by Julie Olivia
No, he totally deserves the cold shoulder.
“You don’t, but I’m probably the longest sort-of friend you’ve had, aren’t I?”
I stand there, pulling every relationship from the back of my mind and trying to recall the last time I contacted that person. My best friend from high school is in South Africa, I think. She might be doing some mission trip, but I honestly don’t know. My roommate from college? I think she’s married now. Might have kids.
In reality, my closest friend outside of family is Grace, and though we get lunch together during the week, my social life outside of work has become pretty barren.
“I’m close with my brother,” I say, cringing the instant it leaves my mouth. How pathetic.
“That doesn’t count.” He laughs. “I’ve known you the longest and you know it.”
“But are we really friends, Ian?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. I’m asking the question almost to myself as well. We were something like friends before. He hung out in my office more than anyone else, and I looked forward to it.
I looked forward to it. Christ.
“I would hope so after all this time,” he says. “So, tell me something I don’t know—a secret.”
“I don’t have secrets,” I say.
Lie.
“Tell me a dirty secret, Nia.” I hold back a laugh, causing him to smile…his genuine, warm smile. “Come on, we’re in the perfect place for it.”
“I don’t know,” I say, walking between aisles as he follows behind. Why do I kind of want to tell him something dirty? It’s taboo, and he’s a hot guy desperate to hear these things. When was the last time that happened? My stomach churns.
I absentmindedly pick up items from the shelves then put them back, just needing something for my hands to do while we talk. This isn’t a conversation I imagined having with Ian, and now that it’s happening, I’m trying to do anything I can to distract myself from it.
He’s confident. Sexy.
I hate it.
“I’ll tell you one of mine,” he says, straightening his posture. My breathing increases and I try to hide it by consciously holding my breath and letting it out in increments to mask the steady acceleration of my heart rate. I’ve never realized how much work it takes to pretend to breathe normally.
“Fine, go for it,” I say.
“I had sex in the law library,” he says.
“Of course you did.”
Did he press her against the shelves? Were books falling with each hit? Did he cover her mouth so the librarian wouldn’t hear her moan?
Fuck—was it the librarian?
He grins and a small smile spreads across my mouth. I push it down, lowering my head and continuing to walk on.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I didn’t agree to that,” I say, turning to him and crossing my arms, holding the items I’ve collected in both hands.
“Don’t ruin this,” he says, taking everything from my grasp to hold them instead, relieving me of the burden. “I shared, so now you share.”
I smirk and start walking again. It’s odd, this feeling of entertainment and semi-enjoyment around Ian. It’s been too long since I’ve let my guard down around him. I almost miss it. “When I was in middle school, I found my mom’s romance novels.”
Ian laughs. “And, let me guess—you returned them?”
“No,” I shoot back. “I…well, I’ll have you know I was obsessed with them.”
“Go on,” he says, looking around as if ensuring this is a private conversation. It’s almost a gentlemanly gesture, trying to conceal my secrets while holding my contraband.
“I learned what an orgasm was,” I say, feeling goose bumps run down my arms. “But, obviously, my expectations for sex were a bit high after that.” Wow, I just said that.
“I’m sure they were,” he responds, inhaling sharply. “And has someone lived up to that expectation?”
I turn to face him, his body much closer now than it was just a minute ago. I can feel the warmth radiating off him. The low hum of his voice is sending shivers down my spine. I wonder what other words can come out of that mouth with that same tone.
“Yes,” I lie, and whether he believes me or not, I don’t care. Those scenes in romance novels are just fantasy. What guy actually demands sex on the beach? What guy realistically makes you climax with just oral? Happy endings are just for those who are in their twenties hoping for their Prince Charming. Prince Charmings do not exist, but hunky men in romance novels do.
And, unfortunately for me, so does Ian.
He looks me up and down as he has been want to do lately then smirks. He passes me, saying nothing, and heads to the DVD wall again. I walk faster, attempting to keep up with his long legs. When I catch up, he’s already pulled a movie down with his free hand.
“I dare you to buy this,” he says, shoving it toward me. Oh goodie for me, it’s Backdoor Babes again.
“This isn’t truth or dare, Ian,” I say, shoving it back to him.
He shakes his head in protest. “It could be. Have a good sex life. Indulge.”
“I have a good sex life,” I insist.
Lies! Why are you such a silly liar, Nia Smith? What sex life? I haven’t had sex or any form of intimate contact since…hell, God knows when.
“Sure you do,” he says, nodding in clear disbelief. “But buy the movie.”
“But I have a good sex life,” I repeat.
“Saying it again won’t make it true.”
“Buying the movie won’t prove a thing.”
“What do you have to prove if your sex life is so good anyway? I think this will prove you’re confident enough in your level of enjoyment of romance novels that buying some simple, dirty movie is just an afterthought.”
I narrow my eyes and snatch the movie from his hand, turning it over to read the description. Surprisingly, Backdoor Babes is not exclusively about butt stuff but instead about construction workers. Who would have thought?
“Will it make you leave me alone?” I ask, peering up at him.
“No, but you’re too prideful to not buy it now.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
10
Ian
When we return to the resort, I’m carrying both a small black bag containing only a couple gag gifts for Cameron’s bachelor party and my internal satisfaction that a tiny pornographic DVD is somewhere in Nia’s goodie bag as well.
We drop the items off at our respective rooms and head down to the beach where the rest of the group are packing up. Grace’s hair whips in the beachside wind as she stomps toward us.
“Please tell me the fighting is over,” she groans, tote bag slung over her shoulder. “You’re best friends now, right?” The sand engulfs the heels of her sandals with every step, and poor Cameron is catching the brunt of the backsplash. He holds up his hands to protect his eyes.
“We’re friendly, at least,” Nia responds. I look for a smile, but she grants me nothing. Then I see something—a little hint in her eyes that tells a different story. It’s a slight glimmer, but not in her usual I-hate-you-please-leave-me-alone kind of way. It’s as if we share some secret that nobody else can know, not that I would be the man to tell everyone else she has porn anyway. That’s a fun fact I’m keeping for myself.
“How was it today?” Ramona asks from behind me. I take her folding chair from her and tuck it under my arm. I wait until Cameron, Grace, and Nia are out of earshot before responding.
“She’s not at my throat anymore,” I mumble, giving a nod to Wes once he appears on the other side of Ramona, taking the remainder of the items she’s holding. We look like glorified bellhops.
“I like her,” Ramona says with a grin much too similar to my own. We both have that happy-go-lucky look about us as if things could always be worse. She looks to Wes, who exhales. “Wes? Thoughts?”
“Well, I just haven’t gotten enough time with her,” he says. “I’m sure she’s great, but
she does seem like she has it out for you, man.”
“I’ll admit, I’ve given her bad impressions over the years,” I say.
“No kidding,” he responds with a sharp laugh. I chuckle with him, letting my own self-inflicted misfortune wash over me.
“She’s definitely a bit more closed off,” Ramona says as I push the glass door open with my feet. I hold it while Wes squeaks both himself and the oversized flamingo float across the threshold. “But she doesn’t put up with any of your shit, which I totally dig.”
“Well, I totally dig that too,” I agree with a mock surfer accent, letting the door swing shut behind me. “It’s like she’s got some separate, confidential life itinerary that she won’t let anyone see.”
Ramona taps the elevator button. “You know, you don’t need to understand everyone, Ian. People are complicated.”
“I don’t want to understand her,” I say.
Wes’s eyes widen with realization. “That’s why you like her—because she’s a well-kept secret nobody can crack, and neither can you.”
“No,” Ramona corrects with a smile and an index finger raised in a knowing gesture. “It’s because he can’t control her.”
“You guys are doing that thing.” I point accusingly between them, but this doesn’t hinder their stares. “That psychologist thing.” Even though they’re both therapists, they keep this fact wrapped up pretty tightly. Overall, the two of them are very chill, down-to-earth people, but occasionally they work off the clock, and I hate it every time.
“That’s it!” she says with a grin, that same Chambers family grin I’m sure Nia wants to slap off my face at all times. I see why. “It’s thrilling to not worry about something, isn’t it?”
“Stop,” I warn.
“You like the idea of an autonomous, strong partner. It would be nice to have someone in your life not bending to your will like every other woman fawning over the big, tall lawyer man, wouldn’t it?”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” I grumble, loading into the elevator the second the doors open and placing my palm over the opening to allow Wes in.
“Why is being in control so important for you?” Wes asks, glancing to Ramona as if she might have the answer—which, regrettably, she does.
“He’s needed to be in control of everything since…well, you know.” Her voice drifts off as she looks up to me.
I can already feel myself seething. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“It was a pretty big thing,” Ramona says, putting her hand on my shoulder. I shove it off.
“You were fifteen,” I say, “You didn’t even know what was going on past boys and your best friend Grace.”
“But I saw the aftermath.”
Wes’s eyes absentmindedly shift down to the edge of my shorts, resting inches above my knee. The cinched skin on my thigh is just barely visible, the edge of the scar from the crash peeking out slightly from under the bottom.
“You two are nosy Nancys,” I say, walking out of the elevator once it comes to a stop.
“Who’s nosy?” asks a matter-of-fact voice from behind me. It’s Nia with her leg stuck out, weight rested on one hip, and her arms crossed—the classic I look annoyed even though I’m just existing stance. Even her blonde hair is secured into a tight bun. Then I notice the deep blue dress with thin straps resting delicately on her collarbones, just the smallest sliver of a lacy white bra peeking out from underneath. She looks pure, almost like an angel dropped from above to explore the dirty underbelly of Earth. I want to be her tour guide.
Damn it, I’m too flustered by the conversation and the way she looks to come up with anything clever. It’s like my brain just turned off and I’m left looking like an idiot in front of this goddess in front of me.
“Now where are you going, hot stuff?” Ramona asks, checking out Nia’s dress. Wes squeezes out of the elevator with the float and pats me on the back.
“I was coming to get you,” she says. “Apparently, clubbing is on the schedule tonight.”
Wes doesn’t even let Nia finish explaining before he’s punching the air in victory, shoving the float into my chest, and running off to his room, yelling out whoops of joy.
“You’ve never been to a club, have you?” I joke. She’s either standing with her arms crossed because she’s uncomfortable, or because she’s simply being Nia.
She smirks. “No, but I do as the bride says, remember?”
“Well, you look nice,” I say, and her smile immediately falters. Without a word, she turns on her heel to walk back to her room, letting the door swing shut behind her.
Baby steps.
I have a theory that clubs might be some of the happiest places on Earth. Think about it: What is happening at nightclubs? Your friends are dancing, inhibitions are lowered with fruity, semi-fantastic drinks, and someone is flirting with another person just looking for a tumble in the sheets. What isn’t there to love about it?
Nightclubs are places to let loose, be your best self, but most of all—and most interesting to me—it’s a perfect place to people watch. I love imagining strangers’ lives, their interests, and ultimately their problems. As a lawyer, I always wonder what I’ll be hit with next, and there’s nothing like people watching to help predict upcoming trends.
I see Grace and Cameron dancing in the crowd, smashed between others. Ramona and Wes make out in the corner on a couch like they’re a new romance just beginning to take flight. It’s sweet, and yet the last thing I want to see is my sister getting her face sucked.
I look around for our other party member, but she is nowhere to be found. She hasn’t even danced yet. I’m only hoping there isn’t another man attempting to hit on her. I’m not even sure how I would act. The thought itself makes my blood boil. I try to turn my attention elsewhere.
Yes, people watching is definitely preferable.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I’m snapped out of my thoughts—having focused too long on a middle-aged couple grinding on the dance floor with their parent bods shamelessly on display—and am greeted by a black-haired beauty attempting to talk over the loud, thumping music. She’s stunning in three-inch heels and a dress fitting every hourglass curve of her body.
“You could, but I’d have to buy you one first,” I say.
“Gentleman and a devil,” she says with a wink. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I finally spot the blonde wearing deep blue at the other end of the bar, and it’s obvious the bombshell in front of me is wasting her time.
“Actually…” I sigh, feigning disappointment, my brain completely on board with this plan while another part of my body is fighting every urge to leave. Thankfully, my heart is thumping louder than the blood quickly flowing down south. “See that girl at the end of the bar? My friend is having a rough time.”
“Oh,” she says, not hiding her obvious disappointment. She even sticks out her bottom lip and, god, if I wasn’t mentally taken, I would cave. Alas, my cheesy, mushy soul is too enraptured by the ball-busting woman who hates me right now. Rookie mistake in love. “Maybe next time. Are you from around here?”
I chuckle. “Maybe next time.” She nods and accepts the rude rejection like a champ. Yep, definitely deserves better than me.
I get up and make my way over to where Nia is sitting by herself, her finger pushing the small umbrella of her drink around the edge of the glass. It doesn’t even look like she’s had one sip.
“I was always told not to play with my food. Does that also apply to drinks?” I say over the music, sitting on the stool next to her.
She notices me, revealing no expression aside from an exasperated, heart-crushing sigh. Even though I can’t hear it over the deafening hum of the crowd, I can see the dread coming from her open mouth.
“Wow, I could have sworn we formed some connection today,” I say, drawing my lips up in a lopsided smile, almost mocking her disappointment with my presence.
She shakes her
head. “You aren’t that bad.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. So, why are you moping at a club?” I ask.
She straightens her back and, yes, there’s that defiance I’m so accustomed to. “I’m not moping. I’m thinking.”
“Always thinking, even at a place of enjoyment.”
“I enjoy thinking,” she says, smiling. “Ever considered that?”
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. She slides her drink to me in response, and I slide it back reflexively.
“Are you not drinking?” she asks, clearly avoiding my previous question. Her eyes drift behind me and then back to me.
“Driving,” I say, turning to look behind me, spotting the black-haired, gorgeous succubus sipping a drink through her straw, chest stuck out.
“You have an admirer,” Nia says with a smile.
“I’m focused on someone else,” I say, causing her smile to grow wider and her face to flush, all the while still rolling her eyes in contempt as she picks up her glass. She’s finally letting down her guard, and I could soak her in all night long.
“I want no part of whatever game you’re playing, Ian,” she says, placing her drink down with a hard drop as if to prove a point.
I laugh. “What game?”
“Your whole thing,” she shouts as the music pumps louder, matching the tempo in my chest. “Your cocky, ‘I’m the best’ thing. You get off on being liked, on having women fawn over you.”
Even after all this time, she doesn’t really know me.
“Get to know me,” I say, leaning in closer to her. She doesn’t move, but she does throw an excellent smirk at me.
“You’re a man with an agenda.”
“Wrong.”
“A lawyer who likes winning.”
“Well, who doesn’t?”
“Finding out how far you can push limits and what you can get away with.”
“Okay, maybe a bit,” I say, tilting my hand side to side.
“A man who gets off on shocking others.”
“Do you want to find out?” I shoot her a grin, but she shakes her head, scoffing. “Come on, let’s pretend we’re getting to know each other. Twenty questions.”
