by Emma Hart
Luke pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “You got any syrup?”
“How can you stomach syrup after fifty gallons of tequila?” I tugged a stool to the side and sat, not bothering with a plate of my own as I snagged a pancake and bacon and sandwiched them together to eat.
Look. I never claimed to be a lady.
I was wearing sweatpants and yesterday’s t-shirt. I was a real girl, Pinocchio.
Maybe this was what Shania Twain was really singing about in her song. I felt like a woman. An awkward, mid-twenties woman in need of a face wipe and a shower, but a woman all the same.
After all, if your twenties didn’t taste like regret, had you done it right at all?
The intelligent side of me said yes, you’d done it right if you hadn’t been wrecked the entire time.
Not that I was that person. I worked in a bar—the very bar we’d staggered out of last night, actually. I saw more than my fair share of drunk people, but occasionally the tequila came out and then I was screwed.
Like Luke’s aunt’s wedding. The speeches were barely over, and his grandma was demanding shots of tequila on everyone’s tables.
It was my Achille’s heel.
His too, apparently.
“Syrup is heaven,” Luke replied, retrieving it from the cupboard. “I will never be too hungover for syrup.”
I grabbed my second piece of bacon and chewed on it. I didn’t know how he could eat something so sweet, but then again, I wasn’t exactly someone with a sweet tooth.
“Aren’t you using a plate?” he asked, sitting back down.
“No.” I grabbed another slice of bacon. “I’m too hungover for a plate.”
“But not too hungover to cook.”
“I’ll throw the pancakes in the bin.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t be hasty.” He yanked the plate full of pancakes toward him. “So. Any ideas why I woke up naked?”
Great.
Here we go.
Play it cool, Aspen. Think on your toes.
I paused, a crispy rasher of bacon pinched between my finger and thumb. “You don’t remember?”
He raised an eyebrow. “If I could remember, do you think I’d be asking?”
I lowered the bacon. “You really don’t remember?”
Luke shook his head. “I didn’t flash the building manager again, did I?”
It took everything I had to bite back a laugh at that memory. “No, and I think Mrs. Carmichael was very thankful for that. I’m not entirely sure she’s over the last time.”
“Thank God. So, what happened?”
“We got back here, and you decided you were wearing too many clothes to sleep in and stripped.” I shrugged a shoulder, the bacon jigging with it. “Sorry. No juicy story, and no flashing anyone.”
“Not even a stranger?”
“No. We were surprisingly well-behaved last night.” Except for the part where we banged… If you could even call it that. It was somewhat of a stretch.
Luke drizzled syrup on his pancakes. And by drizzled, I meant drenched. “That sounds like the most boring Fourth of July ever.”
“It was.” I nodded. “Blaire didn’t even have to flash anyone to get served at the bar this year.”
“The last time Blaire flashed anyone at the bar to get served, she ended up breaking a guy’s nose ten minutes later.”
Ah. Yeah. That was true. No wonder my boss, Declan, had made sure she was served within minutes of her approaching the bar.
“He did deserve that,” I reminded Luke. “I mean, she’d hadn’t even gotten her nipples out. There was no need to try to kiss her tit.”
“There was no need for Blaire to get them out. She could have exercised some patience.”
“The only thing Blaire exercises is her mouth. When have you ever known her to have patience?”
Luke chewed on a piece of bacon, then tilted it in my direction in acknowledgment. “True. She has the patience of a toddler at snack time.”
“How do you know how patient a toddler is at snack time?”
“I babysit for my cousin.”
“You did that once.”
“All right, whatever. I babysat.” He reached for my glass of juice and finished it, making me frown. “So nothing bad happened last night? For real?”
I met his blue eyes. “Don’t you think I’d have told you if it did?”
No. Liar.
He considered that for a second, eating the rest of his slice of bacon, then shrugged and said, “Well, given that you bring up the time I swung my dick like a helicopter on my twenty-first birthday, I guess you would.”
“Okay, but,” I snorted, “That will be brought up to every girlfriend, at every party, and at every possible “embarrassing story time” until you die.”
“Aspen, you once sat on the curb and had a conversation with a cat about squirrels.”
“I’ll have you know he was a great listener, thank you very much.”
“Of course he was. He was a cat.”
“Cats have a tendency to walk off and ignore you.” I licked my fingers and grabbed my empty glass to refill it. Sharing a glass with him didn’t seem like such a big deal after the whole saliva-swap thing last night. “A lot like you do.”
“Only when you moan,” he muttered, stabbing the final piece of pancake on his plate with a fork. “I have to admit, I’m real fuckin’ surprised we managed to pull off a night out without either hurting ourselves, flashing someone, or doing something really stupid.”
I sipped my juice and smiled. “Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything.”
It just hadn’t been last night.
“All right. You mind if I use your shower before I go?” He put his plate and fork in the sink.
“Since when have you ever asked to use my shower?”
“Good point.” He smirked, chucking me under the chin before walking in the direction of my bathroom. “Thanks, Asp.”
I raised my glass in response, tilting the top in his direction.
***
“You did what?” Blaire shrieked, lunging forward and almost knocking over her wine glass.
The hair of the dog, all right? Plus, it was Friday night which meant girls’ night in. You couldn’t have girls’ night without wine.
“I know,” I whined, burying my face in my hands.
“You had sex with Luke?”
“It was an accident!” I peered at her over the tips of my fingers. “I swear. It just happened.”
She quirked one eyebrow. “Yeah? What? Did he just trip and stick his erect penis into your vagina?”
“No, but he was uncomfortably close to sticking it in my ass.”
Blaire held up one hand, her aqua manicure flashing as she did. “You’re gonna need to go from the top. Wind back to the start.”
I grabbed my wine glass and drained the rest of it, then settled back on the sofa and tugged a cushion onto my lap. Let’s face it—I’d be burying my face into it in around two minutes.
“Okay. Well, we came back here, and I walked into the doorframe—”
“Of course you did. You barely knew what day of the week it was.”
“Neither did you,” I shot back. “Anyway, he lunged to stop me falling and…we kissed.”
Blaire blinked, her caramel-colored eyes shining with amusement. “Just like that? It just happened?”
“That’s how I remember it.”
“All right. Carry on. I can’t wait for this.”
I could. I never wanted to relive last night again. “I don’t really know what happened after that except I walked into the dresser. Apparently, tequila means you misjudge distance. Who knew?”
“The Mexicans. For a long time. And now they laugh at us idiots.”
Having been to many of Luke’s family events, I knew that much was true. “Anyway—he helped me to the bed and checked my hip. Then I kissed him.”
“You kissed him?”
“What? I didn’t mean to!”
“There’s a lot of that going on in this story,” Blaire said dryly, leaning over to top up our glasses with the last of the wine in the bottle.
I flipped her the bird and continued. “One thing led to another, and after some kissing and stuff, we…did it.”
I really didn’t want to go into any more depth than that.
“Did he try to put it in your ass before or after?” She passed me my glass and sat back, cradling hers.
“Before. And when I told him, he said, ‘whoops.’”
“Whoops?” Her eyes bugged. “Yeah, he’s never had anyone put anything in his ass by accident.”
“Unless there’s something he’s not telling us, I highly doubt he has,” I replied. “So, yeah. That’s it. We did it.”
“Just like that?” She blinked at me. “Well, how was it? What happened this morning? What happens now?”
I said nothing.
“Don’t look at me like I just asked you to uncover the meaning of life. You boned your best friend. Or, rather, he boned you. That’s not exactly something you do every day.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what happens. It was…”
She leaned forward, grinning. “Amazing? Mind-blowing? Something you have to do again? I have to admit, I definitely have Luke in the best-sex-of-your-life bracket in my imagination.”
“Uh…not exactly.”
She paused.
“It was awful, Blaire. So bad. I’ve never had sex so bad in my entire life.”
Her eyes widened. “Worse than Ross?”
I nodded. “Worse than Ross.”
“How bad is bad?”
“Tap-tap-squirt.”
She gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth. “No! Not Luke!”
“Yep.”
“Was it the tequila?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t exactly bring it up, can I?” I held out my hands. “He wandered into the kitchen this morning with no recollection of what happened last night. Despite the fact I wanted to fry myself with the bacon, it was totally normal. I genuinely think he can’t remember.”
Blaire stared at me. She didn’t even move for a second, but when she did, it was to bring her other hand up to her mouth, still clasping her wine glass. “He didn’t remember?”
“Nope. And if he did, he obviously didn’t want to bring it up. Not that I blame him.”
“You didn’t come at all?”
“Only to Misery Town, but I’m pretty sure my train is going to take me on to Awkwardville.”
“Well, shit.” My best friend sagged back against the sofa. “I feel like he’d tell you if he remembered. If only so you can sweep it under the rug and never talk about it again.”
“Same. I just… I don’t want to tell him if he doesn’t remember it.”
“Why not?”
“What the fuck am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, bestie! I just wanted to let you know that we drunkenly screwed last night, but you’re the worst I’ve ever had. Hope this isn’t awkward!’”
Blaire paused. “I’d send it.”
“Of course you would. But I’m not you.” I twirled my glass by the stem. “I can’t tell him that, Blaire. I’m pretty sure it’ll wreck our friendship.”
“More than your two minutes of Heaven?”
“Two minutes might be pushing it.”
“Wow. Okay. So, you’re just going to ignore it and hope you forget about it?”
I sighed and shrugged one shoulder. “I guess so. He doesn’t remember, so telling him what happened and potentially embarrassing him isn’t going to do either of us any good. I’d rather ignore that it ever happened and keep my best friend, no matter how awkward that might be.”
Blaire rocked her head from side to side, then shrugged in something that looked an awful lot like a reluctant agreement. Understanding, at the very least. “I get it, but you’ve been best friends since you were five. When I moved here, it was like getting blood from a stone to be your friend at first.”
I snorted. True. Luke and I had been attached at the hip as long as I could remember.
“I just… I get what you’re saying, Asp, but I think you should think about telling him what happened. Do you really want to keep a secret from him?”
“I never told him you made out with his cousin.”
She held up one finger. “Not important.”
“Totally important.”
“No, I don’t think it is.” She shook her head emphatically, her almost-black curls swinging from side to side. “That’s my secret, not yours.”
“I saw you kissing him so hard I wondered who had the game in that set of tonsil tennis.”
“Still not important.” She waved me off. “You had sex with him, Aspen.”
“Do you call that sex? I call that a drunken mistake that nobody should ever remember in their life.”
She sighed. “Okay. I guess then your question is: are you one hundred percent certain Luke doesn’t remember what you did last night?”
I nodded firmly. “I’m one hundred percent certain that Luke doesn’t remember. I just know he doesn’t.”
CHAPTER THREE – LUKE
What Not To Do After Tequila
I had a long list of things you should never, ever fucking do after tequila.
Flash an old lady.
Strip naked in the public park.
Allow your abs to be used as a body shot platform for a bachelorette party.
Your best friend.
And if I had to pick one of those things to never do again after tequila, it would one hundred percent be the last thing.
‘Cause, fuck.
Just fuck.
I had no idea what I’d been thinking last night. Having sex with Aspen? There was no possible way that could not go wrong after the amount we’d drunk.
My family was a fucking nightmare at holidays, and even though most of them weren’t even American, they used every possible holiday as an excuse to drink tequila. Fourth of July included. I was almost certain they’d cleaned the bar out after we’d left if the four-a.m. text from my cousin was anything to go by.
But me—shit.
I’d been so stupid. So, so stupid. Kissing her had been one thing, but having sex with her? And fucking it up the way I had?
Jesus. There was no way I could tell her I knew what had happened last night. The only saving grace I had was that she didn’t seem to remember a thing. We’d known each other long enough that one of us could have brought it up if we both remembered, so I guess there was that.
She would never know how the worst two minutes of my life had been with her.
Not that she was bad. Holy shit, no. She wasn’t. She was my best friend, but she was hot as fuck. I’d have to be blind not to be attracted to her.
But of all the nights to do something about those damn honey-colored eyes and a mouth with a smile so powerful it could light up an entire town, it had to be last night.
It had to be after a stupid number of tequila shots. A stupid number of lines of salt licked off the back of my hand. A stupid number of lime slices sucked between my lips.
Of course it did.
And it had to be a terrible, horrible, awkward two minutes of her being too drunk to even fake an orgasm accurately.
And then, this morning, when I’d asked her why I was butt naked—not that I’d even realized until I’d strolled into her kitchen and she’d screamed at me—she’d come up with a perfectly good excuse as to why I was naked.
At first, I’d thought she was lying. She was covering up the truth. Who the fuck wanted to admit that the worst sex of their life had been with their best friend? It was like telling your old dog that you preferred your new puppy.
Kinda.
But no, the more I probed, the more she insisted I’d stripped off. Which, to be honest, I had a record of when drunk. I wasn’t exactly a stand-up member of society after a few drinks, but at least I’d never punched anyone or been arrested.
I was
just, you know… Free.
How the fuck was I supposed to tell Aspen what had happened? That we’d had what barely passed as sex and she’d faked it to make me feel good?
Like I didn’t know that a woman couldn’t come in two minutes of thrusting.
I wasn’t fifteen. I was twenty-five. Not that it made a difference last night.
Nope. That was all on tequila.
The bruise on my right ankle? Tequila.
The knock to my ego? Tequila.
The shame of pumping and dumping my best friend?
Te. Fucking. Quila.
The worst part of this situation with Aspen was that I had no fucking idea what to do now. I couldn’t bring it up. I remembered the night clearly, and she’d been willing in every single thing we’d done—which wasn’t a damn lot—but still.
What if she didn’t believe me? What if she thought I’d taken advantage of her? I’d never do that. Not to her or anyone else.
We’d both drunk the exact same amount. We’d both managed to pile into a cab and go back to her place simply because it was closest.
That was how it worked. She left hangover clothes in my bottom drawer, and I left them in hers.
She was just much better at cooking the next day than I was.
But, fuck. How did we move forward from this? Did I sit here on my sofa eating Doritos and pretend it never happened? Was that for the best? How the hell were you supposed to apologize to your best friend for screwing her out of, well, a damn good screw?
At least I knew she’d slept well. She snored like a harbor setting off an alarm to bring a boat in safely.
God fucking knows I’d prodded her to roll over and shut up enough times last night.
Shit, though. Shit.
I leaned forward and ran one hand through my hair. The other was covered in orange dust from the Doritos I’d been eating, and when I sat back, I licked my fingers clean.
Then I scratched my balls.
Look. I was hungover, tormented, and I’d put fifty bucks on the line betting that I’d fucked up my relationship with my best friend.
If I wanted to lick Dorito dust off my hand and scratch my balls with the other while feeling sorry for myself, then I’d fucking well do it.
The truth was, I had no idea what to do with this situation. There was hardly a handbook for what to do after having bad sex with your best friend.
