Big Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  I need to strategize this, but I don’t even know what this is.

  Being more than friends?

  Feeling something real?

  Finding out if she feels the same?

  What is the word for this feeling? It’s like my chest is a trampoline, and my heart is doing backflips on it. Only, I’ve never practiced them before, and if I do them again I could land on my head.

  Or my ass.

  Or even my face.

  So yeah. With a packed bar on a Friday night, I’m not so sure I can figure out what to do with the pesto mayo feelings.

  During the evening rush, I alternate between catching up on purchase orders on my laptop, telling Charlotte about the train attack, and helping out behind the bar, while in the back office Charlotte works on ideas for a new marketing campaign.

  “Out of Belvedere,” Jenny remarks from the counter as she waggles an empty bottle.

  “I’ll grab one,” I say and head to the office, where Charlotte is perched on a reclining chair, wearing jeans, and a white strappy top. When I see her, I freeze-frame through images—the photo of us, the moment on the corner of Forty-third, the pesto mayo, the toothpaste, the words she said to Abe the other night. My heart slams against my rib cage, and I wonder if this crazy overtime beating is why there are books, movies, songs, poetry about people falling—

  “Hey you,” she says, and the softness in her tone wafts over me. But it’s the sweetness that hooks me. That sweetness feels personal, and just for me.

  Yes.

  This is why there are books, movies, songs and poetry about falling for someone. I roam my eyes over her, and even though we haven’t christened this office or the bar yet, and even though I want to, my thoughts aren’t on sex. They’re on her, and on this jumble of words like alphabet soup inside my head.

  “Hey you back,” I say softly. I point at the cabinet behind her. “I need a Belvedere.”

  “I’ll grab it.” She sets her iPad on the chair, stands, and reaches for the cabinet handle. As she stretches, her shirt rides up, revealing a small sliver of her back.

  “You look gorgeous,” I say.

  She glances back at me and smiles. “So do you. Your house later? Mine?”

  Maybe this is just sex for her. Maybe that’s all she wants. But even so, I need to know.

  “Yes. Either,” I say as she opens the cupboard, and I inch closer to plant a kiss on her bare neck.

  Then pain slices through me with a thunk as the cabinet door connects with my skull. It reverberates. It takes over my head, my body, every single cell.

  I curse up a motherfucking storm, because this hurts like hell.

  “Oh my God, oh my God. Are you okay?” she says in a panic, her hands on my shoulder.

  My right palm covers my eye, my head roaring as the thump echoes in my skull, epicentered in my temple.

  “I think you hit my head,” I say, because the whack has turned me into Captain Obvious.

  “Oh God.” This time she whispers the words, and she’s staring at me like I’ve lost an eye.

  “What is it?” I ask, and while I’m pretty sure I’m not down to one eye, since I can still see, I suspect my face isn’t pretty.

  “That’s the biggest goose egg I’ve ever seen.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Things I learned tonight.

  First, I checked the calendar. Turns out it is Abuse Spencer Day, and abuse occurs in threes. But it’s past midnight now, so I’d like to think the threat level has downgraded to green.

  But you never know.

  Second, the goose egg is the largest known bump in recorded human history, but three hours of continuous ice have not only frozen my temple but reduced the swelling to pretty much nothing. However, the bruise on the side of my face is what’s referred to as a “whoa, dude, that’s a big-ass bruise.”

  That’s what the guy at Duane Reade said when I picked up ibuprofen.

  Third, ibuprofen has worked wonders.

  But the real test comes now. There’s a buzzing near the door, and it’s Charlotte, since she texted me she was on her way with supplies. I turn to Fido. He’s sound asleep on the couch pillow, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. “Can you answer it?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I drag myself off the sofa and head to the door. I press the buzzer. “Hello? Is it the world’s hottest nurse that I ordered from the temp nursing agency?”

  Her laugher bounces through the intercom.

  “Why yes, it is, and I’m here to give you a sponge bath.”

  I buzz Charlotte in, open the door, and wait till the elevator creaks up the six flights then lets her off. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I watch her walk toward me.

  “Don’t tell me your eyes hurt, too,” she teases.

  “No, just this,” I say, lightly brushing near my temple.

  She’s holding several bags, and I shut the door behind her and return to my couch. She sets the bags down on the coffee table, and studies me. Raising her fingers, she moves them close to the bruise, but doesn’t touch. “Does it hurt?”

  I nod.

  She leans over me and dusts a kiss on my forehead.

  I moan for effect. “So much. It hurts so much.”

  She shakes her head, then pulls back to look at me. “Seriously. How do you feel?”

  I scrunch up the corner of my mouth, torn with whether to tell her the truth—getting better—or to go for sympathy and sex. My decision-making process lasts all of a nanosecond. “Awful,” I mutter, and that earns me one more kiss.

  She sits up straight, brushes her palms together, and says, “Okay. I brought you your favorite drink,” she says, reaching for the bag, and showing me an airplane-size bottle of scotch. I raise an eyebrow appreciatively. “Cold sesame noodles from your favorite Chinese restaurant.” She grabs a white carton, and holds it up like it’s on display. I lick my lips. “Or,” she begins, dipping her hand into another bag as she retrieves something wrapped in white butcher paper, “the grilled paninis you love from the bodega on the corner. Chicken and provolone, hold the mayo. Since you hate mayo.”

  Forget sympathy and sex. This is what I want. Her, here with me, knowing all these things. I cup her cheeks. “I want it all,” I tell her.

  She kisses me, but her kisses are tentative, her lips nervous. “I’m not broken,” I say as I pull away.

  “I just feel bad. It’s my fault. I hit you with a cabinet door.”

  “Well, it wasn’t intentional.” I pause. “Or was it?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not.”

  “Am I that hideous to look at now?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. You’re gorgeous, as always.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I just feel terrible for hurting you. I want you to feel better. That’s why I brought you this care package.” She gestures to the goodies.

  “And I appreciate it.”

  “Let me get you some more ice,” she says, and heads to the kitchen to grab a cold pack from the freezer. When she returns, she presses it to my forehead. Gently, I swat her hand away.

  “Charlotte, I’ve been icing it for hours. If you ice it anymore, the goose egg will reverse itself and get sucked into my brain. That’s a very dangerous condition.”

  She narrows her eyes but relents, setting down the pack. She gestures to the bottle of ibuprofen. “Do you need any more?”

  I shake my head. “I took two at ten p.m. I’m drunk on the stuff right now.”

  She wrings her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  I push my head back on the pillow. “Am I somehow doing something that makes you think I give a shit that you whacked me? Unless this horrific bruise is going to stop you from fucking me right now, I don’t care,” I say loudly.

  She shakes her head.

  I soften my voice as I run a finger down her neck. “Then stop fussing over me. I don’t want ibuprofen. I don’t want ice. I don’t even want cold noodles, and they’re my seco
nd favorite food behind those sandwiches you brought me, hold the mayo please.”

  “What do you want?”

  I curl my hand around the back of her head and tug her down to me. Her lips hover inches from mine. I thought I didn’t want sex and sympathy. I was right on that account. I want sex and something else, though.

  Sex with her. Sex with feelings. Sex with the only woman I’ve ever felt this way for. I whisper in her ear, “You.”

  She shivers against me, then slowly, playfully she moves down my body.

  As she reaches the waistband of my basketball shorts, she wiggles her eyebrows. Pressing her hand against my erection, she says, “I find it amusing that your goose egg matches your dick, Spencer.”

  “Yeah? In what way? Not color, I hope.”

  “The biggest ever,” she says, then tugs off my shorts and briefs. I yank off my shirt. “This will make everything better,” she murmurs as she pushes my chest flat on the couch and kneels between my legs. Her eyes stay on me as she takes her time, settling in, licking her lips, getting ready.

  She takes the head of my dick in her mouth, and I sigh, I groan, I moan.

  This is the very definition of heaven. Look it up. Dictionary. Right there. Charlotte’s lips on my cock. She teases me, swirling her tongue around the head then licking the length of my shaft. She works her way up, flattening her tongue on the underside, and heat shoots through my veins.

  My hips shift, and I want her to take me all the way in, but her kisses on my dick are driving me wild. The way she licks me like I’m her favorite candy is lightning along my spine. It crackles.

  She opens wider and draws me in, sucking the head, and my eyes fall closed as I rock into her fantastic mouth.

  But I don’t keep my eyes closed for long. I need to see her. To watch her. Her hair spills all over my thighs, her head bobs between my legs, and her lips are swollen and red as my dick slides through them.

  No better image ever.

  Staring unabashedly at my goddess, I thread my fingers tighter into those strands, yanking on her hair. “Take more,” I whisper, urging her on, and she does, dropping her mouth lower then cupping my balls in her hand. I close my eyes and hiss, and then I can’t help it. I start to move, to pump, to fuck her beautiful mouth. My hand on the back of her head pulls her closer, seeking more. My skin burns up, and I’m close to tripping that switch, to coming hard in her mouth.

  “Fuck,” I say on a rough groan as I pull her off me.

  I can’t come in her mouth. Not when I want her this much. Not when I want her to come.

  “You don’t like it?” she asks, worry etched in her beautiful brown eyes.

  I scoff. “I love it, but I want you to ride me.” I reach for my wallet and a condom. “And I want you to ride me now. That’s the only thing that will make me feel better.”

  She shucks off her clothes in seconds flat and straddles me. I reach for her hips and lower her onto my dick, thrilling at the hot, tight feel of her. She gasps as she takes me in.

  “You’re so wet for me. Is that all from sucking my dick?” I ask, as I move her up and down.

  She nods and pants, and then she does the sexiest thing. It’s like she’s not even thinking about it, which is what makes it so sexy. She drags her hand over her breasts as I thrust into her. She’s touching her own tits, and it’s fantastic. Everything inside me sizzles. My blood runs to Mercury levels as I watch her ride me, like a gorgeous, languid cowgirl. Her hands brush down her belly, that flat, soft belly I want to lick and kiss. She moans and pants, and it is the hottest thing in the world to witness—she’s touching herself as she’s fucking me.

  She rides me, sliding up and down on my cock, finding her friction, chasing her release.

  It’s like she’s masturbating with my dick.

  I want her to use me. To do whatever she wants with me. To have me in any way that feels good to her. Her breath hitches, her shoulders tremble, and she starts to lose control. Grabbing her hips, I urge her on. “Let go for me, baby. You’re so beautiful when you come.”

  “I’m close, so close,” she murmurs, grinding on me, taking me deep, her moans turning to cries.

  I burn up all over as I watch her. I am comprised of nothing but heat. Her lips. Her mouth. Her eyes. Everything. She is my fucking everything.

  Her hand flies into her hair, and she runs her fingers through it as her other hand plays with her tits. Her eyes are closed, and she’s completely lost in her own pleasure. She is beautiful and breathtaking as she fucks me to the edge. Soon she’s thrusting wildly on me, and now I need to be in this with her.

  “Look at me,” I tell her, my voice hoarse.

  Her eyes flutter open. They are hazy and full of lust and passion, and something more, something that feels incredibly new and yet intensely familiar. She starts to close them again.

  “Look at me.” This time it’s a command, rough and heated.

  “But I fall apart faster when I do,” she murmurs in protest, but it’s more of an admission, because her gaze locks to mine as she lowers her face close to me, her hands curling around my shoulders. “And I want it to last,” she says on a moan. I know she’s talking about sex, only I can’t help but think she means something else, too. Like I do.

  We are tethered. She doesn’t look away, and I couldn’t if I tried. In her eyes, I see everything I never knew I wanted. Now I need it fiercely. She whispers my name. It sounds like honey on her tongue. I snap. My balls tighten, and I need her to come now because I’m seconds away.

  “Come on me,” I rasp out, as my climax starts to tear through me. “Come on me now.”

  And she does on a wild cry, coming with me. She leans into me, her mouth near my ear. The epic chant sounds, and this one is new. “I can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop.”

  It’s so hot and so wild, the way she says it over and over. I love it. I love it when Charlotte comes. I love it when she’s happy. I love fucking her. I love everything right now, even my goose egg, even the elbow whack, even the bat that fell on my damn toe.

  She collapses on me, nuzzling my neck, kissing my ear, whispering so good, so good over and over.

  “It’s so good,” I echo, though that adjective feels insufficient for what this has become.

  “Everything is with you,” she says, and when I wrap my arms tighter around her back, she snuggles into me.

  “Every single thing,” I say.

  I love every goddamn thing in the universe, and I am the happiest bastard in the world right now, here, in this room, with the woman I have fallen for.

  That’s what this is. That’s what the alphabet soup spells.

  I’ve broken the biggest ground rule of all.

  I’ve fallen in love with my best friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The bat connects with the ball with a resounding whack, and I tag up on third, waiting, waiting, waiting to see if it lands in the outfielder’s glove or sends me home.

  Boom. Over the fence.

  I pump a fist and shout.

  Nick tosses the bat on the dirt and trots down the baseline as I run home. Watching him round the bases sends my father whooping from the makeshift dugout. Nick’s homerun has put Dad’s team ahead at the top of the ninth.

  I hold out a hand and slap palms with our slugger as he nears the home plate. “Nice work, Grandslam,” I say, since he’s knocked out a few so far this season.

  Once his foot hits the plate, the chorus from “Beautiful” by Christine Aguilera plays. Interesting choice. Not my first pick for Nick, but Mr. Offerman’s daughter appointed herself “announcer” for the game and has been picking the tunes for hits, homers, and strikeouts. Emily holds up a blue, oval-shaped handheld speaker that’s streaming music from her phone. She shakes her hips and encourages our team to rock out with her. Her sisters cheer her on from the three rows of creaky metal bleachers.

  My father high-fives Nick as he walks off the field. “You’re my ringer. Your check’ll be in the mail,
” my dad jokes as we head toward the team bench near the bleachers. Charlotte waves and smiles. My heart beats faster as I look at her.

  Tonight, I tell myself. I’ve got it all planned. I’m taking her to her favorite Italian restaurant in Chelsea, and I’m going to put my heart on the line. I’ll tell her she’s the one and then hope to hell that the woman in the Page Six photo is the one who’s coming to dinner, not the woman who said she’s just my best friend. I have no clue if Charlotte only sees me as a friendly fling, or if she wants more, like I do. But I know how I feel—I want her to be my best friend, my lover, and my partner. I want her to be all mine, and that’s why this morning—after we brushed our teeth, of course—I asked her out on a real date.

  She said yes.

  The realization that I have an official date tonight with the only woman I’ve ever fallen in love with makes my palms sweat. I’ll be going out on a limb and taking the biggest chance of all when I tell her that faking it led to making it for me. My pulse races with the rabid hope that this isn’t a one-way street.

  Hell, she’s holding my keys, wallet and phone in her purse during the game—there’s got to be room for the old ticker, too, right? I break away from Nick, run up the stands, and give Charlotte a quick kiss. Her lips glide across mine, and she sighs softly. In seconds, Ciara’s “Pucker Up” blasts from Emily’s speaker. Damn, that girl is fast.

  I head down the bleachers.

  Another player from the Katharine’s team steps up to the plate, and my dad cheers him on. Dad’s in a good mood today, not only because we’re winning, but because the papers were signed this morning. His attorney is doing a final review, and filing them with the business authorities on Monday. By then, if all goes well, Charlotte and I will be a real couple, so we won’t even need to break up. Amazing, how everything is coming together perfectly.

  As I grab a spot on the bench, Nick speaks to me in a low voice, pretending he’s talking to Charlotte. “Oh hey, Char. How’s it going? You still enjoying dating Spencer? What’s that? You love his big ego. Oh yeah, it’s so huge. I love it, too.” He turns to me, his voice deadpan. “So how am I doing at going along with things?”