Let's Talk About Sext

by Evie Claire

  He laughed under his breath when he went to put away the liquor bottles used at lunch and found a familiar favorite. A Fireball Whiskey bottle sat on the counter directly under its shelf. God, were there memories in that one. He held up the label to the light, studying that dancing devil, when the heavy wooden doors yawned open and a gust of almost fall air pushed in with his next customer.

  “Welcome, friend, what can I get started for ya?” he handed out his usual greeting as he stretched to put the Fireball back on a high shelf.

  “A shot of that would be nice.”

  The voice came fast as greased lightning, striking his ears and heart hard enough to knock a man out with a single blow. He wasn’t prepared for such an unprovoked attack. Hearing her voice, being near enough to hear her voice, wasn’t part of the plan. Distance was essential to get over her. He’d assumed a mutual respect for what had happened between them would be enough to keep her away from his bar. He was obviously wrong. And obviously in major trouble, because a million days could pass and still his heart would jackhammer in place at the mere thought. Yet here she was in the flesh. How the hell was his heart supposed to survive that?

  He gripped the edge of the back bar and got his shit together before turning to face her. She didn’t need to know the anguish burning inside him.

  What was she doing here? Aside from her having a gym membership a few blocks over, he couldn’t think of a single reason she’d find herself in his neighborhood anymore. Not unless he was her intention. The pit of his stomach screamed at the thought. And he quickly forced it to shut the fuck up. Because that was too punishing a possibility to even ponder.

  “Phebe! What brings you to the poor side of town?” He forced himself to offer the most casual greeting he could think of. Because while he internally melted down, that was the last impression he wanted to leave her with. No pining. No whining. Just over and done with it and moving on. That’s what he wanted her to think. Because it was cruel, really. Her coming there. He would never invade her space. Her plush new C-Suite at Stewart Capital. So why was she here rubbing salt in his wounds?

  “I…um…” She fell into a seat at the bar, crossing her hands over the slick lacquered top, wringing them together as she thought of what to say. “I need a drink,” she finally offered, looking at him with an expression that bordered on bewilderment. Like a scared little bunny caught in a trap, she stared at him, clearly wondering if he was a hunter or a savior. Without a doubt, it was the weirdest expression he’d ever seen on her face. As out of sorts as she’d been the first day she stumbled into The Guns.

  The brokenhearted boy in Brody wanted to keep playing the games that would throw her off his scent. Keep her clueless about the anguish in his soul. The compassionate human being in him knew that wasn’t what she needed. Something was happening to Phebe, and it was certainly a big deal if she’d sought him out in spite of all their lingering drama. He was brokenhearted. But he wasn’t an asshole.

  “Double Hendrick’s kind of day?” he asked, leaning over the bar and in to her. His presence seemed to ruffle her further. She leaned away, swallowed hard, and nodded. Shit. This was serious. Nothing had yet to render Phebe speechless. Nothing that he’d seen, at least. He excused himself to make her drink. And think. From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She was nervous. Fidgety. Constantly on her phone, opening and closing apps like she hoped to find something that was never there. Twice she ventured a quick glance in his direction. Never enough to make eye contact, just enough to know if he was looking at her.

  He had two choices. He could ignore her. Save the heartache of reattaching the emotional connection by handing her off to Drew and retreating to his office. Or he could balls-up and do the right thing, even if it meant ripping open the wound he’d so carefully tried to heal in the passing months. Fuck. He hated decisions like this. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to avoid her. He also knew he would hate himself for being such a pussy. That wasn’t who he was.

  Hendrick’s in hand, he walked back to her and offered a warm smile.

  “What’s wrong, L-Love? You look like you need a friend.” Goddamn it if he didn’t choke on the word. How was that for playing it cool? He took a deep breath to blow it off. But it was useless to think his stutter would be lost on Phebe.

  Her eyes shot straight up to his. Not a single wavering flinch. Everything about her stilled, and it was as if every bit of nervous energy she had walked through the door with refocused itself on the handful of inches that separated them. Gray as the sea on a cloudy day, their depths every bit as murky, her eyes gave nothing away. She could’ve been carved from stone and still possessed more emotion than she did in that moment. Surely she would say something. Even if it was just to spit venom in his face. He’d welcome a break from her silence. But there was nothing. She looked away. Over to the side. Down to the bar top. At the highball in her hands.

  Her shoulders pulled away from her ears, easing herself out of the tight little ball of nerves she’d been moments before. She sat back and gripped her glass. Turning it around like she was waiting for an answer at the bottom of it.

  There was always an answer at the end of a drink or two. But Phebe had never struck him as the kind of girl who put much stock in such a source. Yet the woman before him held little resemblance to the Phebe he remembered. It was her, make no mistake. Though not at all the brazen, ballsy, body-tackle-the-world girl he’d fallen for. She was hesitant, uncertain. And still so hopelessly addicting for him he felt himself falling for her all over again.

  “You make a habit of drinking Fireball midafternoon?” she teased, taking a sip of her double gin on the rocks—as if she could talk.

  There she was. The tiniest glimmer of the foulmouthed, ball-busting woman he’d come to love. Love? Holy hell. What was he doing? Or better yet, where was Drew? This was a dead end. He knew it. But his balls were desperately trying to change his mind. And direction.

  “Five o’clock somewhere. Right?” he teased back. Damn those two horny motherfuckers.

  “The place looks good.” Phebe glanced around, taking in the updated décor and additional seating. “Wait, did you get your food license?” Phebe’s gaze lingered on the cheeseburger plate at a nearby table. One that a hungry patron was halfway finished with.

  “Sure did. Can I get you something to eat?”

  “Good for you, Brody,” she said with an earnest smile. Her gaze flicked around slowly, taking in all the ways the place had changed since she’d last been in. What she couldn’t see was the gleaming industrial kitchen renovation. That was most impressive of all. “Has anyone guessed your secret yet?”

  “Shh…” Brody placed a finger conspiratorially to his lips. “Don’t tell anybody. I’d have to sue you.”

  At the mention of suing, her face fell, and she immediately turned to her bag, fishing for something.

  “Before I forget.” She laid an envelope on the bar top and slid it his way.

  “For me?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Open it.”

  Brody did as he was told, sliding his finger underneath the lip of a sealed envelope from a law office he vaguely recognized. He removed the piece of paper from inside and then saw so many zeros, he had to count them twice.

  “What’s this?”

  “I won my wrongful termination case.” Phebe shrugged with a smile and turned her glass of gin around in the pool of condensation it had created. “Thing is, I don’t want the money.” She shook her head.

  “But surely you—” Brody stopped cold, dropping the envelope and pulling the check closer to his eyeballs. Surely, he was seeing something wrong. “Shit. This is made out to me?”

  “Yeah. It is.” Phebe stopped fiddling, clasped her hands together, and faced him dead-on. “I’ve never understood not wanting money before, Brody. Growing up like I did, I’ve always thought money equaled power. For the
first time ever, I realize that’s not always the case.” She pointed toward the check in his hand. “I would rather take a match to that check than spend a penny of it. I’ve put the situation behind me, but I don’t think I’ll ever completely forgive what happened. I understand that now. I understand you now. And I want you to have this.”

  “Phebe, I don’t want your money.”

  “Well, it’s yours whether you like it or not. Rip it up. Cash it. I don’t care. But I hope you understand that’s my way of making things right between us. Twenty grand of your debt is solidly on me. I want to repay the construction loan. How you use the rest is up to you.”

  Brody leaned back on his heels, taking her in, running his hand down his beard as he thought. This obviously meant something to her.

  “I guess if I don’t take it, then the asshole kinda wins, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess he would.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Brody slid the check into his pocket, still unsure what he would do with it, but knowing when he needed to shut the fuck up and just let the woman say her piece.

  She took another drink of gin, relaxing further now that she’d showed her hand. Brody couldn’t help but feel that her nerves had everything to do with him—or rather, how her gift would be received. Why did that make both his heart and balls swell?

  “Can I at least give you something in return?” Brody asked, flashing a smile he knew he probably shouldn’t. Because it made her smile in a way she shouldn’t, either. Not if this reunion wasn’t going to totally derail his emotional state for the month.

  “Sure.” She tilted her head, watching him as he disappeared into the hallway behind the bar. He didn’t have to turn his head to know her eyes were on him. He could feel them. God, could he feel them.

  A minute later he returned, clipping a Sharpie marker onto his shirt collar and handing over a bottle of Hendrick’s Grand Reserve.

  “What’s this? I’ve never seen it before.”

  “It’s brand new. Our distributor had a couple bottles. They asked if I’d try it. But your palate is much more refined when it comes to gin.” Brody pressed it into her hand, his own lingering on hers way too long. “Take it home, Try it out. Let me know what you think.”

  “Thanks. I will. That’s really nice of you.”

  “You’ve got something to celebrate. This one is on me, too. I’m proud of you.”

  God, it was easy with her. It was so easy. And it was so tempting. And if he didn’t get the fuck out of there, he’d end up fucking her on a pool table again. He knew it. And what good would that do for either of them?

  “Drew?” he called down the back hallway, to where Drew was prepping patties in the newly renovated kitchen for the dinner crowd. They should switch places. The sooner the better. While he hated like hell to leave, every second he spent with Phebe would take days to forget. Maybe more.

  “Good to see you again, Phebe. Don’t be a stranger.” He nodded and started to make his exit.

  She stood up. “Wait a sec, Brody.” Her nerves returned. Looking over to the side, she ran a hand through her hair, stalling, still trying to find words that were apparently hiding from her. “Can we…” She stopped before she started—good. Her gaze lifted, focusing intently on the mirrored bar wall, desperate to put her thoughts into words. Until her eyes landed on a certain object and froze like stones in a shallow stream. Emotion drained from her. “Is that…ours?” She turned to look at an antique pool table. One that had replaced a bank of high-top tables in the renovation.

  Fuck.

  “No.” Brody was overly adamant, waving his hands in front of him in an effort to punctuate his response. He came out from behind the bar, shaking his head still. “It’s not the one…” He couldn’t say the words—the one we fucked on. Instead he shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked onto the sides of his feet, and added, “I got rid of that one.”

  “But it was Nuck’s,” she said slowly, remembering the table’s history before they rewrote it.

  “And now it’s gone. Some memories are best forgotten.”

  Again, she froze. Not moving, not speaking. Only ice cubes jangling against her glass. Phebe turned her drink up. Threw it down her throat, and a ten on the counter.

  “No. I guess you’re right.” She forced a smile, obviously gritting her teeth as hard as she could to keep it in place. “Goodbye, Brody.” She grabbed the bottle off the bar. “And, thanks.” She held the bottle up and then dropped it in her bag.

  Phebe turned on her heel and all but ran for the door.

  “Wait,” he called after her. But it did nothing to stop her. Maybe she heard him. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t care. Before he could catch her, she was gone.

  And Brody was left reeling in her wake. Because what the hell had just happened?

  Chapter 28

  Phebe

  She would never enter The Guns ever again. A self-imposed exile. Hell, she wouldn’t even step foot on the block again. Keeping her nearby gym membership, holding out hope of running into him every time she went—what was she thinking? He was obviously over her. So far over her that he had gotten rid of a prized possession just so he wouldn’t have to remember.

  What the literal fuck was she thinking?

  But also, what was the point? He had made himself perfectly clear. Brody Cantrell was over her for good. The competitive streak in her was determined to catch up. She would not be outdone in the I’m-so-over-you department. She would force herself to find closure. Whatever it took.

  It wasn’t until later that evening, deep into his bottle of Hendrick’s in the comfort of her own home, that Phebe had to face another hard fact.

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe her own emotions had clouded her judgment of his. Again. Because that’s exactly what his text sounded like.

  BRODY: Maybe I’m an idiot, but I’ve been thinking about pool tables all day long. Either way, it was good to see you.

  If she ever got a tattoo, it would be the word idiot and she would ink it right across her forehead. Because, what the hell? Was it possible for her to be that wrong? To hear only the worst possibility in Brody’s comment. To assume that he couldn’t look at their pool table because the memory of what they’d done revolted him. Not even entertain the possibility that he got rid of the pool table because the memory hurt too much.

  She put the drink and her phone down. Too many gins and not enough water to process such possibilities. A shower could solve that. Maybe. Hopefully.

  Thirty minutes later she emerged from a steamy bathroom soaking wet, and slightly more sober. It was then that something on the bottle of Hendrick’s she’d been drinking all night caught her eye. A handwritten note, scribbled in Sharpie marker.

  To the biggest bull in the pasture. Congrats! —Brody

  Her heart sank and then sprang up to sucker punch her tonsils. That wasn’t the inscription of a man desperate to forget. It was the inscription of a man she wouldn’t make the mistake of pushing away again.

  Wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping onto the pristine hardwood floors in her gleaming bachelorette pad, she grabbed a Pottery Barn linen napkin from a drawer, a Sharpie marker from her desk, and went to work.

  First, she made ten bold hash marks straight across the napkin. She then placed a dash between marks three and four, and another one between six and seven.

  With a smile that could certainly crack her face, she placed her finished crossword in her purse, and then hightailed it to the bathroom to do something about her appearance.

  * * *

  —

  During the Uber ride up to Midtown, she finger-curled her still damp hair, hoping it would dry into some form of sexually appealing waves. Nervously she fumbled with words that all sounded way too corny and clichéd. It wasn’t really an apology she needed to make. A reckoning, may
be. Was that it? A meeting of the minds. No, that all sounded so stupid. But her confidence was back. And if Phebe had faith in anyone, it was herself. She would find a way to close this deal. The words would come. They always did.

  When she charged through the ancient wooden doors of The Guns—for what she hoped would not be the last time—she didn’t bother to take stock of anything going on around her. Not a single face but his registered in her consciousness. Laser-focused as she’d ever been, she was ready to do the damn thing.

  Brody stood behind the bar at the cash register, ringing up a long string of patrons. The place was packed. Like Cracker-Barrel-on-a-Sunday-morning kind of packed. Loud and boisterous, with the smell of grease and cheese mingling with hops and distilled grains. He didn’t see her. She could work with an element of surprise. Actually, she preferred it. Quietly she slipped into the line of customers waiting to pay. Patiently she waited her turn. And when the last person between them filed away, she swallowed the nerves that clamored up her throat, took a deep breath, and gave him all she had. He briefly glanced up from the register. Back down to the keys, and then immediately returned to her. Unable to believe she was waiting in his line.

  “What…?” His brows came together. He closed his eyes and shook his head. A faint grin appearing behind the wiry hairs of his beard. His lips pursed in an effort to hide his reaction to her, but his eyes…they couldn’t stay off of her. Or hide the playful smile that crept into their warm depths. Relief washed hot and sweet down the length of her.

  “I hate the idea of settling for anything less than everything,” Phebe started, her voice louder than it should be. But this was her declaration of love, and in her mind, it meant more if she didn’t give a shit about who heard it. “Before I met you I was certain I already had everything.” She laughed softly at her own idiocy. “But without you, I realize how little I actually have. And I’ll be the first to admit, it doesn’t make sense that we work. Coming from the worlds we do.” Phebe raised a finger and moved it between them, carefully choosing the words to continue. “But despite all the drama, you make my life better than anyone ever has. You make it feel like everything.”