as bad as I thought.

  There is nothing worse than the sound of jack hammering before the sun’s even up. Scratch that—there is nothing worse than the sound of jack hammering in the morning when you have a raging hangover. I can feel actual throbbing in my temples as the noise starts up again. Isn’t there a rule against construction so early? And on a Saturday? I pull the pillow over my head to block it out. This proves to have zero effect on the overall noise level in the room. What time is it anyway? I thrust my hand out to grab my phone from the bedside table.

  Instead of the cool surface of the nightstand my hand hits something else entirely.

  Something decidedly warmer. Something bulkier.

  The noise stops and I realize it isn’t the sound of construction at all, but rather, the bulldozer-like snoring coming from the massive dude still asleep next to me.

  I freeze. Shit, Cassie. I barely remember the rest of the night—once Graham convinced me to start on the tequila things got a little fuzzy—and I definitely don’t remember coming home with whoever this is. I lift the tangled sheet high enough to see that, yep, I’m totally naked and so is my new friend. I let my eyes travel down his muscled back to the curve of an impressively toned ass. Even in the dark I can tell this guy is built. At least the liquor didn’t keep me from picking wisely in the body department. Still, unless I want to make some seriously awkward introductions this morning I’m going to need to sneak out of here, and fast.

  Luckily, I haven’t brought Mr. Mystery back to my apartment. That would require me waking him up in order to convince him to leave. This way I can get my stuff together and be out the door, hopefully before he even notices. I’d like to do this walk of shame without an audience.

  I slide to the edge of the bed, noting the silkiness of the sheets. The high thread count would most certainly have impressed me had I been in any state to notice details last night. As it is I don’t even have time to really appreciate what is turning out to be a very impressive bedroom. It isn’t thrown together like most of the places single guys end up living. Stuff matches. There are a few pillows thrown on the floor next to my side of the bed. Pillows that imply this bed was actually made when we fell into it and suggest an interior decorator. Did I sleep with a married man?

  Although, maybe I haven’t slept with him at all. Naked doesn’t automatically mean sex, right? I keep my fingers crossed as I make my way across the king-sized bed to freedom. My friend stirs a little and grunts as I work to ease myself off the mattress. I hold stock-still, barely breathing, until he settles back down again.

  Any hope that my visit was purely platonic evaporates when I see the condom wrappers on the bedside table. Wrappers plural. At least I don’t have to obsess over whether or not I’ve exposed myself to some horrible STD. I mentally kick myself again for being dumb enough to go home with some idiot from the bar.

  Some idiot who has the money to buy some genuinely gorgeous bedroom furniture.

  I run my fingers over the edge of the lamp on the table, avoiding the pile of wrappers as I go. The possibility of finding a wedding ring on this guy’s hand is becoming more and more likely. Looking over at his sleeping back, his face pressed into a pillow, I resist the urge to move around the bed to get a glimpse of his face.

  I bend over to pick up my discarded panties. I would say it was lucky that I had on sexy underwear last night, but I always wear sexy underwear. And I wear it for myself, not because some guy might see me in it. Still, I hope this snoring pile of muscles appreciated my lacy black bra before he launched it up onto the edge of the blinds currently covering his extremely tall windows. I shimmy into my panties before I try to jump high enough to reach the rest of my underwear. Silent jumping is harder than I imagined and manages to get my bed buddy stirring on his side of the bed. The rest of my clothes seem to make a trail out of the bedroom and toward what I’m hoping is the front door. I could leave the bra where it is and make my escape, but I hate to leave such a pretty—and expensive—reminder of this evening here. I don’t want to leave any evidence or any reason to meet up again. Not that I could—I don’t even know who this guy is. But there’s the chance h
e wasn’t nearly as drunk as I was last night. He could have my name and number in his phone for all I know. Damn you, Graham and your tequila shots. Hopefully he’s feeling as awful as I am this morning. Not that I’ll mention this part of my morning to him or anyone else. Ever.

  I make one last attempt to free my bra from the lip of the blinds. The strap is clinging to the sharp corner of the edge, refusing to slide free. There’s a chair strategically positioned in the little alcove across from me, if I could stand on that I could easily liberate the rest of my underwear. I try to lift it, but it’s too heavy to move without lots of huffing and puffing. Pushing it makes the floor creak and I curse whoever decorated this room. The wood floors are beautiful, but don’t muffle any of the sounds of my struggling. I go back to my original plan, throwing my arms around in the hopes of getting my bra down. I grab the part of the strap I can reach and give it a tug. I can see the fabric straining, but still it hangs there, taunting me. I jump again, accidentally slapping the slats and grabbing an edge. I hang there for a second, as the bolt slowly pulls from the wall. The blinds come crashing down, flooding the room with light. They swing back and forth, banging into the window frame as my eyes squeeze shut, protesting against the light.

  My secret lover groans, rolling over in bed. I hold my breath, keeping my back to him. I try to think like a rabbit. Should I drop to the floor? Try to scurry away? The bra’s free now, of course, but it’s not like I can put it on, or get into any of my other clothes either. Even if I could make it out before he wakes all the way up, I’ll still be standing outside basically naked. Can you call an Uber and expect them to let you dress in the backseat? There’s a question I never thought to ask.

  He’s groaning louder now, the sheets rustling as he moves. Yep, he’s awake and obviously not all that happy about how it’s happened. I’m destroying his bedroom along with my ability to flee the scene.

  “Jesus, Cassie. What the fuck are you doing?”

  That voice. Not a stranger at all. A voice I’ve known for years. I spin to face him, hoping by some miracle I’m wrong.

  “If you wanted the blinds open you could have just opened them, Mama. You didn’t need to rip the whole thing down.” He’s using my old nickname from middle school. The one I hate. He’s calling me that name as he rises up, letting the sheet slide down, exposing his chest as he sits up in bed. He’s looking at me in only my thong as he tries to block some of the sunlight with one of his giant hands. The sheet settles low on his hips. I take in his square jaw, the massive span of his shoulders against the headboard. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks me, amused, rubbing across his nipples with the other hand.

  Like a flash of lightning I suddenly remember those hands in places they shouldn’t be. Snatches of last night come rushing back, flooding my brain with all sorts of X-rated images. I gape at him, my brain refusing to process what I’ve done.

  I’ve slept with Graham.

  I’ve slept with my childhood nemesis, the boy I’d vowed to hate for all eternity. My best friend’s ex. An egomaniacal professional athlete. The worst choice ever.

  I’ve slept with Graham Stevens. Fuck.

  **END SNEAK PEAK**