“You’re right. I don’t feel the same way you do,” he said. He rubbed slow circles into the sensitive skin at the base of her palms, his thumb way more seductive than a thumb had any right to be. “I don’t obsess about you.” He was being cruel and kind at the same time. Her throat constricted, and her eyes flooded. It was her turn to beg him to stop, but before she could, he said, “You listen to me, Saroj. I don’t feel the way you do, because I don’t have to wonder. I know what you are to me.”
Oh, of course he did. “And what is that? Someone who gets your name up on the Gazette every few weeks? A groupie? A one-woman ego boost?”
“No.” He brought her hands up between them, squeezing them. And then he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “A constant.”
Chapter Two
What the ever-loving fuck was going on tonight? The bar hadn’t changed—it still smelled like smoke and beer and vodka tonics, and the world hadn’t changed—it was still Earth, still present-day. But, somehow, Adam had tripped into an alternate universe, where up was down and blue was green and sweet little Saroj was…
“A constant,” he heard himself say, as he gave in to a ridiculous impulse to kiss the backs of her hands. Like maybe that would comfort her, stop her from whatever this crazy fit of emotion was. “You’re my constant. You’ve always been with me. Don’t walk away from me now.”
All it did was piss her off more…and tell him that her skin tasted soft and flowery, like whatever girlie lotion she used after a bath.
Not that he needed to think about her in a bathtub. Or in a shower. Or naked. At all. No way. He dragged his brain back to her fully dressed in the here and now, back to touching her and reassuring her and calming her down. And he failed miserably at it.
Her fingers flexed under his mouth, and she jerked her hands away. “Give me a break. We’re not characters on Lost. A ‘constant.’ Hah.” She shook her head, her dark, wavy hair clouding around her. “A constant what? A constant pain?” The Indian accent that only thickened when she was upset was out in full force. “Because that’s how it is for me. It hurts, and I need to get over it. I need to get over you.”
When were you under me? That old line from Friends popped into his head, and he wanted to laugh but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but stare at her, because it was like seeing her for the first time. A girl in a pretty blue dress. It fastened around her neck, and her chest was practically bare. Except for the sparkly silver locket that pointed straight down toward her cleavage. Saroj has cleavage.
Jesus freaking Christ. None of this made sense. Nothing about this was normal. Saroj standing in front of him with her lipstick all smudged, and her big brown eyes filled with sadness—and anger—was definitely not normal. Something deep inside him twisted, like Johnny Ray’s stupidity had shoved a corkscrew through his chest. It was like being punched and having the wind knocked out of him.
I need to get over you, she’d said. Why now? Why here?
“I’m sorry.” He’d always known she had a crush on him, and he’d spent the last God-knew-how-many years being sorry about it—trying to ignore the way she looked at him, trying to be as good a friend to her as he could without hurting her…and hurting her anyway. It was the lesser of two evils, right? Hurting her a little instead of screwing up her life in the long run? Girls like her weren’t even supposed to be in the same room as guys like him—unless they were slumming. They were barely supposed to be friends…and he was so damn lucky they had that. “God, Saroj, you know I care about you—”
But she didn’t let him finish. Maybe she knew as well as he did that he had no idea where the sentence was headed. “Yeah, you care so much that it took Johnny sticking his tongue down my throat for you to say something.” She shook her head. “That’s not fair.”
Fair? Nothing about this was fair. This was supposed to be a regular Saturday night, playing a couple of songs, hanging out with friends, having a good time, thinking about anything and everything but the day shifts and doubles he had to pull at McAllister’s this week. Making music and making rent didn’t exactly go hand in hand. But he’d worked it all out somehow. He had a system. A balance. His best friend and his…his…Saroj…weren’t supposed to throw him a curveball.
“Sticking his…” He winced. It was a mental image he never needed to revisit. Ever. “Kissing you wasn’t exactly one of Johnny’s better ideas. He had no right.”
“He had every right! He’s single. I’m single. If we want to horizontal tango into next week, it’s our business.” Saroj pushed at his chest. It should’ve been a shove, but she was more attitude than actual power. A tiny, furious package…so tiny that Johnny Ray had no problem plastering her against that wall. Christ. He swallowed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. She wasn’t wrong. He had no say in what she or Johnny did. So why did the idea of them together make him want to bleach his eyeballs?
“Adam.” The anger drained out of her voice, replaced by what sounded like a whole mess of exhaustion. Her palm flattened, stroking up to his throat, the side of his face. She’d touched him this way hundreds of times during end-of-the-night hugs. This time, it scalded. “Don’t overthink it. Don’t make it more than it is. I’m sorry I unloaded on you. Just let me go home. We’ll forget about this, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Maybe Saroj would forget. He wasn’t so sure he would. All he could do was think. And overthink. And rub his cheek against her fingers. Stubble against skin. Like her fingers were the match, and he was the box. One good strike, and they’d go up in flames.
All of a sudden, the last thing he wanted was for her to walk out that door with Johnny Ray’s kisses on her lips. It was caveman, irrational, lizard-brain crap that had no basis in reality—more unfair than everything else that had gone down in the last twenty minutes—but he grasped her hip and tugged her closer…and brought his mouth down on hers.
She made a little sound like, “Oh.” A moan. Surprise. And then she opened her lips, letting him in. Taking handfuls of his shirt and twisting them, pulling him into her. He didn’t know if it was self-preservation or stupidity, but he’d never really thought about kissing her before. Not beyond brief little pecks when they saw each other—it was no big thing, right? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
This, all insanity and frustration, was completely different. It was the sharp-sweet tang of the orange from the rim of her beer. It was her stretching up on her toes and taking. It was sugary and hot, and his whole body was into it. It was good. So fucking good. Because of Saroj. Because he wanted her. For the first time ever, he was letting himself have her.
“God, Saroj…you’re…” She was his constant. A constant ache. “You’re so beautiful.”
She clutched the material of his T-shirt, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go…and then she pushed him away. The shove that hadn’t worked before, it worked now, rocking him back. And the look in her eyes…it almost knocked him on his ass. Sadder, angrier, than before. Broken.
“Good night,” she whispered, before leaving him standing there alone.
Chapter Three
Coffee. Every sense cried out for it as Saroj gingerly swung out of bed, her feet blindly scrabbling for her sandals. No, scratch that, every sense but one. She froze, one flip-flop dangling, as she remembered the night before. In vivid detail. Adam had kissed her. Actually, Johnny Ray had kissed her, and then Adam had kissed her. That was, altogether, more kissing than she’d experienced in the last year.
But only Adam’s mouth had made a real impact. Only his tongue had set her spinning. She’d kissed him back with everything she couldn’t give the Harrys and Johnnys of the world. She touched her lips, half expecting them to be burned or bruised or branded. But, no, they were just parted in shock, and her jaw felt tender from the friction of his beard stubble.
It had actually happened. All of it. She’d spent most of the cab ride back to her apartment trying to convince herself she’d imagined the whole nigh
t—or at least the parts after the Brute Squad packed up their gear.
“Forget about it, Saroj. It means nothing. It’s just boys being boys.” Just a game. Adam trying to “take her back” after seeing Johnny stake a claim. Like Red Rover, which she’d never quite understood…standing there in the elementary school gym, fresh from India, and uncomprehending of how important it was to break through the opposing team’s line.
That was what Adam had done: broke through a line. Crossed a dozen of them. Made her hopes worse instead of better.
She rubbed her eyes, swallowing against the alcohol-laced sourness at the back of her throat. Her cell phone lay on the edge of her nightstand where she’d tossed it before bed, the status light blinking a furious red. When she passed her fingers over the touch screen, there were four unread texts in a row.
I’m sorry.
Of course he was sorry.
Call me tomorrow?
No. Not a chance.
Please call me tomorrow!! We need 2 talk.
No kidding. And, still, no way.
Hey babe evr wanna make out again just give a holler.
She burst out laughing, dropping the phone into the tangled sheets. Johnny Ray’s directorial skills were on point as usual; he’d picked the perfect way to make her laugh and get her moving.
She padded out into the living room and the small, attached kitchenette. On a reporter’s salary—no Ma and Dad, no hefty Diwali gift checks required—she was basically All IKEA, All The Time. She’d put together the pristine, pale, Swedish-sensibility bookshelves and coffee table herself. No maddening men required. No Adam required.
You’re my constant, he’d said, like they were characters on a TV show or something. You’re beautiful, he’d said, like he actually meant it. Like kissing her wasn’t just temporary insanity brought on by a basic male urge to mark his territory. She’d ached for the taste of him for almost six years, carrying her torch until it was practically burned down to the handle. And now he’d decided to see what it was like? Bullshit.
She puttered around, measuring out spoonfuls of French roast and filling her coffeemaker with cold water. While it sputtered and beeped, she went off to brush her teeth. As if doing such mundane things would make her feel better, would somehow make their weird little non-ménage equally normal.
Despite Johnny’s comments about the Adam Harper Chastity Vow and her nun-like habits, she had a social life. She’d dated all through college, lost her virginity after an Indian Students Association celebration of Diwali, and even had an—admittedly disastrous—relationship with Hari “Call me Harry” Patel, an investment banker, for five months. Long enough for their parents to start hoping for desi grandkids…and long enough for her to realize it wasn’t about to happen if she still imagined babies having Adam’s bright blue eyes. In fact, she’d spent a lot of those five months imagining Adam. Particularly in bed.
But, still, she’d tried. She’d put herself out there. She wasn’t living her life on pause. Now, thanks to one mind-numbing, soul-bending kiss, she was living it on rewind.
Saroj could taste him in the mint of toothpaste, in the rich, milky goodness of coffee. In the air she breathed. He followed her into the shower, his hands ghosting over her body, and chased her from her bedroom, to the hallway, to the stairwell. Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she ignored it—too afraid to see more text messages from him…or worse, see texts that weren’t from him.
She’d call in a couple of days. There was no sense in rehashing last night when it was still so fresh, when he was feeling some sort of misplaced white-knight guilt over her kissing his best friend. Saroj couldn’t help but grin at the absurdity of that line of thinking.
As she hit the sidewalk, she finally reached for her phone. Anytime, Johnny, she wrote back. It’s a better use for your big mouth than talking.
She wouldn’t actually take him up on any of his lewd offers, but he didn’t have to know that right now. It was barely eleven and he was probably passed out, asleep, in his bed. He and Adam kept practically opposite hours, which made them perfect roomies. Adam was an early riser, by the clock, always on time and on a schedule. Because he was so damn responsible and upstanding. If he wasn’t practicing with the Squad or at a gig, he was managing at McAllister’s and stepping in as a bartender whenever they needed the extra hands.
Damn those hands.
She shuddered and stepped up her pace. Her standing Sunday brunch date was just a few blocks away—the kind of place that was perfect for hungover bedhead when you were twenty-one, but just as comfortable for a dash of lip gloss and a pretense of class when you were hungover at twenty-four. And if there was anyone who could give her some perspective right now, it was the girls. Anu didn’t take shit from anyone, and Becca…Becca would probably give her a medal and buy her two rounds of Bloody Marys for kissing two guys in one night.
It wasn’t an honor Saroj deserved.
It was just heartache, plain and simple. And would soon be a Bloody Mary-induced headache, too, thanks to the Subtle Knife’s killer unlimited cocktail brunch.
“He’s bad for you,” Anu said, like it was a patient diagnosis. Dressed in scrub pants, devoid of makeup, and with her hair in the world’s sloppiest ponytail, she still looked effortlessly pretty. If Saroj didn’t love her like a sister, she would hate her. “After all these years, he’s finally paying attention? There’s something off about that, and it’s just going to hurt you in the long run. You’ve got to let this go. He’s not even that good-looking.”
“No, he really is that good-looking,” Becca interrupted. “And if he’s finally buying a clue, I say she should go for it.” She was a third-year law student, and “go for it” had always seemed to be her motto. Like when she’d tried to rope Saroj into rushing a sorority their freshman year. Saroj had been too shy to rush anywhere except into her dorm room with a pile of premed texts that would see the recycling bin by the next semester. “What do you have to lose by taking a chance?” she asked. “He’s hot. He wants you. Get it, girl!”
Anu wrinkled her nose. “You would say that, Becks. You’ve never met a pretty face you didn’t like.”
“Hey, I’ve got to sit somewhere,” Becca deadpanned, causing scandalized spit-takes all around. Out of the three of them, she was the only one pale enough to really blush, and the least likely to. Saroj sometimes envied her ability to give absolutely zero fucks about anything. She said what she wanted, did what she wanted, and wouldn’t wait half a decade for anything. Certainly not for Adam.
Anu, recovering from the one-liner to end all one-liners, patted sputtered mimosa from her shirt with a napkin. “Just ask yourself if this is worth it. Is he worth it? Do you have a chance for a future? I didn’t think Vince and I had a shot in Hell, but he proved me wrong. Do you really think Adam would do that?”
The two men were as different as night from day. Anu’s boyfriend was a doctor just like her, and he had nearly twenty years on Adam. He had a career, a reputation, stability. He knew what he wanted and went for it. No one had trapped him into noticing Anu.
“It’s pointless,” Saroj said, slouching in her seat and stirring the fancy green-bean garnish in her Bloody Mary. “An act of God wouldn’t get Adam to see me as a real choice.”
Becca’s sculpted eyebrows went into suggestive overtime. “It depends on the act.”
No. No, it really didn’t. It depended on Adam. And although she’d depended on him for years, her heart couldn’t say the same.
It was why she’d worked so hard to take him out of the equation. To move forward. For God’s sake, she was sending out résumés and clips to online magazines in Chicago and New York and Philly. She hadn’t planned to stay here through her twenties. It was a way station. Adam was a way station.
Not her destination.
Never her destination.
“Oh, Saroj.” Becca clicked her tongue. “Girl, you are in trouble.”
Chapter Four
Three days passed in a blur of
post-show, pre-work, and during-work exhaustion. Adam didn’t even realize it was a Tuesday night until old man McAllister came in with the payroll checks for him to pass out to the rest of the staff. He wandered back to the bustling kitchen, the dark hole of the basement where Javi and Camille were doing inventory. He even found the busboys smoking in the alley out back. And, when he was left with just the one, with the neatly typed “Harper, Adam,” visible in the envelope window, he collapsed on one of the high stools at the bar, exhaling like he’d held in one breath for days. Maybe that was true. Maybe he hadn’t really breathed at all since watching Saroj walk out of the club.
Good night, Adam, she’d said. Good night. Like a word that simple could follow what they’d done. What he’d done. What kind of moron was he for kissing her? For liking it? For wanting to do it again? That wasn’t their deal. It wasn’t who they were supposed to be. In ten years, she’d be hanging out with doctors and lawyers and bankers, not even looking back on the dumbasses she knew in college. It was only a matter of time before she quit idling in the middle class and going to every indie rock show she got a flyer for. She wasn’t a snob, or a princess…it just wasn’t her life.
He wasn’t her constant. He couldn’t be. It was against the rules.
So, he’d put her on this shelf. No, behind glass. And then broken it into a million pieces to get to her. What the hell was that?
Adam couldn’t even blame her for ignoring all his texts. And JR had taken a huge amount of satisfaction in telling him, “She texted me back, man, saying she’d be happy go for a ride in the Morris-mobile anytime.” It took about ninety percent of his self-control to keep from yanking out the Morris-mobile’s battery. The other ten percent reminded him that he needed JR alive to pay half the rent. And that JR was allowed to flirt with Saroj. That she was allowed to flirt back. And she was allowed to hate Adam for messing with her mind.
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