by Kent, Julia
If she wanted to cuddle on the couch could she pick one and hang out, or would they always be three? Her head hurt and as she relaxed enough to pee she felt a stinging that took her by surprise. Oh. Yeah. That whole area was still sore from those two.
Who had lied to her.
Lied. Not told. Same thing.
Snot covered her face as she wiped her nose with the palm of her hand, misjudging how full her nose really was. Cheap, scratchy toilet paper cleaned her up but just made everything feel raw now. Would any part of her ever not feel raw, so shaky and vulnerable? As she finished up and washed her hands in the sink she found herself staring into the mirror, her eyes puffy and red from crying, the bloodshot whites in great contrast to the shiny color, the stained walls behind her covered in graffiti that probably extended back to Madge’s youth.
Big sigh. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—just as the automatic air deodorizer pushed out a little spritz, filling her lungs with some God-awful fake Lily of the Valley scent that mixed with the stench of the bathroom and made her gag.
Great. Like this couldn’t get any worse. She fled the bathroom, gasping for fresh air, and the sight before her told her that why, yes, Laura. It could get worse.
Josie was whacking Dylan with a set of rubber balls.
Retreat! Retreat! Had they seen her? Ducking behind the coat rack, she crouched, feeling stupid and ridiculous. Mike sat down and introduced himself; she had a full view of the scene from behind someone’s cigarette-soaked tan barn coat. He shook Josie’s hand and then Josie yammered at him. From afar, the interaction was almost comical, Josie’s mosquito-like buzzing a stark contrast to Mike’s slow, steady existence. Dylan sat, cocky and comfortable, arms stretched out behind him across the top of the booth. Josie whacked him in the lap with the balls and Laura giggled. The way he folded in half told her it hurt.
Good.
Tears filled her eyes. Good? Jesus, Laura— Good? Now you’re wishing harm on him?
No. Not OK. Time to go out there and—what? Confront them? Confront yourself?
Nope. Time to go back and have your cake.
And maybe finish eating it, too.
The more she talked, the calmer he got. Zen. Focus on what is. Just breathe. Let her existence interfere with nothing. What she said, she said. Who she was, she was.
When she whacked Dylan with the balls, it just was.
And it was funny as hell.
Mike pulled out every meditative awareness technique he could think of, with more than ten years of reading, practice, conferences, and seminars under his belt. Nothing seemed to work very well with Josie, though; she was spitfire and alllll reaction. Completely unaware of how she seemed to everyone else kinetically, she just moved through time and space as sheer energy.
He remembered a time when he was like that, years ago, a time when he was so exhausted all the time. So busy searching for something, judging everything, fiercely protective and loyal to his loved ones and scanning, yearning, sorting and journeying to find —what?
He hadn’t known. Still wasn’t sure, but he definitely understood now that slowing down, acting rather than reacting, and just being present helped him to find it.
All this back patting must be tiring, Mike, his inner voice said, clearing its throat. He sighed.
Touché.
Nothing about the night was going as planned. Plans. His plans; Dylan had been very kind back there, not blurting out the truth. Having Dylan surprise them at the cabin had been Mike’s bright idea. Stupid stupid stupid, the voice said now, a taunting, lilting tone.
It wasn’t supposed to look like they’d ganged up on her. He’d envisioned a different outcome, not the threesome they’d enjoyed but more of a quiet talk, some soul bearing, and a gentle discussion about possibilities.
Dylan had changed the plan, coming far later than planned and interrupting them at the most delicate of moments, then broaching the subject like a bull in a china shop. Delicacy and tact were never his strong suits, to say the least.
When she’d agreed, Mike had been as shocked as she probably was. Never in a million years would he have pegged her as someone who would, in the heat of the moment (and oh, what a hot one it had been...) make a snap decision like that and just jump. Leap. Go for it.
Have her fill.
The thought made the corner of his mouth shift up, not quite a smile, definitely not a smirk. Washing his face with his hands, he wondered how he and Dylan appeared to Josie. Were they freaks? Jerks? Guys who were somehow mindfucking her best friend?
From the look on her face right now he guessed the answer was All of the Above.
He made himself seem like he was paying attention to the conversation that unfolded before him between him, Josie, and Dylan, but all of his focus was on Laura. She’d gotten up and gone to the bathroom and her skin was still on his lips from that simple kiss. Why had he been so bold? She seemed moved to tears, unable to walk straight.
Maybe that was a result of something earlier. He made a face at the thought. Dylan frowned, watching him. “What?” he mouthed. Mike shook his head imperceptibly and resumed paying attention to Josie, who was giving them hints on how to handle Laura.
If being whacked over the head by their own stupidity could be categorized as a hint.
Right now, he’d take any advice if it had half a chance at working. Why did he know when to back off and give someone space, but was utterly clueless when it came to drawing close? Josie assumed they’d been stalking Laura, coming to Jeddy’s at the same time, and he knew trying to explain that it was a weird coincidence— Jill would have called it “the universe speaking to us”—was futile.
Josie and Laura would believe what they wanted to believe, and nothing he and Dylan said or did would make a difference.
So why were they even trying?
Because.
Because.
That’s all Mike knew. Because. Laura staggered back to her booth and Josie walked away. The old waitress made a lewd comment. Mike inhaled. Mike exhaled. Mike inhaled. Mike exhaled.
And then Dylan stood, eyes flashing and intense, body aimed for Laura’s booth, and Mike stopped breathing.
“Fuck,” Laura whispered.
“What?” Josie asked, sucking the last remnants of ice cream from her spoon.
“Fuck me, Josie!”
“I don’t do girls. Well, except for that one time in college when—”
Laura grabbed Josie’s arm, her fingernails sinking in. “They’re coming over here.”
“And you’re surprised?” Josie looked at Laura like she had three heads.
Three.
As if he owned the joint—no, as if he owned her —Dylan slid into the booth right next to Laura, arm stretching across the back of the booth, his chest against her shoulder. Mike had the decency to stand at the side and look awkward. Because he was awkward. This much, she knew.
And Dylan was being a strutting ass because he was a strutting ass.
This she knew, too.
What she didn’t know was why they had decided once again to come after her. One fuck. She had been just one fuck, right? They’d convinced her (you convinced yourself) to have her first threesome and she’d reveled in it. Still felt it on her skin, inside her, in her mouth, on her thighs—everywhere.
But this wasn’t how she wanted it to go. Her guilt at dating two guys at once was bad enough. Learning they knew each other and were an item (sorta) that wanted her to complete them was too much to absorb at nearly 6 a.m. When she needed to go to work on zero hours of sleep. She still needed a shower, was starting to get a headache, and now six eyes stared at her with expectations that turned into a churning soup of hope and dread.
“Can you people pick one table and stick to it?” Madge croaked, refilling Laura’s water glass. “Breakfast rush is about to start and I’ll need the table.”
“We’re over here now, Madge,” Dylan replied, winking at her.
“You done with your food?” She nodded at the
half-full plates. Mike gave her a closed-mouth smile and nodded. “OK,” she sighed. “I’ll bring your check here.” Laura pretended Madge was the most interesting sight ever and watched pointedly as the old woman cleared the table in about three seconds, delivered the checks, and pointed a new group to an empty table.
“Man, how old is she?” Josie asked, admiring her energy.
“She’s been here at least since we were in college and put up old Warlock,” Dylan joked, nudging Laura. The heat from his chest made her feel like she couldn’t breathe, as if the warmth itself, made true from his blood, his flesh, his movement and soul, were some sort of force field that stopped time, stopped her heart, stopped everything and made her want to bathe in him. His presence. His scent.
Wait. What?
She looked up at Dylan, the muscle of his upper arm poking through the thin lines of his cotton t-shirt. Could she lick it without being caught? Bad Laura. Bad.
“You made the Warlock Waitress?” Laura’s hold on reality was tenuous at best. Learning these two had been responsible for a local culture legend would send her over the edge.
“Not quite,” Mike chuckled. “It was really Jill’s idea.”
If Mike had thrown a bucket full of cold ice water on her head, he couldn’t have jolted Laura out of her slump any faster. Jill. Of course. Of course it was Jill’s idea. Some part of her that had been churning and unfocused came into play again, sharpened by competition. She wasn’t seriously threatened by a dead woman, was she?
Even one who looked like she’d been hand-chiseled by Ralph Lauren?
Dead, Laura. Dead. You can’t compete with the dead.
And maybe that was part of the problem here. Two very real, very alive men breathing next to her, both with heartbeats and fingers and raspy stubble and soft smiles. Both in love with a woman who had died not quite two years ago, someone they had spent early adulthood loving. Surfing and skiing and forging a very unique relationship that few would ever dare to try.
They had ten years of this to draw on.
She had a handful of hours. And was competing with a dead woman.
She wasn’t feeling stifled for no good reason. And Josie saw something in her face, could read Laura so well, because before Laura could open her mouth to fumble through an explanation, Josie stood, ushering Mike away from the edge, and kicked Dylan in the shin.
“Hey! What was that for!” he shouted, rubbing his leg bone.
“Out. Give Laura some space.”
“But I—” Her glare cut him off. Rolling his eyes, he huffed—but moved. Biceps flexing under that Rush t-shirt, Dylan’s body moved away, leaving a vacancy, a coldness where he’d been, that made her feel a little bit abandoned. Ping-ponging back and forth emotionally like this wasn’t her style at all, and she was weary. Just wrung out and ready for this night to end.
The sun blinded her out of the blue, the restaurant’s windows unshaded. Madge went down the line lowering the blinds. Laura checked her phone. 6:07 a.m. Time to put the night to rest.
Scooching over, she stood, Mike’s arm inches from her, his eyes purposefully not meeting hers. She smiled at Dylan and he took it as an opportunity, stepping closer to her until Josie blocked him with an arm the size of his—
Josie shook her head slowly, piercing him with her stare. “Don’t be that guy.” She looked up at Mike, tipping her head way, way back. “Those guys.”
As the sun radiated through the filthy glass and illuminated Jeddy’s, a renewed sense of...something struck Laura. She lacked the right word for it, but knew the feeling. Not hope. Not promise. Not quite possibility.
Willingness.
Mike took a microstep toward her. “When you’re ready,” he said, echoing his earlier words.
“Can we make you dinner some night this week?” Dylan asked, pushing—ever pushing.
She made a mirthless laugh. “Last time Mike did that, dinner wasn’t just dinner.”
“We swear,” the men said in unison.
“Unreal,” Josie muttered.
Laura grabbed the rubber balls from the table, where Josie had propped them up against the jukebox. Fishing a quarter out of her purse, she leaned over, giving anyone who walked by a nice money shot of her ample ass. She knew both men were staring and she cared—more than she knew.
Plunking the quarter in and making a choice, she turned and attached the balls to the cardboard cutout’s crotch. Giving them a squeeze, she and Josie sauntered out as the opening chords of “Call Me, Maybe?” wended their way through the early breakfast crowd.
Calling in sick was the best decision Laura had made in the past five days. Not that this was a week for exhibiting stellar judgment, though. As her fingers punched in the number for her boss’s personal cell phone, though, she felt legitimately ill. So ill, he just said, “Do what you have to do to recover” and made sympathetic noises.
Off the hook for the day, she stared dully at the back of her front door. “Do what you have to do to recover” was easier said than done.
Josie came out of the kitchen using one talon to peel a clementine. “And?”
“I’m off for the day.”
“Cool. I don’t work until three, but I need some sleep.” Yawn. “For once, I won’t ask you to make me coffee.”
Laura was too tired to smile. “Help me, Josie. What the hell do I do?”
“You’re asking the woman who hasn’t been laid for seven months for romance advice?” She shoved a wedge of citrus in her mouth. “I’ll tell you what I would do.”
“That’s what I’m asking!”
“I would hear them out. Let them make you dinner. Spend time with them—together. Don’t fuck them, though.”
“Josie!”
“You can’t blame me for saying that, Laura. ’Cause you did. Fuck them. And it freaked you out. They caught you off guard and I’ll bet it was the hot Italian dude who made it all happen.”
Laura’s face must have revealed all, because Josie pointed and said, “I knew it,” as she shoved the rest of the clementine in her mouth, standing and crossing the room to throw the peels away.
“He’s a charmer,” Laura answered. Choke. Not that Mike wasn’t, but Dylan. He could talk the pants off a prison guard.
“And the other one—Jesus, Laura. Did you need stilts and a stool to fuck him?” Josie cringed and held up one hand, fingernails radiating from her palm like a metal sun sculpture. “TMI. Don’t answer that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I have no filter. Duh. You’re my filter. And I have no filter when I’m talking to my filter about her positions when fucking a guy the size of a streetlamp.”
Laura pretended to mull that one over, then threw a couch pillow at Josie, who seemed to know it was coming and ducked well ahead of time. “Dinner? Really?”
Josie blinked hard, rubbing one eye. “Yeah. I think you need to just get to know these guys. Spend time with them. Not the kind of time where you sit there, all anxiety-filled, wondering when you’ll end up in bed. I mean the pal-around, cuddle on the couch, watch a movie and cook dinner for each other kind of time.”
“That’s called a date.”
“Yes. You need to date them.”
“Date them. Double date by myself?” Both laughed. “Josie, I don’t even have a language for this!” she wailed.
“That’s the problem, hon. No one does. And I think,” she added, pensive suddenly, “I think that’s why they care so much about you. Because you are the first person they’ve met in a long time who is even willing to learn whatever rare language they speak. So far, most people don’t even view it as words. Just offensive gibberish.”
“I find it lovely,” Laura whispered. Yawn.
Josie laughed quietly, grabbing another clementine and her purse. “I know you do, sweets. But right now the only language you need to speak involves a lot of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Go to bed.”
“I need a shower.” Laura sniffed one armpit. “God, that bad?”
/> “Sleep first. Shower after.”
By the time she heard the door click as Josie left, Laura’s living room was spinning, the air washing before her like waves of water, her eyes heavy and lids drooping. As she heard footsteps waning down the hall, before she knew it she was fast asleep, vulnerable now only to whatever her subconscious conjured for her in her dreams.
Chapter Two
She knew he was there long before her eyes, her nose, or her skin registered him, ears perked and hearing an unspoken need that shouted through the silence. Her neck shifted to the left, open for his lips, and he did not disappoint. As if forged by God for his very shape, the touch of his mouth on the nape of her neck seemed divine, shaped for this moment, the two parts of flesh melding into one through the sigh that escaped her, unbidden and knowing.
When Mike’s hands slid over her shoulders, down to her elbows, then effortlessly transitioned to her hips, the two slipping into a V that traveled to her womanhood and stroked out to her thighs, his cock hard against the cleft of her ass as the shower spray poured down on them, the sigh that came from her was like a prayer. Spinning around, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, hard, the sudden, fierce uprising in her needing as much of him now, right now, hard and fast and tough and quick and in and out immediately. His tongue matched hers, all fire and taking, as his knees parted her legs, then let her go with a tight nip to her lower lip, turning her around and bending her down.
“You are so luscious,” he murmured in her ear, words shattered by the spray and the steam, cut into bits and pieces her overwhelmed, pulsing mind and body could barely understand, the allure of his hands on her breasts, one pausing to shift himself and plunge into her, then resuming its spot on her overflowing cup, taking her to an aroused madness. As friction grew, his thrusts timed perfectly, her swollen, red passage seemed tapped into her lungs, her heart, her lips and her everything.
Mike’s hands roamed her torso, teasing her clit as his gliding tightened, thrusts harder and more focused, the feel of his body behind her hardening as his own climax surely built. Her fingers clawed at the tiled walls, needing flesh to dig into, to hold on to for the wild ride of an explosive, wet, dripping orgasm that—