by Wynne Roman
We laid there, quiet and stiff—at least on my part—until he told me a joke.
“Knock knock.”
“What?” I was laying on my back but turned my head to squint through the darkness at him.
“Knock knock,” he said again, insistent this time.
“Who’s there?” I played along.
“Tank.”
“Tank who?”
“You’re welcome.”
I snorted and laughed at the same time. Noah laughed with me.
“That was terrible,” I said when I could speak.
“It was,” he agreed. “But it made you laugh.”
It had. And it had broken the tension I couldn’t quite identify until it was gone.
I had to acknowledge that.
“Knock knock.” I could an hear the smile in my voice.
“Who’s there?” he asked, leaving me wondering why he had to sound sexy when he was holding back a laugh.
“Frank.”
“Frank who?”
“Frank you for being my friend.”
A little of the nervousness returned. At least in me. Then Noah made it easier again when he said, “That’s just as bad.”
“I know.”
“You’re welcome.”
That was enough. I turned on my side and yeah, I was still aware of him, even with my back to him. I reminded myself to breathe deeply, even counted my breaths, and eventually I fell asleep.
I think Noah slept pretty good, too. Even if, when I woke up in the middle of the night, I found myself tucked next to his side. His arm was around me, and my face was pressed against his pec. I could have kissed him if I’d wanted to, but instead I inhaled that woodsy, nutty, pure-Noah scent that produces so many wonderful, sexy memories.
I remember smiling to myself and then . . . nothing. I must have fallen back asleep until a few minutes ago.
What the hell am I doing? A few days ago, I was living my ordinary life, happy enough in my job, and anxious about what kind of future I might have with my boyfriend. I rarely thought about Noah Dexter unless I heard a Wycked Obsession song, and I’d almost convinced myself that everything that happened was just a high school romance that got out of hand.
Now?
Well, now it’s just all fucked up. That’s the best way to put it, and I almost feel some satisfaction in acknowledging it. That’s the first step in recovery, right?
I nod to myself and settle more comfortably in Noah’s bed, wondering about step two. I’m not quite sure—yet—and in a moment of pure self-indulgence, I decide to take Noah’s advice.
Go back to sleep. Rest up. Prepare myself.
I think I’m gonna need it.
Five Years Earlier
I hate school. I walk out through the back door toward the student parking lot with a scowl. I know I’m frowning, and I don’t care. I hate my teachers, I hate my classes, and I hate all the other kids.
I didn’t used to feel this way, but I do now. Now that I have to walk around, pretending that everyone isn’t talking about me. About us. Watching us, like Noah is going to throw me down and fuck me in the halls between classes.
And me watching Noah act like nothing happened the other night. Like he didn’t fuck me mindlessly while paying most of his attention to Marlie.
I hate her . . . and right now, I hate him, too.
And my hate is like poison when I come out of the school and see Marlie hanging all over Noah next to his huge black truck.
Bitch. And he’s . . . well, he’s just an asshole.
I stop, but only long enough for a breath and to get my shit together. I push up the sleeves of my lightweight gray sweater and stroll over to Noah’s truck, acting like I don’t care. Honestly, I’d rather head in any other direction, run from this goddamn school and everything it represents, but Noah’s my ride home.
“Hey, sweetness,” he calls with a smile as I get closer.
Marlie looks at me with a smile that’s so fake, I’m surprised it doesn’t crack her face and split her head wide open. “Hi, Paige.”
I don’t say anything. I ignore her and stare at Noah with a look that’s a combination of eat-shit-and-die and you-really-fucked-things-up-asshole. I can’t tell if he gets my message, but I have the satisfaction of seeing him step away from Marlie.
Good. Maybe he’s smarter than I’ve been giving him credit for.
He holds out his hand and I take it, but only because Marlie is there. I’m not giving her any room to think or say anything about me or how things are between us.
She has to step back as he opens the driver’s door. He helps me up into the cab, where I slide to the middle of the bench seat and plant my ass right there, next to his. Yeah, maybe I would’ve kept going if Marlie weren’t standing there, staring at me like she wants to jerk me out of the truck and trade places with me.
Too fucking bad, I think with a shitty smile in her direction. I know, if she finds the least little weak spot, she’ll use it to her advantage and screw me over.
Again.
“See you later, Marlie,” Noah says with a shrug as he climbs into the truck.
Marlie nods but keeps her eyes on me. I have no interest in whatever she’s trying to communicate.
“What about this weekend, Noah?” she asks him. “You . . . two coming to the party at Drake’s?”
She could give a shit if I’m along. She prefers if I’m not. Oh, she’ll fuck him with me as part of the deal, glad to, I’m sure, but she’ll be just as happy—happier—if I’m out of the picture altogether.
Or maybe she’s got some other slut-friend in mind.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the sight of Noah lifting one shoulder. Another shrug, like it doesn’t matter. I know better.
He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look at him. “I dunno,” he says. “Probably. We’ll see.”
Marlie’s eyes narrow. “You’ll let me know?”
“Yeah, sure.” He gives her a distracted smile.
Noah slams the door and starts his truck. Marlie’s pissed. I can see it in her eyes, and I really don’t give a damn. I blame her for all the shit going down, and she probably blames me. Maybe she should, because that kind of “fun” is over.
Noah and I didn’t talk about it afterwards—the possibility of having a threesome with her again—but we didn’t have to. He knows goddamn well what my answer would be.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
He peels out of the student parking lot, and the instant we’re far enough from the school that no one will see us, I slide across the seat until I’m sitting next to the door. He shoots a glance in my direction but says nothing. Neither do I.
We’re silent all the way up until we pull into my driveway. It’s early afternoon, not even three o’clock, and my parents are still at work. They’re always at work, so what difference does it make? Lots of days like this, Noah and I slip into my bedroom for some “afternoon delight,” as he calls it. He says there’s a song from the 70s with that title and thinks it’s funny as hell.
I’m not laughing today.
“C’mon, Paige. You gotta tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
He only calls me by my name when he’s serious. When he’s pissed. When shit’s out of hand.
I turn to look at him. He’s dressed like always—a plain T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots. His brown hair is longer than a lot of the guys, down his neck, and his blue eyes pierce the space between us.
Tell me what the fuck’s going on.
He knows. And so I say that.
“You know, Noah.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
I glance down, realizing I’m picking at the threads of my torn jeans. I stop, push up the sleeves of my sweater again, and force myself to look at him. Just look.
“Is it Marlie?” he asks, frustration slicing through his voice. “You know I don’t care about her. She’s nothing. Nobody. Just a girl.”
<
br /> Does he mean that? All the attention he gave her when the three of us were together, and she means nothing to him?
I suppose I should be relieved, but I’m not. He’s been acting like Marlie was the greatest piece of ass—or pussy—he’s ever seen, but now she’s nothing?
What does that mean for me? The way he feels about me? He says he loves me, that being with me is all he wants. Then he talks me into this threesome thing, acts like he can’t get enough of Marlie, and has no time for me during those moments in the bedroom.
If she’s nothing, what about me?
“You kissed her.” My voice is too soft, but I can’t make it any louder. “Made out with her. Went down on her.”
He reaches for my hand. I let him take it, but otherwise I don’t move. Don’t curl my palm into his or tighten my fingers around his. “That was part of the threesome, baby. You know that. I fucked you.”
“Did you?” I ask faintly.
His brows arrow down. “You know I did.”
I nod, wondering suddenly why it’s so cold. Fucking freezing.
“Yeah. You stuck your dick in me. So I guess you did fuck me.” I don’t say anything else, mean to leave it there, but the rest of the words just pop out. “You sure as hell didn’t make love to me.”
A charged silence fills the cab of the truck.
“What?”
I have to say the rest of it then. “Remember what you said? When we first started having sex? The first time you wanted to do something that wasn’t straight missionary?”
“What did I say?”
“That even if it was fucking, it didn’t mean it wasn’t making love. We meant that much to each other.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that night with Marlie is the first time I felt like you were only fucking me, and that love had nothing to do with it.”
Chapter Twelve
Noah
Present Day
Everything in me wants to slam the fucking door when I walk into my apartment. Goddamn but that would feel so fucking good! I could use the physical outlet but force myself to resist the urge.
You’re not ten anymore, I remind myself.
No, I’m an adult, and I should have some self-control. But . . .
Fuck!
Paige is curled up on the couch, watching some old rerun of Seinfeld. I almost smile. God, she always loved that show.
I can’t quite give into it though. Nothing feels funny right now, so I don’t say anything at all. I’m just too pissed off. I don’t know how the hell she’s going to feel when I tell her.
Well, I do, and it isn’t pretty. And I know I have to get my temper under control. It’s not something she’s used to seeing from me—nobody is—and she doesn’t need that right now.
She needs . . . well, I don’t know, except it isn’t me being an ass.
She glances up at me. “Noah?”
I stare back at her. “Hey.”
She watches me, blinks, and then slowly sits up straight. She looks so beautiful, her hair all long and draped around her shoulders, and her eyes gone dark enough to be mostly brown. I can see it clearly from across the room, and I wish I could just stand there and take it all in.
I can’t, though.
“I . . . uh, I’d be out of your hair by now, except I don’t have any wheels.” She looks past me, like she’s gauging the distance to the door. “We never picked up my car, and, well . . .” Her eyes dart from side to side. “I guess I could have called an Uber, but I didn’t even—”
“I don’t want you to leave.” My voice sounds sharper than I meant, but it’s too late to fix it. Is that what she thinks?
“I’d have been pissed if you had,” I add after a second, trying to soften my tone to be more welcoming.
It must work, at least a little, because she loses some of her stiffness. “What’s wrong, then?”
God, am I that obvious? Or is she just still that in tune with me? Is that even possible?
With a sigh, I stride into the apartment and across the room. I’d like to stop in the kitchen for a shot of Crown—hell, I’d like to down the whole fucking bottle right now—but I don’t. Gotta do this shit first.
“Noah?”
A part of me appreciates how cute she looks, dressed in gray shorts and a sexy top with thin straps. It’s got a V-shaped pattern in some kind of blue-green color I’ve seen a lot, gray, and white, and her boobs look bigger. Makes me wish I could slip my hand underneath and check out her tits for myself.
But I can’t do that, either. That shit has to wait. Maybe forever, at the rate things are going.
I just gotta hold it all together and figure out how to be whatever she needs from me. Especially now.
“We gotta talk,” I admit as I sink down onto the couch.
She grabs the remote, turns off Seinfeld, and then looks at me with complete seriousness. Her gaze probes mine, searching. Questioning. Gathering her strength. I can see it all as her thoughts shift. After Drake’s betrayal and then being stuck with me, she probably expects it to be something bad.
And I guess it is.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
I don’t answer in words, but I don’t drag it out, either. Instead, I pull out my phone, swipe until I find the right web page, and then hand it to her. I don’t have to look to know what she’s reading. I have the fucking headline memorized.
Noah Dexter ruined my relationship and stole my girlfriend, claims friend.
“What?” she whispers, looking from the phone to me and back again.
“You want to read it for yourself, or you want me to tell you?”
She’s staring at the phone with a look of horror, but after a minute she hands it back to me. “Tell me.”
“Okay.” I lift a shoulder. “Well, basically, it looks like somebody got to Drake. They interviewed him. Paid him, probably.”
“They interviewed him? But . . .” She shakes her head like she’s trying to understand. “How?”
“Maybe he went looking when that picture of us got some attention. Or maybe somebody found him. Gossip rags have deep enough pockets to find out just about anything they want.”
“And what do they want to know about us?” I catch a flash of fear in her gaze before she blinks it away. She points to the phone. “What did he say?”
I don’t try to pretty it up. “That we were all friends when we were kids. That you and I dated in high school, then hooked up again when you were already with him. That we cheated on him together, and that picture was from the night he found out.”
“But that’s not—”
I push on. “He says you moved out of the apartment where you two lived together so you could come be with me, and . . .”
The words run out, but, fuck. I really don’t want to have to say anything more.
She looks weird. Awkward or something. Like she’s holding herself together because she expects a blow. “And what?”
I take a breath. “And he figures it’s because of the kinky sex. Says we were known for it in high school, and since everybody knows manwhore Noah Dexter still likes his threesomes and shit, you must have missed it and now you’re looking for it again.”
She stares silently, her expressive brown eyes weirdly blank. “Kinky sex?” she whispers.
I nod, once.
“People are talking about our—my—sex life?”
I wanna make a joke out of it, say something that’ll lighten the mood and keep Paige from taking this too personally. I don’t, though, because this shit is personal, especially when you’re not part of the fucking circus that comes from being a celebrity.
If there’s a downside to being in a well-known rock band, this is it. Especially for somebody like Paige, who did nothing wrong except that she knows me.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, and goddamn it all to hell!
“Listen, baby,” I start. I want to sound soft and tender, but that isn’t an emotion I’m very familiar with. I mean, when I�
��ve had to, I’ve faked shit when I’m trying to get a woman into bed, but mostly I can flirt my way through anything.
That won’t work here. This is Paige, and things with her are real.
Best thing I can do is keep it that way.
“London’s putting together a call between us, Baz, and her,” I say. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Figure it out?” Life is seeping back into her face, bit by bit, and into her voice, breath by breath. “What’s there to figure out? Drake already said that stuff. Publicly.”
“Fair enough.” How can I argue? “But Baz has amazing contacts. London, too. We just need to decide how to handle it.”
“What’s there to handle? Unless . . .” She blinks as the words die off.
“Unless what?”
“Marlie.”
Christ. That’s a complication we don’t need—and the way my luck has gone lately, one we won’t be able to avoid.
I don’t say it, though.
“What about her?” I ask instead.
“Has she said anything?”
“Not that I know of, but—”
“We better expect it.”
“Yeah. I suppose.”
I see the stiffness slowly return to Paige’s body, but it’s different. Not awkward and overwhelmed, but with a firm awareness. Anger.
A willingness to fight?
“Jesus, Noah!” she snaps. I can’t miss the frustration in her voice.
“I know, sweetness, and I’m sorry.” I go for the apology instead of letting myself get all ramped up again. We can’t both go off the deep end over this. “I don’t know how this all got so fucked up.”
“I do!” She scowls and actually looks kind of cute, all riled up like that. I know better than to point it out, however.
“And how’s that?” I ask mildly.
“It’s my fault. Me, thinking I could have a normal relationship and actually trust a man. Trust Drake Johnson. What an idiot!” She smacks her palm against her forehead.
“No, baby.” I take her hand in mine and do my best to ignore the zing of energy that races between us. “It isn’t you.”
“It must be!”