by Meghan Quinn
“Yup.”
“How about I’ll drop it if you come out on the dance floor with me?”
He lulls his head to the side, his eyes glassy now from the drinks, and then looks back at me. “What’s your obsession with getting me on the dance floor?”
“You need to loosen up. Look at how much fun Stryder is having.” We both watch him pelvic thrust the air, hands behind his head, charging after Rory like a man on a pelvic-thrusting mission.
Colby shakes his head, a small chuckle under his breath. “He’s always been like that, and I’m always the guy who sits on the sidelines and watches.”
I stand and take his hand in mine. “Not tonight, mister. Not on my watch. Let’s call the fire department, because you’re about to burn up the dance floor.”
I pull him to his feet as he says, “That was really fucking lame. You know that, right?”
“Hey, it got you up, so seems like it works.”
* * *
Colby wasn’t kidding. He doesn’t dance. Even with copious amounts of alcohol in his system, he’s stiff as a board and asking him to shake his hips is a freaking chore.
He’s sidestepping and snapping his fingers at his side right now. My grandparents have better moves than him.
But what the best part is, his inhibitions were thrown out the window about ten minutes ago, so even though it looks like a newborn fawn trying to learn how to walk, the look on his face means BoogeyTown business.
He is feeling the music in his head . . . but not translating it to his body.
It’s actually rather adorable, how hard he’s trying.
“I think I’m feeling this song,” he shouts, louder than necessary.
I give him a once-over. “Oh yeah, you’re feeling it all right.”
On his own accord, he spins around, arms spread wide, whacking Grandma Oaks right in the head with his meaty hand.
“Oh shit.” He scrambles to pick up the flower he knocked out of her hair. “I’m so sorry.” Due to his alcohol consumption, he starts laughing while trying to put the flower back in her hair, simultaneously caressing her cheek and telling her how beautiful she is.
Uh-oh.
We might have had a little too much to drink.
Hell, instead of helping, I’m standing here, pelvic thrusting the air while pointing at Colby . . . even though in my head I’m telling myself to stop and helping him.
But the beat is holding my pelvis hostage, and I can’t seem to stop.
“Ryan.” A soft hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around.
When I see the bride, I squeal and throw my arms around her. “Roooory! I’m so glad to see you. Do you see these hips of mine? I am so in tune with the beat.”
Rory pats my back and says, “You really aren’t, honey. You actually have no rhythm at all.”
“What? You’re insane.”
“I’m not and you’re really drunk. We had the staff bring over coffee and cake for you and Colby. I think you guys should maybe try to sober up just a little.”
A wave of heat consumes me as my face flames. “Wait, am I”—I lean and whisper, at least I think I’m whispering—“making a fool of myself?”
Rory cringes and says, “Not yet, but I can see it heading that way, especially after you just did your Elaine impersonation from Seinfeld.”
“Oh yeah, I only do that when I’m drunk.” Rory nods. “Hmm, okay, I’ll go drink some coffee.” I bop Rory’s nose. “Colby,” I shout, “follow me.”
Stuffing the flower awkwardly in Grandma Oaks’s hair, he follows closely behind me, saluting Rory on the way. “Nice wedding,” he says, stumbling into my back, careening me forward into a chair.
“Oompf.”
“Oops, sorry.” Colby laughs as he straightens me up and escorts me to our seats where he pulls my chair out for me like a gentleman.
With an exhale, he takes a seat, his broad body filling up the little space we have. “Fuck, the room is spinning.”
“Yeah, I’m getting the same feeling as well. Think it’s an earthquake?”
Colby shakes his head and picks up the cup of coffee resting in front of him. “No, I think we’re drunk.”
“Can shots do that to you?” I pick up my coffee as well and clink my mug with his.
“Pretty sure shots are the only reason I’m drunk right now.”
From behind, Stryder comes up to us, squatting down and resting his arms on the back of our chairs. “Hey, you two.”
“Stryder, my man.” Colby pulls him into an awkward hug and then kisses the top of his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters before pulling away and gripping Colby’s shoulder. “Dude, you need water and coffee right now.”
“That’s what I’m drinking right now, the queen’s delight.” He motions to his coffee and then takes a sip.
“The queen drinks tea, man.” He looks nervously toward the front of the reception area and pulls on the back of his neck. “Rory and I are heading out. Are you going to be okay?”
I pat Stryder’s leg. “Oh don’t worry, I have this under control. The big guy will be just fine.”
Stryder looks at me and shakes his head. “You’re just as twisted as he is.”
“No, that’s not true. I’m fairing better, because I’ve been drinking in altitude more than he has since he lives . . .” I sway forward and grip Colby’s knee. “Where do you live?”
“Las Vegas.”
I snap my finger and point to the sky. “That’s right, Las Vegas.”
“I’m nervous. Will you guys be able to make it to your hotel rooms?”
“Psssh, of course,” I scoff at Stryder. What could he possibly be worried about? Of course we can make it to our rooms; we’re not children. “We’re adults,” I say out loud, smacking the table with my fist.
“Uh, yeah. I’m aware,” Stryder answers, looking at a waiting Rory. Did she say bye to me? Maybe that’s why she hugged me and offered cake. So considerate. “All right, just be safe, okay?”
“I’m always safe,” Colby says before grabbing Stryder again and hugging him. “Congrats, man.”
“Thanks.” Stryder gives me a quick hug and then takes off toward Rory.
“Aw, they’re so cute, don’t you think?”
Colby nods and picks up a piece of cake. “Am I feeding you?”
“I don’t think we have any other choice.” I point to my mouth. “Stick it right there.”
Chapter Three
COLBY
Oh.
Fuck.
The sun beats down on me, forcing me out of my deep slumber.
I can’t move.
Not a bone or muscle in my body wants to attempt at blocking the sun, but I have to move somehow, because it’s blinding me, making my retinas feel like they’re about to disintegrate.
Why didn’t I shut the curtains last night?
Why did I drink so much?
Why won’t my head stop pounding?
Christ.
My brain tells my arm to lift up and cover my eyes, but I don’t move as my stomach rolls, my mouth incredibly dry, the sun soaking up my will to live at this point. Dramatic, yeah, but fuck, I’m hung over.
I honestly can’t say I’ve ever felt this hung over or drank as much as I did last night. At least I think I drank a lot. I can’t remember anything past truth or dare with Ryan.
Maybe there was dancing?
If there was dancing, I fucking hope there’s no video, because I’m shit at dancing.
Shit, I hope I didn’t make a scene.
Eyes shut, I reach over to the nightstand, searching for my phone but come up short. Not surprised. I would have been the smartest drunk on the planet if I’d bothered charging my phone.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not ready to get up yet.
Groaning, I force myself to roll away from the sun and toward the other end of the bed for a little bit more shut-eye. You can do it.
One.
Two.
Three . . . and roll.
I snuggle into the pillow next to me and cling to it as if it’s my lifesaver, keeping me afloat.
Mmm, what’s that smell? Whatever the hell it is, it smells really fucking good. And this pillow, so soft.
I squeeze my hand, my thumb rubbing over something hard . . .
“Oh, that feels good,” a voice says next to me, shooting me out of the damn bed. I lose my balance, trip over clothing on the floor, and fly into the window where I grab the curtains to steady myself.
I blink a few times, trying to make out the figure in my bed, still sleeping.
My eyes are so damn blurry, all I can make out is the slope of a bare torso; pillows and sheets are covering the rest.
In a panic, I look at my crotch that is covered by my boxer briefs. Okay. Check number one.
I scan the room, taking in my clothes and shoes scattered all over the floor, a coffee mug toppled over a plate of what looks like massacred cake.
No condom wrappers.
Could be good or bad.
Curious who is in my bed, and needing some much-needed answers, I tiptoe forward just in time to see a mess of blonde hair turn toward the sun, beautiful full breasts with tight little nipples poking out from under the covers, and swollen lips peeking past the mess of hair.
Christ.
It’s Ryan.
And she’s topless.
And I can’t divert my eyes from her tits.
“Where am I?” she groans, sitting up on her side, hair covering her face, her breasts swaying.
Fuck, she’s hot.
Look away, damn it.
I turn to the side and clear my dry throat. “Uh, you’re in my room, Ryan.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her flip her hair out of her line of vision to find me standing off by the windows.
“Colby?”
I nod. “Yup. And before you say anything, put a fucking shirt on.”
She slowly scans her eyes down and then looks back up, unfazed. “Oh, they’re just tits.”
“Please,” I practically growl, hating that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to tame my fucking boner.
I’ve known Ryan for years now, and yeah, I’ve always thought she was pretty, as it’s hard not to when she looks the way she does. But I never once fantasized about her or felt any kind of attraction.
Then I wake up next . . .
Oh shit. Was that her breast I was squeezing earlier?
I drag my hands down my face, irritated with myself. I never get this drunk, not even when Rory broke up with me, or when I found out about Rory and Stryder being together.
I blame Ryan.
Who still isn’t wearing a shirt.
I push my hand through my hair and charge toward the bathroom. On my way, I pick up her dress and toss it at her. “Put that on.”
I don’t bother to listen to her response as I shut the bathroom door behind me. Standing in front of the toilet, I lift the seat, brace a hand on the wall, and take a leak as my mind wanders.
She ate my food, and she fed me drink after drink. There were speeches, she cried, I remember that. Then we were playing truth or dare . . . maybe some dancing. It gets fuzzy after that.
We didn’t have sex. There is no way I could have had sex with her, not that drunk. I like to take pride in my libido, but that much alcohol in my system means no hard-on. Something I wish I could take claim to right now as my memory flashes images of Ryan’s naked torso in my head.
Her skin is so damn smooth, her tits round and full. Real.
My cock starts to grow in my hand as I attempt to stuff it back in my underwear, but there is no use. I’m turned on when I really shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be thinking about Ryan like that.
But fuck, the feel of her boob in my hand, all soft and pillow like . . .
Shit. It’s been too damn long since I’ve had sex if this is the reaction I have when I see a pair of naked breasts.
There is no way I can go out there like this, so I drop my briefs to the floor, kick them to the side, and turn on the shower to the coldest setting. I lost myself for a second, but I won’t again. Control, Brooks. Get back in control.
* * *
When I step out of the shower, goosebumps spread across my skin, I dry off quickly, brush my teeth, and run my fingers through my hair.
I don’t hear anything on the other side of the bathroom, so I’m hoping Ryan caught the hint and bolted to her room. That would be the best scenario.
But . . .
The minute I open the door to the mini suite, the TV’s on in the other room, there’s a cart of food next to the couch, and Ryan is lounging, feet up on the coffee table, breasts still not covered, and now I’m privy to her long, toned legs and minuscule underwear.
Jesus Christ, this woman.
Hanging on to my towel wrapped around my waist, I pick up my dress shirt from last night and chuck it at her. “For the love of God, cover up.”
She scoffs at me, pops a piece of bacon in her mouth, and says, “You act as if they’re the ugliest boobs you’ve ever seen in your life.”
Exact opposite. Exact. Opposite.
“You’re Rory’s friend, and it isn’t appropriate. Please just put the goddamn shirt on.”
She lets out a long breath as she starts putting the shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves. “Fine, but it’s not like you haven’t seen them already since we slept together.”
My stomach plummets and my eyes widen. Fuck. We slept together. I thought maybe since I was still wearing underwear this morning maybe we avoided that mistake. I guess not.
I press my hand to my forehead. “We slept together?”
“Yeah.” She pauses and then says, “Oh, I mean like just slept. We didn’t have sex if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I count to ten as my lips thin, ready to mouth off at her, the tension in my body building and building with every word coming out of her mouth.
“You can’t just say things like we slept together.”
The dishes clang together as she reaches for another piece of bacon. “Do you have a girlfriend or something?”
“No.”
“Then what does it matter if we had sex?”
“You’re Rory’s best friend.”
“So?” She shrugs and pours another cup of coffee. She nods at it as she holds it out to me. Reluctantly, I take it. “Stryder is your best friend. Didn’t stop him from marrying Rory.”
Valid point, but still.
She knowingly smiles at me and points her finger. “You know I’m right.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter. I like to be present when I have sex, not some drunken mess.”
She nods. “Ahh, you like to make sure you’re performing well. I get that and appreciate it. I’ve had my fair share of duds in the bedroom, and there is nothing more disappointing than a guy coming early and then snoring while he lays across your body after he’s gotten off.”
I sit next to her on the couch and snag a piece of bacon, taking in the spread. Fruit not even touched, bacon almost gone. Pancakes half eaten, and there is a silver dome still over one of the plates.
“Denver omelet for you.” She points at the covered plate. “Didn’t know what you would like but judging from the fantastically sculpted body you have, I guessed it wasn’t pancakes.”
“Omelet is good, thank you.”
She sips her coffee and directs her attention at the reruns of Seinfeld on the TV. “Thank yourself, I charged it all to your room.”
“Great.”
* * *
Towel still wrapped around my waist, Ryan still in my shirt from last night, we’re both slouched on the couch, watching reruns of Friends. It’s past ten, and I have yet to make an attempt at being human.
“Why didn’t you bring a date to the wedding?” Ryan asks during a commercial break. We’re watching the episode where Joey and Chandler challenge Rachel and Monica in a trivia game to win their apartment. One of my favorite episodes.
“Di
dn’t have anyone to bring.”
“Kind of brave, you know, not bringing a date to your ex-girlfriend’s wedding.”
I take a sip of water from the bottle the hotel provided. Four-dollar water tastes like shit. “I didn’t look at it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like my ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Stryder is my best friend, and I’m genuinely happy for him.”
Ryan turns to me and props her hands under the side of her face as she lies against the back of the couch. “If I were you, I would be incredibly jealous. No way I could be as understanding as you.”
I shrug. “He’s my brother.”
Silence falls between us as a toothpaste commercial comes on screen. “My boyfriend broke up with me right before the wedding. Three days ago actually.”
Ryan is notorious for having a new boyfriend every month. Rory used to get so concerned when Ryan started dating a new guy, because she always put her heart on the line with each guy that walked into her life. Even while I dated Rory for a short period of time, I saw the heartache Ryan went through often. Rory’s biggest complaint was Ryan didn’t know how to choose the good guy, so she always went for the guy who was completely wrong for her.
From the sound of it, she’s stuck in the same pattern.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did he break up with you?”
“Who knows?” She sighs. “He said it was because he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend, but it only seemed to be that way when I told him I was holding out for marriage.”
“Are you?”
“Hell no. I just wanted to see his reaction. Clearly he wasn’t ready to be celibate. Figures. So I showed up to the wedding stag, hoping to find someone single and ready to get lost in the feeling of someone else’s body. But I ended up sharing a bed with you instead, someone who can’t bear to see me without a shirt on.”
I don’t miss the dig.
Instead of responding, I focus on the TV. I don’t want to say anything dickish, so I keep my mouth shut. I’ve learned it’s better to say nothing than something that’s going to get you in trouble.