by Laura Carter
What I meant as a compliment doesn’t seem to have been taken well at all. She drifts somewhere, lost in a world I’m not invited to as she stares out to sea. I count the seconds until her next breath. When it comes, she closes her eyes and her shoulders fall as her chest fills. Her body seems to go rigid. Then she slowly comes back, relaxing into the bench.
“For your information, the posters I pinned around my bedroom as a teenager weren’t of the Backstreet Boys. I was a major Boyzone fan. Then Westlife.”
I smile, grateful for the turn of conversation, but a small part of me wonders where Becky just went in her head. If she wanted to talk, she would; that’s what I decide. “Boyzone and Westlife. And they are?”
Her jaw falls open. “No way!” Just like that, she’s back to the Becky I’ve come to know. She breaks into a rendition of some song I’ve never heard—completely pitchy. I’m laughing so hard that my ribs are aching, as she does hand movements to match the words.
“Becky, that’s horrendous.”
“The dancing, or the singing?”
“Can I say both?”
She chuckles. “That’s probably fair.” She takes another giant bite of waffle that has me shaking my head in disbelief. Where does she put it? “So, Mr. I’m-So-Good-At-Everything, what kind of music did you like growing up?”
“A bit of everything. Rock, mostly. It depended whose pants I was trying to get into.”
“You really have no shame. What was the first concert you went to see?”
“I used to go to gigs, not concerts, for a start. I was actually in a band in high school, so I guess my first gig would have been some band in school, maybe.”
“You’ve never been to an actual concert, with a known band?”
I fight against my lips, which are curling already because I know how ridiculous the truth is.
Becky swivels, lifting one knee onto the bench. “Oh my God, is it that bad? Who? Tell me.”
“*NSYNC.”
She actually folds over, she’s laughing so much.
“Come on, it’s not so bad. Millie wanted to go, and I said I’d go with her.”
When she’s composed, she sits back on the bench, our arms touching.
“You realize I’m never telling you anything again?”
“Drew, honestly, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t want you to if all the answers are *NSYNC.”
We fall silent for a moment; then I start humming the tune to *NSYNC’s “This I Promise You,” which sets her off like she’s been on laughing gas…again.
As she laughs, my cell phone rings in the inside pocket of my jacket. I take it out but don’t recognize the number. I should answer. But for the first time since I can remember, there’s something more important. I silence the call and put the phone back in my pocket.
Chapter 12
Drew
Back at the house, Becky is roped into showing my mom, Millie and the kids how to bake ‘real’ cakes. After the salty, humid air, we both need showers first. I tell Becky to shower before me and take a seat on the sofa with my dad and Eddie to watch the last five minutes of the current quarter of college football—actually a rerun from last season but a game I didn’t see live. It’s nice, doing nothing, at home. My mind isn’t thinking of anything other than the touchdown I’m watching. It’s a rare moment and one that I don’t want to overthink. If I do, I know I will somehow bring it back to Becky. Something about her influence. The way she affects me. That I probably wouldn’t have come this weekend if she wasn’t around.
Yep, that’s where I wasn’t going.
My quiet time ruined, I push up from the sofa and make my way upstairs. I hear the shower water running, so I dip into my bedroom to grab a change of clothes and a towel. Not without my mind wandering to Becky’s naked body under the hot water. I’d bet she looks hot naked. That ass. What I’d give to put my hands on the naked flesh of that fine behind.
“Drew, I’m going to put in a load of whites, do you have anything?” my mom shouts up the stairs, zapping my lascivious thoughts.
I peel my white T-shirt over my head and take off my socks, then pad out to the landing in my jeans, and throw the laundry down the stairs where my mom is there to catch it. I come back into my room, and my attention is pulled straight to the poster of Melanie Finlay.
Christ, I’m twelve again. Now all I need is to rub one out over Becky and develop a zit.
I put my towel down and pull Melanie Finlay off the wall. I ball her up and try to throw her, and my raging testosterone, in the waste basket. Once this weekend is over, I’m putting some distance between Becky and me. Not forever. Just long enough to stop thinking about her naked body. Undressing her. Exposing those tits, that ass. How my hands would feel roaming over h—
“Oh my god!”
I turn sharply to face the door, where Becky is standing with wet hair, covered only in a towel, that really doesn’t cover much of her at all.
My eyes refuse to stay on her face, and my already semi-hard cock jolts as I trace a line from her lips, across her bare chest, around her towel-covered hips, down those toned legs. I’ve never been more thankful for the heavy hold of denim as my dick hardens and pushes against my fly.
“Sorry, I was just grabbing some clothes.” The break in my voice betrays how much my body is desperately fighting against my mind. I’m in my parents’ house and my body is screaming at me…Let me fuck her, please! The combination of my nervous system breaking down and my semi-on leaves me rooted to the floor, staring at Becky, whose cheeks are the color of red hot se—
“Ah, Jesus.” I drag my hands over my face. Of all times, my cell starts to ring. It’s sitting on the desk right by Becky. I take a step toward it and falter. I end up in some kind of dance with Becky, both of us stepping to one side, then the other. I place my hands on her shoulders to make sure we pass each other, but the heat that radiates between us when our skin touches has me stupid again.
We’re so close I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding in my chest. If she was anyone else, she would be on the bed right now, under me, while I rode her until she was begging to climax.
I squeeze my eyes shut and the phone stops ringing. With my eyes closed, I navigate around her. I blindly fumble my way to the doorway, when I realize I have left my towel behind. Opening one eye, I move past her again and grab my towel from the bed.
There was heat between us. Blazing heat. Like a goddamn inferno. I felt it. My dick definitely felt it. But now, her hand is pressed to her mouth, disguising what I know is a smirk because those damn irresistible eyes are glistening with amusement.
“If we’re going to continue this platonic thing, you’re going to have to wear more clothes,” I grumble as I stomp into the hallway like my uncontrollable testosterone levels are entirely her fault.
“I could say the same for you!” she calls out.
I slam and lock the bathroom door. I’m still feeling like thunder when I step under the hot spray, which does nothing to cool my cock. She’s in my head. Sex is in my head. I brace my hands on the tiles in front of me and watch as water falls from my body to the floor of the shower.
This is a test. Like the Garden of Eden. Becky is the goddamned apple, and she looks so appetizing.
As the glass around me steams, I wonder what she’s thinking right now. Whether seeing me in only a pair of jeans had anything close to the effect on her that seeing her in a small towel has had on me. Her hair messy and wet. God, how I’d like to get wet in the shower with her and give her hair a reason to be messed up.
Without conscious thought, my palm covers what is now a full-blown hard-on.
Don’t do it, buddy.
Kill the thought.
I can’t.
I’m like a bug to a light.
I tilt my head back and close my eyes as I work my hand up and down my length. As
I’m doing it, as good as it feels to give the tension an outlet, I know I’m crossing a line I don’t want to cross.
But what if she has stripped out of that towel? What if she’s lying back on my bed right now, her fingers moving through her slick pussy?
If she feels the same, we cross the line together. We relieve tension and forget it. That’s all.
On that sound rationale, I let go. I let my hand grip my cock harder. I work myself faster. As the warm water cascades down my back, I imagine sliding into her warm, wet pussy. I imagine driving into her.
My breaths come thick and fast as my dick hardens further. My balls stiffen and lift. Her name rolls into an exhale, and I pump my fist, from the base to the sensitive tip, all the way, like I want to fill Becky.
My glutes tense and my legs weaken as I bring myself to the brink. I rest the side of my fist on the tiles to steady myself. I throw back my head, driving the last bit, imagining her hands on me, her nails digging into my flesh, her teeth nipping my neck.
I come so hard it spurts up the tiles in front of me. I stroke my hand up and down slowly, drawing every drop of pent-up frustration with it.
I’ll be fine now. A blip. That’s all.
I wash my hair and body, then dry off and slip into a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt.
I head back to my bedroom, a little disappointed when I find an empty room, rather than Becky rubbing one out over me on the bed.
No, that’s a good thing. Back to Drew and Becky—who spent the night in each other’s arms. Who have seen each other semi-naked. Whose sexual chemistry, in my opinion, is off the charts. Who, I’m realizing, both seem to have mental issues. Who, at least for my part, are better versions of themselves when they are together.
Yep, back to Drew and Becky. Who absolutely will not be fucking each other.
I head downstairs with wet hair and bare feet, feeling more at home than I have in years. My dad and Eddie are still watching the football, both gripping bottles of beer as if their lives depend on them. Timmy is now asleep on Eddie’s lap—how I like the kids best. Joking!
They update me on the score, and I watch the next play; then I follow voices into the kitchen.
I find all the women in the house at work, beating what I imagine is cake batter in large bowls. Annalise has a smaller bowl. Her One Direction T-shirt is covered in flour. She is standing on a chair by Becky, still only just tall enough to stir a spoon into her bowl on top of the counter.
Michael Bublé is playing through docking speakers, and I recognize Becky’s cell phone in the stand. I may have to give her some grief about Bublé later.
On second thought, that will probably lead to her giving me grief about *NSYNC. Better not.
I lean against the doorframe and watch the scene. Becky is wearing leggings and an oversized shirt that falls off her shoulder. Her blond locks are tied in a messy knot on top of her head, still damp from the shower. She’s put a small amount of makeup around her eyes, but otherwise, she looks fresh, young, and extremely fuckable.
Ah, British Becky, you are torturing me.
Annalise catches me and flashes a huge, teeth-baring grin. She rubs flour from her nose, or rather, deposits more on the end, as she says, “Uncle Drew, we’re making cupcakes.”
My lips burst into a beam that turns to a short laugh when Becky looks right at me and shrugs. “I think I’ll leave you ladies to it. I’m just going to grab a beer.”
I take three bottles of Bud from the fridge and move to the bench by Becky, gesturing to the drawer that is home to the bottle opener. “Can I just—”
She steps back, clumsily bumping into my shoulder. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
I flick the tops off the bottles and put the opener back in the drawer. Our eyes meet, and there’s something about her expression that I like. A spark. A flame. It makes me wonder whether she did take care of herself on my bed while I was showering.
As if she’s asking herself the same question, her lips part. I immediately feel the heat between us again. Then I put out the fire with my equivalent of water—guilt. She doesn’t want or need this. Neither of us does.
I’m going to take my beer and walk away. Then I notice the globule of cake batter on her cheek.
“You have, ah…” I indicate on my own cheek with my finger the spot where she needs to wipe. She rubs her hand across the wrong cheek.
After putting a bottle down on the counter, I run my thumb over the batter. “I’ve got it.”
Her lips part again as she watches me suck the batter from my thumb. Watching the effect that small move has on her, my eyes narrow, and the look I give her now is intended to say, Oh yeah, babe, I know exactly what you did in my bedroom. Knowing flashes in her eyes before she quickly turns away.
Oh yeah. One hundred percent. That happened. And the thought is so fucking hot.
When I take a seat in front of the TV, I’m not thinking about the football at all. I’m thinking about the one thing that I know would blow my mind. The one thing I absolutely should not be thinking about.
* * * *
By the time the smell of my mother’s to-die-for lasagna is drifting into the den, the heavens have opened. Rain is bouncing so hard outside it blows under the canopy that shelters the outdoor dining table.
I help Millie bring things in from the deck and set the indoor table. I bring two plastic chairs from outside and dry them down before placing them inside. Another thing I’ve tried to replace that my folks won’t have.
As the rest of us take our seats—the kids being designated to the plastic chairs—Millie and Becky help Mom serve up plates of mammoth pasta portions. I watch Becky move around my family home, completely at ease, almost like she’s genuinely enjoying being here, as simple and suburban as it is. Once again, I feel ridiculous for being so nervous about her reaction to my slightly crazy family and the modest home I grew up in.
Last up, Becky puts two plates of garlic bread in the middle of the table. I pull out the chair next to me for her to sit. When she does, the tight packing of chairs around the table means her leg is pressed against mine. I set about getting us both a slice of garlic bread, pretending I’m completely unaware of the contact.
We eat and talk in that same position. It feels…natural. Right somehow. Terrifying.
“It’s a treat to have you all around the table,” Mom says after placing her knife and fork together on her now empty plate. “It’s just a shame Jake couldn’t be here.”
I refrain from saying he’s probably perfectly content banging some English chick and living the high life in London.
“Say, Becky, whereabouts in England are you from?” my dad asks.
“A place called Kent.” When my dad looks blank, she adds, “It’s not too far from London.”
“Well, when you’re home you should look up our Jake.”
I swallow the gulp of wine in my mouth, trying not to choke, and I glance from my dad to Becky and back again. Not once had it occurred to me that she might not stay in New York. Not really. It hadn’t dawned on me that her home is still in England, thousands of miles and an ocean away. I wait for her to say she won’t be going home. That she’ll stay here forever.
But she doesn’t.
“I’ll do that,” she says, smiling meekly and undeniably avoiding looking at me. Irrational sickness churns low in my stomach. I’ve known her five minutes. We’re friends. Yet, I can’t stand the thought of my life without her in it.
If ever I needed confirmation that I wouldn’t want to mess up our friendship and lose her through a one-night stand, this would be it. Damn it, I even feel guilty for getting off over her earlier. I rub a hand roughly across my dry mouth, then pick up my wine, and drain the glass. What does it matter? She could leave the city any time; then I won’t have her friendship, and we never even had one night of tearing off each other’s clothes, of
screwing so hard and for so long there’s only sweat keeping our flesh apart.
I reach for the bottle of red wine on the table and refill my glass, immediately taking a mouthful.
I catch Millie staring at me from across the table. My sister has always been able to read me. Right now, she can probably see the nonsensical panic that is infiltrating every cell in my body.
Am I panicking because Becky could leave? Or am I panicking because I realize that I don’t ever want Becky to leave my life?
“How long do you think you’ll stay here, Becky?” Eddie asks, completely numb to the shift in the air around the table, oblivious to how much I would like this conversation to end.
Yet I look at Becky beside me, because if she is going to answer this question, I want to know the answer. Her face is unreadable as she meets my gaze.
I silently will her to say indefinitely. Say it.
Her attention falls to the base of her wineglass as her fingers slide it back and forth on the table linen. “I left the UK in a bit of a hurry and with a few things to take care of back there.”
I feel my jaw lock. Angry at myself for caring so much. It’s irrational. I’m not an irrational guy. My hand grips my wineglass, too tightly. Whether it’s intentional or not, Becky’s thigh presses a little harder against mine, making me look at her.
“But I have no plans to go anywhere any time soon.”
She’ll never know how much those words affect me. I can’t honestly believe it myself.
The conversation shifts. Everyone wants to know more about Becky, especially where she trained to be a chef. Although she answers, Becky seems less comfortable when she’s the center of attention. I listen to her responses but don’t have anything to offer. I’m too preoccupied with what is happening in my own head.
I use clearing the table as an excuse to take a breather. Not from my family, or Becky, but from my own damn thoughts.
Not even the cupcakes for dessert can distract me. Possibly because, somewhat unfairly, I was forced by Annalise to eat one of the odd tasting, misshapen ones she made.