by Everly Lucas
“I’m so sorry, Ben,” Lee says, pulling me in for a comforting hug. Sometimes I’d swear she’s the older sibling. She’s going to make a damn good mom. “It must’ve hurt like a bitch to hear that. Fuck, I can only imagine the murderous rampage I’d go on if Henry told me he so much as shook another woman’s hand the wrong way.”
“Yeah, it hurt—still does—but I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”
If I’ve accomplished anything this week, it’s finally admitting to myself how inevitable Claire and Andy were. Two people on a collision course with each other, doing their best to veer out of the way of danger, avoid the crash, but never running off the rails for long. I wasn’t blind to this. I just always assumed Claire and I would crash harder.
“And it’s not like I couldn’t have lived with it.”
Leah looks up from where she’s been scraping ice cream off the edge of the carton and, with no small amount of sarcasm, says, “Right.”
“I’m serious.”
A week ago, I would’ve given myself the same disbelieving look my sister’s giving me right now. But that was before I lost Claire. That soul-deep knowledge I gained—the bit about my life being with her—is not contingent on us being together. It’s broader than that. Even if we’re just friends. Even if she’s with Andy. Even if she only comes around to drink my wine and hang out with the dog. Doesn’t matter, so long as she’s in my life, where she’s meant to be. Anything that comes along with that, I can accept.
“Be real, Ben. Are you trying to tell me you would’ve been okay with Andy and Claire being together? With them doing the marriage and babies thing? With stepping aside for them?”
I don’t take any time to think about my answer to her questions. I don’t need to. “Eventually, yes. He’s family. You know that better than anyone. And Claire…” Flashes of my fantasy family replay in my mind, only this time, Andy holds her hand and his child grows inside her, and I…
“Ben?” Leah’s voice sounds distant and muted as it fights for access to my consciousness, but my epiphany is huge and powerful and refuses to make way for anything else. “Um, Ben? You okay in there?”
Could I? Would he?
“I swear to God, if you don’t blink in the next—"
“I’ve got to go.” I hustle over to the kitchen counter, grab my keys and wallet, and spin back to her. “You okay letting yourself out?”
“What the fuck, Ben?”
Knowing Leah, she’s only angry because she’s out of whatever loop I’m in, but there’s no time to explain. Besides, she wouldn’t want to hear the details of this particular loop. I plant a kiss on her head, and then I run down the stairs and pull my phone from my back pocket as I walk in the direction of the gym.
Drop the weights and hit the showers, meathead. We need to talk.
Twenty-Six
Claire
Want to know the best way to avoid thinking about bad things? Avoid thinking, altogether. After an hour of staring at the ceiling and cursing my brain's outright refusal to shut off, I took one of the sleeping pills my doctor prescribed when I left Cameron and moved into my apartment.
Apparently, major life changes can cause insomnia. Who would've guessed?
And, yes, I absolutely consider leaving Ben and Andy a major life change. Meeting them was another, but I'd lose a thousand nights of sleep if I could relive that weekend, over and over, for the rest of my life.
At four in the afternoon, the pill wears off and my eyes blink open. Fudge. I was hoping I’d stay knocked out until Monday morning. I want my ten-dollar copay back.
My mind is still fighting off the grog of artificially induced sleep, so I figure the text alert on my screen—the text from Ben, of all people—is just a remnant of a dream I don’t remember. I decide to ignore it. No use getting myself worked up over the leftovers of my unconscious mind. Besides, I’m all gross and sticky with sleep sweat, so I take a long shower under cold water before doing anything else.
When I walk back into my bedroom, naked and planning to stay that way, the text is still there. In fact, it’s multiplied—there are five of them, now.
What the hell is Ben doing? I told him not to contact me. This needs to be a clean break, or I have no hope of staying away from them. He knows that.
I can ignore these texts. I will ignore them.
Oh, who am I kidding?
What are you doing tonight?
If you try to avoid me, I’ll just keep texting you.
You can’t get rid of me that easily.
Indefatigable
Persisting tirelessly
Good lord. He’s so unfair, making me laugh when it only makes me miss him more. The little dots on the screen let me know he’s typing again.
There’s your two-bit word for the day.
You owe me a kiss, now.
i thought i got the discount?
Wait—I wasn’t supposed to reply. Shit. He’s probably over there basking in his triumph. If I put the phone down, maybe stick it in a drawer or a safe for which I’ve lost the combination, I can go about my day with no further temptations. But, nope, I’ll just stand here and stare at it, instead.
Oh, are we friends again?
If you’re still ignoring me, I’ll be forced to collect.
And I don’t accept cash anymore. Kisses only.
My thumbs hover over the tiny keyboard as I repeat my new mantra—“I will not give in. I will not give in.”
Do you remember our kisses, Claire? Do you remember how hard my cock was from finally having your lips on mine? From feeling your heat when you rubbed your sweet, wet pussy on me? Do you remember how our bodies couldn’t get close enough to each other?
Gulp.
You have no idea how badly I wanted to be inside you that day. What about you? Did you want to feel my cock filling you, stretching you to fit me? You could’ve had it. You can have it now. Just say the word, and I’m all yours.
If he keeps this up, I’ll need another cold shower. Suddenly, being naked feels too…naked. I keep my eye on my phone the entire time I’m slipping a loose sundress over my head. Nothing new comes through. No type-y dots, either. I don’t believe for a second he gave up after pulling out those big guns.
I squeeze my thighs together, remembering how big Ben’s gun felt between them…
No. Bad Claire. Thoughts of Ben’s anatomy are strictly forbidden. Those thoughts could turn into wants, needs, and stupid, stupid mistakes.
I have to try one last tactic before I fold like clean laundry.
but i’m not all yours. that’s the problem.
It doesn’t have to be.
What the hell does that mean? It’s a problem no matter which way you slice it. And I’ve sliced it a trillion different ways in my mind.
Come out with me tonight.
If you still want to end this, let’s at least end it on a high note.
I’m about to turn him down and beg him to leave me alone—really, I am—when he hits me with another text.
Someone will be at your apartment at 8. If you don’t let them in, I can’t be held accountable for their actions.
See you tonight, Claire.
I’ll say it again. What the hell is Ben doing?
He doesn’t text again after that cryptic warning about someone coming to my place. Someone who? And what the hell for? In an effort to not drive myself crazy obsessing over it, I spend the rest of the afternoon glued to my couch, watching cheesy Hallmark movies. Halfway through the one about the big city lawyer chick who falls for a struggling ranch owner while trying to adjust to country life, my buzzer goes off, scaring the ever-loving crap out of me. This is the first time I’ve heard it without ordering pizza first.
Eight o’clock on the dot, and the unknown someone is here. I’m tempted to leave whoever it is hanging, but it’s not in my nature to be so rude. Plus, if I don’t let them in, I’ll be curious about the person’s identity until my dying day. My epitaph will read, “If only I’d opened the door…�
�
Shit. What if it’s Andy? I hadn’t thought of that. But Ben wouldn’t send his best friend and sole competition for my heart, would he? No way.
With any luck, the intercom button won’t work. Only one way to find out.
“Who is it?”
“Your fairy godmother.” Oh, good God. “Let me in, bizatch.”
I can play this one of two ways. Curiosity now satisfied, I can leave her outside and go back to the lawyer and her cowboy, or I can get caught up in the whirlwind that is Leah. She’s lucky she’s with child, or she’d be waiting out there all night.
I buzz her in and step outside my door, watching her descend the stairs to my basement apartment. Toting a large Nieman Marcus bag in one hand, she holds her cell to her ear with the other. “Yep. She just let me in. I know, I know. Don’t worry, Ben. I’ve got this,” she says to the indefatigable bastard on the other end of the line. This has trouble written all over it.
The petite brunette bounces into my living room with a level of pep I can safely say I’ve never experienced. Quite frankly, it looks exhausting. “Peach!”
“Hey, Leah. It’s good to see you again. Unexpected, but good.”
Despite any inner grumblings, I am happy to see her. I knew and accepted that by giving up her brother, I’d lose her, too, leaving me friendless all over again. Seeing Leah is like seeing one of those weird fluorescent fish in a three-hundred-gallon tank of loneliness.
“So, um, whatcha doin' here?”
“I’m here to do what fairy godmothers do best—doll you the fuck up. Duh.” She holds up the bag as evidence. “You have a date tonight, and you can’t go out in public like that.”
Granted, my hair’s a frizzy rat’s nest and this dress is due for a trip to the laundromat, but the look is totally appropriate for holing up in my apartment, all alone, with no gorgeous men to impress.
“Thanks…I think. But I’m not going anywhere tonight.” I can’t. No matter how acute my longing is to see Ben again, nothing good will come from going along with his end-on-a-high-note plan. I cross my arms over my chest, hoping it’s a convincing show of being unswayable.
“C’mon, Claire. He’s put a lot of work into this. You have no idea.”
“Then tell him I said thank you, but no.”
“Don’t you think you owe him this? After what you did?” She sounds indignant, but there’s no mistaking that twitch at the corners of her lips. The little weasel is guilting me. Damn, she’s good. “Ben told me what happened between you two…and between you and Andy. If they weren’t my brothers, and if you hadn’t broken their poor hearts, I’d ask to shake your hand. Or get you to autograph my tits, or something.”
All I can do is stare at her in an attempt to suss out exactly how crazy she is.
“Now, come on! We’ve clearly got a lot of work to do. Also—can you crank up the AC? It’s hot as balls in here.”
Ha! If I’m going to be miserable, at least she will be, too.
Mission accomplished, though. I have officially been swayed, and giddiness bubbles in me like a freshly cracked Dr. Pepper.
I’m going to see Ben.
Once the crazy-dust settles, I’ve gotta hand it to the little imp—she knows how to take a mess and make it pretty. I look like a prostitute, but one of those high-class ones politicians pay top dollar for, then get caught in a scandal, and everyone’s like, “Yeah, we can totally see why he risked it.”
Turns out, the Neiman Marcus bag contained a dress, heels, and a bunch of makeup that’s “perfect for gingers,” as Leah put it. All courtesy of Ben. The dress is a super short bodycon the same deep plum color as his favorite Malbec. The shade is sensuous in contrast to my pale skin, and the low-cut neckline does fantastic things for my breasts.
Leah tamed my unruly waves, but in a way that maintains their naturally wild look. I’ve never worn much makeup before. Except for the rare fancy occasion, I don’t wear any, at all. Eyelash curlers intimidate me, and liner pencils are way too sharp to have any business being near eyes. More importantly, I’m crap at applying the stuff. But my fairy godmother’s smokey-eye game is on point.
For the first time in years, I feel sexy. I still prefer to stay anonymous and unnoticed in most social situations, but now that I’m Claire 4.0, I find myself craving the power that comes from commanding the attention of an entire room. With the way I look tonight, wherever Ben and I go, I’ll feel like a juicy cut of steak in a room full of hungry mutts.
Damn, it’s good to be back.
While I continue turning myself on with my own reflection, Leah sits on my bed, head bent over her phone. Without warning, she hops to the floor and grabs her purse off my dresser.
“My work here is done, and my baby daddy’s here to fetch me, so… Have fun tonight!” With that, she heads for the door.
“That’s it? What happens now?”
“Now you get into the limo waiting outside for you. I’d tell you to try and have fun, but I have no doubt you will.” She takes my hands and kisses both my flushed cheeks. With a wink, she says, “I’ve always wanted a sister.”
And then I’m alone, rooted in place by the honking huge Huh? weighing me down.
Just what does Ben have planned for me tonight? My brain does its best to remind me what a stupendous mistake spending any amount of time in his company is, but my heart urges me onward. If I didn’t look hotter than anyone has a right to, and if I weren’t so damn curious, I could probably talk myself into ditching Ben and staying home.
But, yet again, curiosity trumps all, so I let my four-inch heels carry me out the door.
Twenty-Seven
Claire
As promised, a sleek, black limo idles in front of my building, with a heart-stoppingly handsome man leaning against it. The moment he spots me, he stands at attention and his jaw goes slack. Looks like I’m not the only one who finds me sexy.
Ben Cohen is simply delectable in dark blue jeans, a navy polo that’s tighter than it ought to be—but not tight enough, in my opinion—and his signature man-bun. I swear, I will never get enough of that thing.
My insides buzz, and my girl parts get a little wet. They want him. I want him. The desire to be close to Ben is impossible to fight, so I don’t.
As soon as I’m within reach, he grabs my waist and yanks me to him. The sidewalk behind me is heavily trafficked by college kids on their way to wherever they can find cheap alcohol and easy sex. I can hear their footfalls, catcalls, and titters as they pass by us, but the more I settle into Ben’s embrace, the more the rest of the world ceases to exist.
Securing the back of my neck with a possessive hand, Ben claims my lips in a searing kiss. I melt into him, of course. With this much heat passing between us, what choice does my body have?
I'd finally had a true taste of Ben last week, and a blink of an eye later, I thought I'd have to spend the rest of my life missing it. This kiss is excruciating relief. More like a tease, really, since, despite the thrill rushing through me, I stand by my decision to let him go. But I'll happily suffer through whatever cruel retribution awaits me once the magic of tonight is over. It’ll be so very much worth it.
When he's had his fill of my lips, he eases me back to get a another good look at me. His eyes zero in on the deep V neckline of my skin-tight dress—the dress he picked out. While he peruses my body, I fidget with my hemline and push a lock of hair behind my ear. “Leah's a miracle worker, huh?”
This shakes him from his lusty stupor. He cradles my face in his hands, tracing my nude bottom lip with his thumb. "The raw material was flawless. No miracles necessary."
Okay, I was blushing before, but he just cranked it up to a next-level flush of heat. I fear for the safety of my cheeks, to be honest.
Ben opens the door for me to slide into the limo—very carefully, given my dress's sorry excuse for length. When he settles in next to me, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together, I give him my best suspicious-face. He just grins like the cat that ate
the fat, juicy, annoying-as-fuck canary.
"Do I get to know where we're going?"
"Of course, Claire. I'm not kidnapping you."
Uh huh. There’s not one true word in that response. Well, except my name, but everything else was pure bullshit.
What can’t be more than ten minutes later, the limo pulls to a stop in front of an unsettling, nondescript brick building somewhere in the newly gentrified bowels of West Philly. Our driver rounds the car to open our door, and Ben exits first, keeping hold of my hand as I climb out.
"Are you ready?” he asks.
"Ready for what? My murder and body-dump?"
He laughs as he leads me to the entrance—a single metal door propped open by a concrete block, with no sign to indicate the name of the place. Deep bass pulses through the weathered brick walls like a heartbeat. It must be coming from an upper level, because the music blaring from the open front door is old school alt rock.
The large, menacing bouncer with a Warlocks Motorcycle Club tattoo on his meaty bicep nods at us as we pass, taking time to eat me up with bloodshot eyes. It skeeves me something awful, but I’m in show-off mode and feeling like sex in a dress, so even unwanted attention gives me a certain tingle.
The wood floor is tacky with dried alcohol, and the soles of my heels stick to it with each step. Exposed conduit and exhaust ducts criss-cross the high ceiling, and a single slow-moving fan does a piss-poor job of circulating the air. Couples and groups of people, mostly young professional types, gather at sturdy wooden cocktail tables that are bolted to floor. Most of the women are dressed to the nines, so I don’t stick out in my slinky getup, but we all look completely out of place in this seedy venue.
