Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  I choke on my beer, coughing like I’m losing a lung.

  The entire table jumps, arms go flying and cups falling over like dominoes, beer and foam soaking everything in sight.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” Mia asks.

  I cough again, and feel Harlow’s hand on my back, patting and moving in small circles.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” she mumbles, and I nod, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the front of my shirt. “He’s fine,” she tells the rest of the table, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

  When I finally get myself together, I sit back, carefully sipping my beer and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Like a psychopath.

  I focus on the feel of Harlow pressed to the side of my body, and how natural it seems. I keep waiting for her to give me shit, or make some joke at my expense, but she’s completely poker-faced—cool and steady—barely sparing a glance in my direction. I’m trying to decide if it’s intentional or not; is she really not looking at me, or is she just not looking at me as much as she normally does?

  I manage to “accidentally” bump her arm once or twice, tap my knee against hers. I even manage to sneak over and fork a piece of her steak. Nothing.

  And the more I watch her, the more I want her to look at me, talk to me, pick me out of all these other assholes. I like how she talks to everyone, always focused on that one person without overdoing it or having it ever come across as flirting. And why would she? She’s easily the most beautiful person in this place. She doesn’t need to chase anything.

  But . . . she did chase me, I remind myself. In Vegas, all the way to British Columbia and here, too. Fuck, I want to brag about that to someone.

  And I want her to flirt with me, maybe just a little.

  Not-Joe’s phone vibrates across the table, and he climbs out of the booth, insisting he needs to go. Everyone else follows soon after. I note that Harlow hasn’t checked her phone for close to an hour, but when she does, there’s a visible change in her posture. Her shoulders stiffen and I’m pretty sure I watch the color slip from her cheeks.

  Harlow has barely had anything to drink, but as the others head for their cars or start making the walk home, she hangs back.

  “Want a ride?” I say.

  She lifts a brow and I laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Olls and I came together; would you like a lift back to your apartment?”

  “Actually, yeah. That’d be great.”

  Her entire demeanor has changed, but I don’t ask any questions. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and follows us out to the truck, insisting on climbing into the backseat and letting Oliver have the front.

  The drive is quiet, and my eyes instinctively flicker to her reflection in the rearview mirror. I can’t see much of her, only the briefest flash of light and shadow as we pass beneath the city streetlights, or she looks at her phone, but she’s just so fucking beautiful. I blink up once to find her watching me and it’s all I can do to look away, focus on the traffic, and not kill us all.

  I have no idea how it happened, but I like Harlow Vega. A lot. I respect her. I want to get to know her. I want to fuck her for reasons that have nothing to do with distraction or my instinctive need to release semen.

  I am so royally fucked.

  We pull up to her building too soon and I jump out, opening her door and helping her climb down.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I nod. “And thank you,” I tell her. “For listening and . . . for keeping it between the two of us.”

  “No problem. I’ll catch you around, okay?” she says, before adding, “Bye, Oliver!” over her shoulder.

  He peeks his head out the window and says his own goodbye, and then she’s gone, making her way up the winding path and to the glowing building.

  Harlow Vega walking away, still one of my favorite views. And definitely the image I’m going to use when I get home.

  OLIVER AND I get back to the house and after a quick good night we each head in the direction of our rooms. I don’t waste any time, clearing the hall in just a few long strides and closing the door behind me. I don’t even think, can’t manage to walk to the bed, or even do the respectable thing and make it to the shower, before I straighten against the wood and reach for my belt. My brain is fuzzy, my muscles tense as I fumble with my fly and push my jeans down just enough to get to my cock.

  The relief is so instantaneous that I hiss through my teeth and have to still my hand, remind myself that Oliver is at the other end of the house and the walls here are paper-thin.

  If I close my eyes I can still feel the press of Harlow’s thigh against mine, the heat that radiated through the denim, the brush of her hair when she reached across me. I fill my lungs and huff out a breath, letting my mind go and conjuring up every dirty, lewd thought I’ve been trying to tamp down since we decided to just be friends.

  I imagine things having gone a little differently tonight. That I went to the bar to get a drink and she followed, telling me to meet her in the bathroom. Maybe I fucked her in the stall, from behind with her legs spread wide, both her hands trapped in one of mine. I could spank her like that, just enough to see my handprint bloom across her skin and make her so wet it gets all over her, all over me.

  Sweat pricks at my forehead and down my back. My shirt clings to my skin and so I pull it off, dropping it at my feet. The sound of my hand on my cock is obscene, the frantic clink of my belt in the otherwise still house. Somehow, it makes me harder, pre-come dribbling from the tip to help with the drag, leaving my hand slick.

  I think of the last time we fucked and how amazing she looked all tied up, how much she wanted it. Did the cords leave a mark, a gentle abrasion on her skin that was there even after I was gone? I wonder if she’d press on them, make it hurt just enough to remind her of what we did, how it felt to be bound and just knowing that I would take care of her.

  I’m almost blindsided when it happens, and I come with a choked-off sound, biting my lip to stay quiet as a Novocain numbness spreads heavy over my body. I work through the last of my orgasm, skin slippery as I slide over it in slow, lazy strokes. I manage to reach for my shirt and wipe off my hand before I cross the last three steps and fall, face-first, onto the bed.

  I don’t open my eyes again until morning.

  Chapter NINE

  Harlow

  I’M IN A bad way, hard up, losing my mind—and I’m not even bothering with denial. Being near Finn—even when he’s being a complete jackass like he was at dinner tonight—obliterates any other worry, and being trapped with him in that truck made me nearly lose my mind. I could smell his soap, the clean smell of his sweat. I could feel his eyes on me the entire drive, flickering up again and again in the rearview mirror.

  After he drops me off, I get myself off on my couch, thinking about our night together in this very spot, before falling asleep half dressed. After all, there is no Finn here to carry me in a boneless heap to my bed and spoon me all night like a champ.

  In the morning, I break routine for the second time in two weeks and head to the Starbucks where I ran into Finn his first day back in town. Spoiler alert: he’s not there.

  And now, I’m standing outside Downtown Graffick, hoping Finn is spending the morning here with Oliver. Unfortunately, through the front windows, I can see Oliver at the counter, but no Finn. Dammit. I should have just gone to their house in Pacific Beach to see him since I’m clearly past the point of pride. But what am I expecting? That somehow between last week and now, our situation has become convenient for a relationship? He lives in Canada. I’m in San Diego. My mother is undergoing aggressive cancer treatment and his family business is going under unless he signs on for a glossy reality television show that stipulates he can’t have a girlfriend.

  But all of the other obstacles—the ones I thought were meaningful only weeks ago, including our tendency to bicker and his bossy male act—don’t seem that relevant anymore. We’ve softened together, found some sort of e
asy peace. Plus, I like his kinky little rope thing. I like the fact that working with his hands, and rope, is so ingrained in his history that it makes him wild to pull me into that world, too, literally wrapping me up in it.

  Oliver looks out the window and spots me, waving for me to come inside. Now I’ll have to go in and pretend I’m really looking for Lorelei because why else would I be at a comic book store? I’ve been friends with Lola long enough to hold my own with basic pop culture references, but Oliver knows the only reason I can differentiate Hellboy from Abe Sapien is because of Lola’s T-shirt collection. I take a deep, confidence-building breath: if I’m here, I’m obviously here looking for her.

  The little bell rings when I push through the door. “There you are, Lola!”

  Lola looks up from where she’s reading in the front nook, and just laughs. Oliver hands a customer some change and thanks them, before looking up at me. “He’s in L.A. today.”

  “Grah,” I mutter. “Busted.” My pulse accelerates thinking about Finn going alone to Los Angeles to meet with the big television executives. He’s got better life instincts than most people I know, but I feel a halfhearted spike of irritation that he didn’t ask me to come along for moral support.

  Ugh, I’m in a bad way. Hard up.

  Losing my mind.

  “Don’t you work today?” Lola asks.

  “No,” I tell her, slumping down on the chair next to hers. “I changed my schedule because Mom starts chemo today, but then Dad told me to come see her tomorrow instead.”

  “What do you even do, Chandler Bing?” Oliver asks, laughing.

  I look up, startled. I didn’t realize he could hear us, and for a beat I’m panicked because I mentioned Mom’s chemo. But Oliver doesn’t look even a little surprised. Either he didn’t hear that part, or Lola’s already told him and he knows he’s not allowed to ask me about it.

  I wonder if he’s told Finn. But if he has, wouldn’t Finn ask me about it?

  “Statistical analysis and data reconfiguration,” I lie, playing along. “What’s Finn doing in L.A. anyway?”

  “Dunno,” he says, and I love the way his accent puts an “r” sound at the end of every word ending in a vowel. He frowns. “He’s not really talking about what he’s doing here at all. Finn’s always been that mysterious broody type, but I don’t know. Quite secretive, really.”

  I nearly high-five myself, knowing now that I know something Oliver doesn’t. Oliver knows Finn better than almost anyone. We’ve talked about his job and his family a little, but Bedroom Finn’s history is an absolute mystery to me, and the more I want to see him, the more I hate the idea of him with hordes of girls, doing what we did at Oliver’s house, and on my couch . . . acts that had left me feeling like my view of sex and intimacy had been wiped clean of a cloudy film I hadn’t even known was there.

  And now here we are, alone in the store without the man himself. No way am I going to miss this opportunity to dig.

  “So you don’t know what Finn is up to down here for a few weeks”—I decide to start slowly, keeping it about professional things—“but it seems like he’s the one basically in charge of his entire family business?”

  Oliver nods. “His mum died when he was twelve, right? Then a few years later his dad had a heart attack and a stroke, so Finn’s running the ship. Literally.”

  “That must make it pretty hard to date.” Oops. My slow-and-subtle plan crashes and burns.

  Lola snorts next to me, flipping the page in her comic book without looking up, and Oliver gives me a dubious glance.

  “I know Finn would tell me anything,” I assure him. “If I asked.”

  Oliver studies me for a moment, running his finger under his lower lip. “So just ask him, then.”

  “I don’t want him to know I want to know,” I say, wearing my Captain Obvious expression. “Duh, Oliver.”

  Laughing, he says, “You two are messed up.”

  “Oh, because we are the only ones with secrets?” I tilt my gaze to Lola, still reading obliviously beside me.

  Oliver gives me the touché face, and says, “Fair enough.”

  He’s all but admitted out loud he has a thing for Lola! I—am—giddy!

  “Besides,” I tell him, coiling my hair into a bun on top of my head, “I may not know him like you do, of course, but we all know he’s a fisherman who works all the time so basically only has time to bang skanky Canadian hockey muffs that he meets at the local Moose N’ Brew.”

  “He doesn’t bang hockey muffs,” Oliver says, mildly offended.

  Bingo.

  “So just a parade of regulars down at the docks, then?”

  Oliver scowls.

  I lace my fingers behind my head, grinning at him. “You’re making this so easy.”

  He starts to organize some receipts. “I can’t believe you married him for twelve hours, knobbed him at his place in Canada, and have been fooling around for almost two weeks here, yet haven’t discussed any of this.”

  “We aren’t fooling around anymore,” I tell him. When he looks up, surprised, I say, “We were too good at it. It was a little too distracting.”

  And here is where I know Lola has talked to Oliver about my mom: His eyes go a little sympathetic, a little soft. “Right. Sorry, Harlow.”

  “Gah, don’t. She’s going to be fine.”

  “Knowing your mum, yeah, she is.” He bends to pick something up from behind the counter and it’s all I can do to not hurl myself across the glass to hug him for sounding so confident. He’s met my mom three times since he’s moved to San Diego—at a barbecue, at Mia’s official welcome-home party, and at a birthday party for Lola’s dad, Greg—and I could tell Mom and Oliver have one of those unspoken über-calm-person bonds where they just automatically clicked.

  “I haven’t talked about it with anyone but the girls,” I tell him meaningfully. He stands back up and nods, making the zips-lips gesture. “Anyway,” I say, “tell me more about Finn’s steady girlfriend.”

  Laughing, Oliver says, “You’re relentless. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Though I will tell you that the steady act is far more his speed than the wild trench-coat-surprise act you prefer.”

  I let this settle in for a minute. Is that my preference? Trench coat flings and date-count maximums of two? It has been, I guess. My longest relationship was the four months I dated Jackson Ford in college. It never really got off the ground, though, in part because it spanned the summer I was off with Dad filming in Greece, and because spending time with Jackson was about as interesting as reading the back of a shampoo bottle. I’ve always thought of myself as wanting to be in a relationship. But most guys fail to measure up almost as soon as they start speaking.

  Lola nudges me with her elbow. “Why are you trying to find a reason that you guys can’t be together?”

  “Because he’s horrible?” I lie.

  She snorts out a laugh. “He’s built like a man who works with his hands, has a sense of humor drier than the Sahara, and the thing that gets him off more than anything in the world is giving you orgasms. What a nightmare.”

  My voice of reason is always Lola. “You’re a jackass.”

  “You only say that when I’m being your voice of reason.”

  “Out of my head, witch. And don’t piss me off,” I tell her. “I’ll buy you underwear one size too small for Christmas and make you hate life.”

  “Come to think of it,” Oliver cuts in, walking around the cashwrap and leaning back against it to face us, “you aren’t really Finn’s type, so it’s probably for the best that you guys stopped messing around.”

  “What?” I say, dropping my nonchalance to the side in favor of knee-jerk offense. “Why?”

  “Well, you’re a bit of an unnecessary ballbuster.” I open my mouth but Lola elbows me again, sharper this time. “Plus, Finn doesn’t just mess around, as I’ve mentioned. I only met one of his ex-girlfriends, Melody, and—”

  “Sorry,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. �
��Melody?”

  He raises his eyebrows as if I’m proving one of his points and I bite my lips to keep from saying anything else.

  “They were together for a few years before and just after Bike and Build. She was nice, just really quiet . . .” He tilts his head and winces, nonverbally suggesting maybe I’m not so quiet.

  “But they aren’t together anymore,” I remind him.

  “Nope.”

  “So maybe he doesn’t like quiet. Maybe he likes chatty half-Irish, half-Spanish feisty gingers who call him on his bossy shit.”

  “Well, I thought it didn’t matter anyway,” Oliver says with a little smile.

  REGAL BEAGLE TONIGHT, I text Finn once I’m home. Lola, Oliver, me, Not-Joe. You coming?

  I stare at my phone for at least a minute, waiting for him to reply, but nothing. Ordinarily, Finn strikes me as the kind of guy who will forget he even has a phone until he empties his pockets at the end of the day, but lately he’s been checking it nearly constantly, so I expect him to reply quickly.

  But an hour later, he still hasn’t.

  I text, How did it go? I can’t wait to hear about it.

  Still no reply. Maybe he’s driving. Maybe the meeting went long. Maybe he’s sitting at a huge desk, signing contracts.

  Lola and Oliver pick me up in his beater Nissan and I stare at the back of their heads as they jabber on and on about his store, her upcoming book launch, one of their favorite comics. How can they not see they’re perfect together?

  I want to shout it and hear it echo in the car, but the certainty of a beheading at Lola’s hand keeps the words inside. When we get to the bar, I practically tear the car door off the hinges in an effort to launch myself onto the sidewalk, taking in a huge breath of air free of the Lola-Oliver-cuteness-overload.

  But then my heart stops entirely, because parked behind us at the curb is Finn’s truck. He’s had it cleaned—probably before he drove up to L.A.—and it’s empty. He must be inside already. And he didn’t answer my texts.