The Right Kind of Wrong: A Brother's Best Friend Romance

by Fabiola Francisco

  - - - - -

  @AllyinSpain: Hi…good and you?

  I stare at her message, nothing spectacular, but she responded. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I type back.

  @CamSteeleIT: I’m good…great actually. Work’s got me busy. I saw Easton and Faith were visiting you. That’s great. I bet you had fun with them

  Her response is almost immediate.

  @AllyinSpain: It was a nice surprise and fun to show them around.

  @CamSteeleIT: Happy to hear that. Just wanted to see how you were doing

  @AllyinSpain: I’m good, you don’t have to feel obligated to check in. Really, I’m good

  @CamSteeleIT: I don’t feel obligated, I really wanted to see how you were doin

  @AllyinSpain: Oh ok… Thanks then

  @CamSteeleIT: Anytime

  @AllyinSpain: I shoud get back to work… Don’t want someone walking in and accuse me of spending time on social

  @AllyinSpain: oops… I meant should

  @CamSteeleIT: I got you… Have a good day or rest of the day. Bye

  @AllyinSpain: Bye

  I stare at our conversation, as platonic as could be but also awkward as fuck if you really dig deep, knowing our history.

  Getting up and ready for work, which really means make coffee and turn on my laptop, I check my emails to make sure there aren’t any updates from my current clients and get to work. All the while, my conversation with Luke from last night ringing loud and clear.

  If I do feel something more for Ally, then I should figure out what that is and what it means for me and us, if there even is an us. I mean, she lives in a different country for fuck’s sake. I’m insane to think anything could come from it if I haven’t even been in a relationship with someone local in years. I’ve dated, fucked, and wooed women, but I haven’t had an actual girlfriend in years. What makes me think I can handle long-distance relationships?

  I must be insane.

  After hours of work, I stand and stretch my tense body and jump in the shower, so I can grab a quick bite to eat. I’m not really in the mood for leftovers or frozen pizza, and a walk outside would be nice to clear up the fog of adware, SEO, and bandwidth. I love what I do, but sometimes I need to take a step back before I start thinking as analytical as a computer does.

  As I sit at a table in Meat Me, my favorite sub shop, I replay my conversation with Ally. Googling the time difference between Richmond and Madrid, I make a mental note of what she might be up to at seven in the evening and smirk to myself when I see the poll on her Instagram story asking people if she should have a beer or glass of wine. Forgoing the poll, I go straight into our chat, asking her straight up which one she went for, seeing as she posted the poll over an hour ago.

  @AllyinSpain:

  @CamSteeleIT: Good choice although I’d go for the beer

  @AllyinSpain: Typical guy

  @CamSteeleIT: More than just a typical guy

  @AllyinSpain:

  @CamSteeleIT: That’s not a denial tho

  @AllyinSpain: That’s true but you’re still annoying

  @CamSteeleIT: Annoying but sexy *waggles eyebrows*

  @AllyinSpain: LOL jerk

  @CamSteeleIT: I think you’re sexy too

  @AllyinSpain: Camden…

  @CamSteeleIT: Ally…

  @CamSteeleIT: You’re just gonna ignore me? I can see when you read a message

  @AllyinSpain: Ugh! You annoy me from afar too

  @CamSteeleIT: Can’t help that you’ve been on my mind

  I watch the typing bubbles appear and disappear, wondering if I pushed too far. I shift on my chair and take a bite of my sub while I wait for her to respond. This back and forth was fun until I’m on the receiving end of silence.

  @AllyinSpain: What’s your deal?

  @CamSteeleIT: Blunt and straight to the point huh?

  @AllyinSpain: I’m not one to be caught in games

  @CamSteeleIT: No games, sweetheart

  @AllyinSpain: Really? How many girls have you called sweetheart before?

  Busted.

  @CamSteeleIT: You’re right. No games, Kiwi

  @AllyinSpain: Kiwi? WTH?

  @CamSteeleIT: Yeah cuz your eyes are as green as the inside of a kiwi

  @AllyinSpain: …

  @CamSteeleIT: So KIWI no games. You wanna know the truth?

  @CamSteeleIT: I really can’t stop thinking about you. You’re on my mind at all times and it’s fucked up because you’re Easton’s little sister and he has no idea what we did

  @AllyinSpain: First of all I’m not a kid. I’m a damn adult despite being his younger sister. Secondly he doesn’t have to know. It was one night and that’s it. No harm no foul

  @CamSteeleIT: What if I don’t want it to only be one night?

  I hold my breath as I wait for her response, waiting for the message that will follow the bubbles that never appear after she’s read it. Rejection doesn’t taste so good when you’re on the other end of it.

  chapter 8

  Allyson

  I stare at my Instagram feed, and my eyes flicker to the small paper airplane icon where my messages are. One week I’ve avoided Camden’s message. He is insane. I’ve decided it. Who in their right mind thinks they want to go another round in sexyville when they live thousands of miles away from the other person? Crazy.

  And Camden of all people? Puh-lease. As if he really hasn’t already been with a few other women these last five weeks. Things would get messier than an unsupervised toddler with a rainbow of permanent markers in a white room if anything more happened. I’m sure the only reason it isn’t messier than it already is is because Easton now lives in Everton, and Camden doesn’t see him every day.

  And yet, after all these thoughts, I still think about his unanswered message. It’s best to leave some things to die in a social media abyss, and this is one of those things. The chances of me seeing Camden in the near future are slim. I’ll be home for the holidays when the time comes, but my mom and I will fly out to Everton for most of my vacation time.

  I’ll be safe from the Camden charm. Who knows? Maybe by then, I’ll have met someone, and Camden will be the distant memory of my first one-night-stand.

  A text message notification drops down on my screen, stealing my attention from my Instagram feed. Opening the message, I smile as I read Rubén’s message. He’s a co-worker and one of the people that has become a friend these last couple of years. He’s a riot to hang out with, and every time I’m with him, I’m guaranteed to laugh until I pee a little.

  Typing back quickly, practicing my Spanish as I do so, I let him know that I’ll meet him at Nos, a bar near Plaza Mayor. I head to my room and get changed, swapping my sweats for a short, floral dress and sandals. Throwing my hair in a sleek ponytail, I grab my purse and lock up behind me, making the walk to the bar. My favorite thing about Spain is that you’ve got bars that serve drinks and tapas, and then you’ve got your club-type bars with music and drinks that have a more low-key vibe than a full-on club.

  When I walk into Nos, I see Rubén, Vanesa, another co-worker, and Dawn, one of the girls that worked in our Richmond branch who also took the opportunity to work in Madrid. Rubén and Vanesa have been heaven-sent friends. Sometimes it’s not so easy to make friends with the locals, and they’ve taken us under their wings, introduced us to their friends, and guided us when it comes to living in this city.

  “Hey,” I take a seat on the empty chair waiting for me.

  “Sexy.” Rubén’s deep accent comes out as he waggles his eyebrows.

  “It’s just a dress,” I tug at the hem noncommittally.

  “And the hair is…” He snaps his fingers. “How do you say…sex kitten.”

  “What?” My eyes pop out of my head as I laugh. “No way!”

  “You’re looking for…” He trails off, but his dancing eyebrows give away exactly what he means, his heavy English accent adding to his charm.

  I
laugh and shake my head, Vanesa and Dawn looking at us with amused expressions.

  “How about we get drinks, yeah?” I nod, picking up the cocktail menu, although I know I’ll order a glass of wine. But what the hell? Maybe tonight is different. Maybe tonight I want to go a little wild and drink a martini or something. I scan the menu, seeing if anything calls my attention, and my eyes land on margaritas.

  After we order and toast, I take a sip of the margarita, sighing as I close my eyes. This is much better than I anticipated, the perfect balance of tequila, sour, and sweet flavors.

  “Tequila… A qué te pone?” Rubén’s eyes sparkle, and I furrow my eyebrows.

  “What?” I ask in confusion.

  Vanessa laughs, holding her stomach. “Rubén,” she scolds. “Ignore him. You know how he is.”

  “What does ‘qué te pone’ mean?” Dawn asks, her own curiosity getting the best of her.

  “It means it gets you horny,” Vanesa chuckles again.

  “Rubén!” I squeak. “Margaritas do not do that to me.”

  “I don’t know, but something is different about you.” He points at me, squinting one eye as if that will give him a better view into my soul or something.

  “Whatever,” I shrug him off and take another sip, enjoying the cocktail while we wait for the few tapas we ordered to arrive.

  Music plays in the background, just loud enough to be heard but not enough to disrupt the flow of conversation. The white and black bar buzzes with people out on a Saturday night. Spain is a social country, and I learned that firsthand when I wandered alone to have coffee once after first moving and saw a ton of people at tables with friends having coffee together.

  There’s always an excuse to celebrate and get together, and gatherings aren’t the short events I’m used to in the United States.

  A lunch here can run as long as six hours, and even then, you move on to a bar for drinks since, by the time you leave, it’s already time to have a glass of wine. It’s fast-paced in the city and yet slow-living, where you can really enjoy the moment and the company. It’s a fascinating mindset and way of living when you really think about it.

  Rubén tells us about his recent failed date. The guy is as social as they come, but he’s been in search of his happy ending since he was seventeen and came out to his family. He told me once that he assumed his parents knew he was gay, but it was about him having the courage to state it, take a step toward his true identity, and I admire him for that. Few people dare to show the world who they truly are without pretenses or covering up their vulnerabilities.

  We continue to drink and eat, thoughts of Camden slipping further from my mind after each sip I take of my margarita, and each ridiculous comment Rubén makes. Leaning back on my chair, I look around and smile. I never imagined I’d live outside of the United States, but this has been one hell of an experience.

  “Let’s go,” Vanesa calls over the music, now pumping louder as the bar transitions into a lounge. I stand and hold on to the chair to get my footing as the three margaritas I drank hit me at the same time, causing me to sway.

  “Whoa…” Dawn loops her arm in mine. “Are you okay?” Her eyebrows pop on her forehead.

  “Yeah,” I nod. “Come on.” Using her guidance, I follow Vanesa and Rubén to some bar I’ve never been to that’s full to the brim with dancing bodies and deafening music. The dim lighting makes it hard to make out the people, or it could be the margaritas blurring my vision, but I do see Vanessa hug some people and Rubén dance in excitement.

  After quick introductions, we’re all dancing and singing. My inhibitions drop, and I sway to the music in time with the guy that’s dancing behind me. I turn around with a lazy smile.

  “Hola,” he leans in and whispers his greeting. Despite the loud music, his one word sounds clear and deep in my ear. I look up at him and see shaggy hair, a stubbled jaw, and smiling eyes.

  For all I know, he wants to have some fun between the sheets and leave before the sun rises, but what harm does dancing with him do? Besides, Noel’s advice rings loud and clear over the overwhelming music and thumping beats, so I decide to let loose and have fun. Camden begone, and hello sexy Spaniard.

  Taking my movements as a hint, his hands land on my hips, and he moves closer, grinding into me. I swallow my surprise and look down. There’s one benefit of tight jeans — holy cobra pushing into me. Yeah, it’s safe to say he plans to take this dance off the dance floor and straight into a bed. I’m sure he couldn’t care less whose bed it is.

  When Dawn winks and hands me a beer, I gratefully take it to wash down the surprise of this guy’s erection against me, and I realize I don’t know his name.

  Calling out loudly, I ask him.

  “Sergio,” he calls back. “Inglesa?” he asks if I’m British, and I shake my head.

  “Americana,” I correct him.

  “Ahh…” he smiles, spinning me around, and I almost drop my beer in surprise.

  That one spin does me in, and my hand flies to my mouth, hoping to keep down the contents in my stomach. Holding my finger up, I turn around and race to the bathroom, hoping it’s in the direction I’m going and that there’s an empty stall.

  I must look like shit because the girl who is about to walk into a stall moves away and urges me in. Unashamed, I throw up with the door open until tears burn my eyes, and my throat is dry. Heaving one last time, I feel heat cover my neck and cheeks as I turn around to an audience staring at me with wide, concerned eyes.

  Goodness, could I be any more of a mess right now?

  This is a first for me, and I vow to make it the last time I puke in a bar with an audience because of too much alcohol. Rinsing my mouth and washing my hands, I slowly walk back to my friends, ready to tell them I’m heading home. Everything spins, and when the next wave of nausea hits, I want to be hugging my own toilet in PJs.

  I wave off Rubén when he offers to walk me home, but he’s stubborn and a good friend who ignores my dismissal and makes sure I get home safe.

  After getting ready for bed and standing still in the bathroom in case I need to puke again, I lie in bed, watching the ceiling spin until I fall asleep.

  - - - - -

  Ugghhh… I turn on my bed, groaning as my dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My brain slams in my head, killing me with the pain. Lord, what in the world possessed me to drink so much last night? Let loose, my ass. I went drunk crazy. I should’ve known too much tequila would be a bad thing. I’ve always been a lightweight when it comes to it.

  Turning onto my back, I squeeze my eyes shut as I replay the night before. Pieces of the puzzle coming together with missing spaces where all I see are black flashes. Unfortunately, my puking fiasco is not one of those lost memories.

  Covering my face with my hands, I sit up slowly, my stomach churning. Liquor before beer, have no fear, is a damn myth. I bet that last beer I drank was the tipping point.

  I grab my phone to check the time and groan again. I need greasy pizza and a Coke to cure this hangover. Thankfully, it’s almost lunchtime, so it’s acceptable to pig out on cheese pizza. I call in an order for delivery because there is no way my hungover self is walking out into the light of day so that the sun can shine the hangover on my face for everyone to read like some invisible ink revealing itself.

  After ordering lunch, I jump in the shower and wash away last night, the alcohol in my blood still pumping as I sway and hold myself up on the shower wall. Thankfully, it seems like I released everything last night in the bathroom, and my stomach only complains a bit.

  That shower was a blessing. Combing my hair and dressing in cotton shorts and a t-shirt, I wait for my food to arrive. Plopping on the couch, I turn on the television, lowering the volume, and have my ibuprofen ready to swallow as soon as my pizza arrives.

  Opening Instagram, message notifications catch my eye right away, sending my heart into my throat as I wonder if Camden got tired of my silence and is pushing for some kind of response.
>
  I read his last message with confusion until I scroll up and freeze, heart-stopping nausea washes over me, and this time it’s not because of the alcohol. Actually, I could totally blame the alcohol for this. When the hell did I send him a message last night? I can’t remember doing that.

  Oh, my goodness, I’m going to puke again. Checking the timestamp, I realize I was still at the first bar when I sent him this. Foolish, traitorous margaritas! I read what I wrote, trying to decipher my drunk texting.

  @AllyinSpain: I hte yip n thst stypd smie you thnk yoy csn tll me you wnna hve sex w me agin n grt awsy w it

  @CamSteeleIT: Sorry to disappoint but I’m not fluent in pig latin or whatever that is supposed to be

  @CAmSteeleIT: Although I do see the word sex so I take it you’re thinking about my Steele of a cock

  @CamSteeleIt: Get it? lol

  @CamSteeleIT: They say when you’re drunk the truth comes out

  I drop my head back on the couch and close my eyes, wondering if I wish this drunken message away it will miraculously disappear. I peek one eye open and still see it on the screen. This is worse than my hangover, and I haven’t been hungover in a long time.

  I take a deep breath and collect myself. I’m about to write back when my doorbell buzzes from downstairs, and I leap from the couch, thankful for the interruption. When the delivery guy makes it to my door, I pay him and thank him, grabbing a plate and cup on the way back to the living room. With the television in the background and my mouth full of cheesy, greasy goodness, I begin typing on my phone.