Park (Archer's Creek Book 4)

by Gemma Weir

  She’s waiting for me to talk, to say something to make her feel better about friend-zoning us, and all I want to do is tell her she’s wrong, that this is more than just friends.

  “And we have Taylor to think about,” she says, her eyes downcast.

  All of the joy seems to leech from me just at the sound of her name. Taylor’s like a disease. I don’t blame her solely for everything that’s happened, but all of the shit in my life feels like it starts and ends with her and now this. I get to only be friends with my Rosebud, because she’s Taylor’s best friend.

  The words feel toxic on my tongue, but I managed to force them out. “You’re right, friends. You’re too important to me. I don’t want to risk losing you.”

  She nods emphatically, like she agrees with every word, every sentiment.

  How can she possibly not know that I’m lying?

  I can hear every word he’s saying and I’m nodding, but inside I’m sobbing hysterically. Everything I’ve said to him is true. He feels like my best friend, the most important person to me, and I don’t want to jeopardize that. But I was waiting for him to say we could be best friends and lovers too, that we could keep this bond and build on it, make it something more, see if it could be something amazing.

  Instead he agreed with me. He said he didn’t want to risk losing me and I feel devastated and rejected and stupid. So, so stupid. Drunken Rosie is a brazen hussy. Drunken Rosie wraps her legs around her best friend and drags him in for a kiss. Drunken Rosie almost came, rubbing on her best friend’s dick. Drunken Rosie is an idiot.

  Plastering a smile on my face, I look away. I can’t bear to look him in the eyes and know that I don’t regret last night, but he does. “My head is banging. I need a shower and some Tylenol.” I don’t look up, but I feel his grip on me loosen, so I roll off the sofa and away from the warmth and comfort of his body. “Could you put some coffee on, please?”

  “No problem. I’ll see if I can rustle us up some hangover food too.”

  The room sways when I finally make it to my feet, and I hold my arms out to my sides to balance myself. My stomach roils and I groan. “I can’t stomach food, just coffee and some water.”

  Park laughs and the sound makes me want to cry. I wish last night hadn’t happened because now I know how it feels to kiss him, and I have to accept that it’s never going to happen again. Is it better to have tasted forbidden fruit, but know you’ll always crave it and never be able to satisfy the craving, or to always wonder what it would be like? I’m not sure which is worse.

  The moment the nausea passes, I scurry to the bathroom and crawl into the shower, dousing myself in hot water and trying to wash away all of the alcohol and desire with the creamy soap suds. Twenty minutes later I emerge from my bedroom in sweatpants and a tank, my hair wet and twisted into a long plait that falls over my shoulder leaving a wet patch on my shirt.

  I look and feel like shit; but assaulted as I am by the hangover from hell, I just don’t really care. “Coffee,” I groan.

  Park chuckles and I look up and find him shirtless in my kitchen. I swear all of the air in my lungs dissolves and I almost swallow my tongue. His torso is perfection. Every inch of his skin is covered in tattoos, but they do nothing to distract from the toned, lean muscles and abs that beg for me to get on my knees and count them with my tongue.

  “What?” I stutter. “Err, what, err, where is your shirt?”

  Park turns and looks at me, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. “It smelled like day old chicken wings and beer. Is it okay if I use your shower?”

  It takes me a moment to process his words. “Err. Yes. I mean, of course. I’ll go find you some clean towels. I’d offer to wash your shirt, but we don’t have any laundry facilities here. I have to take mine to the laundromat down the street.” I’m rambling, but even though I try to stop them, the words just keep coming. “Mrs. Lebowski would have a heart attack if you turn up like that.”

  Park laughs again, his grin becoming a full smile. “Well, we don’t want anything to happen to Mrs. Lebowski, do we? Good job I have my stuff in the car downstairs, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Err cool. I’ll, err, I’ll just go and sort those towels for you,” I say, and power walk away from his bare chest and back into my bedroom. When I get into the bathroom, I close the door behind me and lean my back against it, slapping at my head with my hand. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I chant to myself.

  Taking a minute to center myself, I groan when my already booming headache intensifies. I can’t deal with all this now. I need some coffee and maybe a nap with a blanket. Hangovers are the worst.

  Pulling a couple of clean towels from the cupboard, I lay them out on the counter and take the damp towels I used and some Tylenol into my room. I drop the towels into the laundry hamper and then take a deep breath before I head back into the living room. The room is empty and for a second, I panic he’s left. It takes me moment to remember that he’s just gone to get his bag from the car, and I stuff down all of my unwanted emotion and plod toward the coffee pot.

  I hear the door open and look over my shoulder just as Park steps through, a worn leather duffel in his hand. “There are clean towels on the counter. Use whatever you need. Just don’t blame me if you come out smelling like a hyacinth.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ve ordered us some breakfast; it should be here in about twenty minutes.”

  “Urgh, food,” I groan.

  “Trust me, baby, it will do you good.”

  “Urgh,” I say pouring the coffee into my favorite mug and adding creamer and two sugars.

  He’s laughing as he heads into my bedroom, and a few moments later, I hear the shower turn on. Crawling onto the sofa, I pull my blanket from the back and cover myself in it, dragging it right up to my chin. The cushions smell of him, so I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I must fall asleep because I’m woken by the smell of bacon and Park’s low voice at the door.

  “Thanks, bye,” he says, just before the door clicks shut.

  I don’t open my eyes. Instead, I listen as he pads across the apartment to the kitchen. I hear him open and close cupboard doors, then the clink of plates being lifted out and I allow my eyes to flutter open, unable to resist the chance to look at him in my home.

  I feel sick, my head is throbbing, and I’m exhausted; but one glance at him and lust bursts to life inside me. I want him. I want to pull him into my arms and wrap myself against his chest. I want to feel his hard cock rubbing against me, to know that he wants me as much as I want him.

  Silently, I watch him dish up food onto two plates, then grab silverware from the drawer before grabbing the plates and turning to cross the room. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. If he saw the lust and love in my eyes right now he’d know how I felt and I’d lose him. No matter what, I can’t lose him.

  I hear him lower the plates to the coffee table in front of the sofa, then I feel the featherlight touch of his fingertips on my cheek.

  “Baby, food’s here.”

  I blink my eyes open slowly, pretending to wake up, and he’s there crouched down in front of me, his eyes tired and a little sad. My heart pounds quicker. Does he know? Has he guessed how I feel, and is trying to figure out how to let me down easy?

  “Hey,” I whisper, my voice shaking.

  Park smiles and it’s like the clouds part and all of my fear and anxiety evaporates. “Hey, sleepyhead. Food’s here.”

  His fingers trace a line along my cheek, falling away at my chin. He smiles again but it looks almost wistful, as he pushes upright until he’s standing and holds out a hand for me to take. Pulling my arm from beneath the blanket, I reach for him, placing my fingers in his and letting him help me up.

  The food is greasy and delicious, but we eat in silence, the conversation lacking for the first time since we met. Inhaling, I take a sip of my coffee, then lower the cup to the table. “So what do you want to do today? I could show you around town.
We could do a little shopping, or maybe go to a movie or something? When’s your flight?”

  “My flights not until three tomorrow. But I can keep myself busy if you have plans?”

  “No,” I shout. “No, I don’t have plans.”

  Park chuckles, “That’s good.” Then his brow furrows. “How was your date the other night?”

  “My date?”

  “Yeah, you said your mom set you up with a guy.”

  “Oh yeah, that wasn’t a date. I went to dinner at my parents and they invited Robert along too.”

  “Robert,” Park says, and I think his voice sounds almost angry.

  “Yeah, he’s an accountant. I think if my mom wasn’t happily married to my dad, she might have tried for him,” I say with a laugh.

  “Are you as enamored as your mom?”

  My eyes flash up to him. “He seemed like a nice guy,” I say noncommittally.

  “So when’s he taking you out?” Park snarls, standing and snatching our plates from the table and stomping across the room to my small kitchen.

  “He’s not,” I say, confused by his behavior as I watch him move angrily about.

  “He didn’t ask you out?” Park says, spinning to face me.

  “He did, but I said no.”

  “Oh,” Park says, the anger seeming to leave him, as his shoulder slump and his tight lips soften.

  “Would it matter if I’d said yes?” I ask cautiously.

  Park turns to face the sink, turning on the faucet and rinsing the plates. “It’s your life, Rosie, none of my business.”

  An hour later we leave my apartment. The toxic atmosphere that had descended over us after our conversation about Robert, had become so thick I suggested that we go for a walk down to the beach, just to get out of the enclosed space. As we walk side by side my eyes run over Park. From his scuffed, worn Dr. Martens boots, to his tight jeans with the rips at the knees, a white t-shirt that fits in all the right places, and a leather vest with a huge emblem for the Doomsday Sinners MC on his back, he looks every inch the biker. Tearing my eyes from him, I glance down at my own clothes: Flip Flops, jean shorts, and a t-shirt pronouncing that ‘book boyfriends are better’. We must look ridiculous, like an odd pair of socks that obviously don’t go together. Dropping my chin, I let my hair fall between us, creating a curtain to hide him from my greedy eyes. I need to get myself under control and remind myself that he’s my friend, that he’s Taylor’s brother, and no matter how much I wish last night’s kisses had meant more to him, they hadn’t.

  “It’s this way,” I say, gesturing to the right and stepping onto the crossing just as a guy on a mountain bike zooms around the corner heading straight for me. A strong hand wraps around mine, pulling me out of the street just before the bike would have ploughed straight into me.

  “Fucking maniac,” Park shouts at the guy as he peddles away shouting, “Sorry,” over his shoulder.

  I clasp at my heart with my hand. “Shit, that was close.”

  Park tugs me, pulling me into his chest and tucking my hair behind my ear. “Fuck, baby. I thought my kind of biker was the dangerous ones. Who knew you have to watch out for the lycra wearing, peddling type too?”

  A laugh escapes me, and Park releases my hand, dropping his arm across my shoulder and pulling me into his side, as we navigate the street and head toward the beach. Kitsch-style stores and kiosks line the sand and people meander up and down the strip. The town I live in isn’t as rich as where Park and Taylor grew up, but there’s enough money here that the groups of people around us are decked out in designer sunglasses and expensive chinos.

  “Fucking California. I forgot what this place is like.”

  “You don’t miss it?” I ask.

  “Nope, not even a little. I always hated the place. From the moment we moved here I just wanted to go home to Ireland. All these people, with all this money. I just don’t see the point.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’ve never had to worry about money.”

  “Maybe. Although I’ve been paying my own way since I left my parents’ house. I’m not rich, but I’ve got enough money for everything I need.”

  “I haven’t asked. How did it go with your parents? How come you haven’t stayed with them all weekend?”

  Park leads us to a bench overlooking the sand and pulls us down to sit, his arm still across my shoulders. He sighs. “It went okay. Pretty much what I was expecting. Awkward as fuck, with lots of long silent pauses where none of us had a clue what to say.”

  “Were they pleased to see you? Were you pleased to see them? Come on, Park. You can give me a bit more than, ‘it was okay’.”

  His grip on my shoulders tightens, pulling me a little closer to him. “I think they were pleased to see me. My mom burst into tears when she opened the door, and I’m fairly sure my dad was crying too. We had dinner, then I left.”

  “Okay, but how did it feel to see them again after all this time?”

  Park lowers his head until it’s resting on top of mine, then he exhales, his hot breath warming my scalp. “It was weird. I’m angry at my dad, but I’m trying not to be. Neither of them wanted to say anything to upset me, but I’m obviously not what they wanted me to be. I’m a biker who makes his living as a tattoo artist.”

  “You’re an artist, Park. Don’t belittle what you do.”

  I feel him smile against my hair. “So protective, my little Rosebud.”

  Shoving him in the ribs, I try to pull myself out from under his arm, but he just tightens his grip, making it impossible for me to move.

  “I love that you see me, baby.”

  His voice is strained and filled with an emotion I can’t identify, but I stop trying to pull away from him and instead wrap my arms around his waist and snuggle into his chest. I know I should stop myself, but I can’t. The need to be closer to him is stronger than my sensible conscience that’s telling me this means more to me than it does to him.

  We spend the next few hours wandering along the beach, looking in the shops. We eat lobster for a late lunch before we make our way back to my apartment. Exhaustion hits me as I curl up on the sofa to watch a movie and before I realize it, I’m asleep.

  I watch her sleep. It’s creepy and fucked-up, but I just can’t help myself. When ten-thirty rolls around and she hasn’t stirred, I lift her into my arms and carry her into her bedroom. Lowering her into her bed, I pull her covers over her and turn to leave, but her sleepy voice stops me.

  “Park.”

  Slowly, I turn to look at her, the darkness hiding most of her face except where the slashes of moonlight highlight one side.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, her voice raspy and full of sleep.

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  Her small hand reaches out, wrapping around my fingers. “No, sleep in here, with me.”

  Swallowing the lump that’s risen in my throat, I consider her words. I can be sensible and sleep in the living room on the sofa, or I can take her offer, slide in beside her, and sleep with her lush body pressed against mine. I know what I should do, what the sensible thing to do would be. But all sensible thoughts have been ignored since the first time I laid eyes on my Rosebud.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, hoping she’ll change her mind, but begging her not to.

  “I want you.” She says sleepily, a yawn intruding on her words. “I want you to sleep in here with me.”

  I almost say the words back, because fuck if they aren’t true. I want her like I’ve never wanted any other woman ever. I want her more than I have ever wanted Taylor, more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and as I walk around her bed, kicking off my boots and socks, I try to figure a way I can have her, even if only a little bit, even if only for tonight.

  I can feel her eyes following my movement, and she lifts the cover, holding it up for me to climb into her bed. She’s still in her jean shorts and the t-shirt she was wearing earlier, and I know I should leave on my clothes, but I don’t. Instead I
pull off my shirt, then my jeans, and slide into her bed in just my boxers.

  I know I shouldn’t, but the moment I lie down, I reach for her, pulling her into my arms. She comes willingly, resting her head on my chest and her arm across my abs. This is literally one of my dreams becoming reality. So many nights I’ve fantasized about how she’d feel curled against me as we slept, and all the other things we could do in the cloak of darkness and night.

  “Denim isn’t very comfortable to sleep in; maybe you should take those shorts off.” The words are out of my mouth and I know I should regret them, but I don’t. Her body freezes, just for a second, then she wiggles against me, shuffling the shorts down her legs and off, until all I can feel against me is the cotton of her t-shirt and the smooth skin of her legs against mine.

  “Park.”

  “Yeah, Rosebud.”

  “Is this a dream?”

  “Do you want it to be?” This is a dangerous game I’m playing, but I just can’t stop. Before she has a chance to reply, I roll over until I’m above her, my body between her thighs. Then I lean down and take her lips with mine. This isn’t like last night. I’m sober, and so is she, and when I kiss her, I tell her exactly how I feel about her. I tell her that she’s everything, that I can’t live without her, that I simply can’t not touch her, can’t not kiss her.

  She kisses me back, her tongue tangling with mine, her hands lifting to grip at my hair and hold me close. Her legs lift and wrap around my waist, her pussy rubbing against me as I own her lips, claiming her mouth as mine.

  I want to explore her body, run my hands over every inch of her creamy smooth skin. As she grinds against me, her t-shirt lifts and my resolve dissolves. I slide my hand from beside her head and run it from her exposed hip, along her ribs to her tits. She’s still wearing a bra; the soft fabric hiding her from me. I cup and knead at her breast and she gasps into my mouth, her back arching slightly as she presses her hot core against my rock-hard dick.