Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

“When?”

  I shrug. “Maybe three months in, when you’d just broken it off with that dermatologist…but then a guy I’d sort of liked for a while came back into the picture so I wanted to give it a shot with him.”

  “Mason,” he says confidently. A dark glint shadows his gaze. If we were in a cheesy movie, he’d have said his name while pounding his fist into his palm.

  “Yeah, him. Anyway, then you hooked up with that lawyer, the woman who insisted on calling me Samantha and then made it worse by over-pronouncing each syllable. Sah-mahn-thah. It’s like she had phlegm in her throat or something.”

  “Karissa. Yeah, she sucked.”

  “I know.”

  His eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me after I broke things off with her? That was the first time we were single at the same time.”

  The fact that he knows that is pretty illuminating. If this game were going both ways, I’d interrupt and ask him if he was attracted to me back then too. My pitiful heart can barely handle the possibility that he was—or rather, is.

  “Sam?”

  I stare at a patch of drywall beside his head. “I don’t know. We’d settled into a friend routine. It worked and I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I still don’t.”

  It’s why I’m playing this stupid game and answering his questions instead of letting him kiss me. Of course I want that kiss. Are you kidding me?! Has he looked in a mirror? He’s so hot tonight I bet he’d be half tempted to lean forward and lay one on his own reflection, fog up the glass.

  “Explain, Sam.”

  I twist my fingers together and pick at my nail polish. I usually never wear nail polish because picking it off is too fun, like now. What a waste of $30. “It’s very simple, really: we have a bird in the hand. You and I make an excellent duo. You’re my best friend. Really, actually, now that I think about it, you’re my only friend. Everyone we used to hang out with has either moved away or had kids, but not us. We’ve never grown up or settled down. We still have time for West Wing Wednesdays and trivia nights and that one month where I wanted to take up rollerblading and I made you walk beside me and hold my hand.”

  He suppresses a laugh at the memory.

  “Yeah, people thought I was your little sister. Women tried to hit on you because they thought you were a doting big brother, teaching me how to rollerblade like that. Anyway, my point is: I think we’ve established that this is a super great scenario, and if we decide to start dating, there’s a 99% chance it won’t work out, and then what? I lose a boyfriend and a best friend in one fell swoop. No bird in the hand, and no birds in the bush. No. I’m not doing it.”

  “You sound like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

  “I have. I’ve even done research. I can recall every sitcom that touches on this topic from the late 1990s until now.”

  “What about Chandler and Monica?”

  “They were just lucky.”

  “Jim and Pam?”

  “Well…it took ’em a while.”

  “Leslie and Ben?”

  “It was rocky there for a bit.”

  He laughs and pushes off the desk to stand. “I get it now.”

  He stalks forward like a panther and then he’s right there, looming over me. He tips down so his hands rest on the desk on either side of my hips. We’re eye level, blue gaze to blue gaze. My knees brush against the front of his suit pants. Holy shit. He’s big. My eyes grow wide. He lets out a deep breath then glances down. His growl is barely contained to the back of his throat. The bottom of my dress has ridden up to the top of my thighs, and I wish I’d thought to button his coat around me. I need that extra layer if I intend to leave this classroom as put together as when I entered.

  I try to slide off the desk, but he doesn’t let me. He steps forward and my knees are forced apart.

  Now we’re wedged together and my thighs are gripping his hips like a pole I’m about to slide down. Firewoman Sam, at your service.

  “Is this still part of the game?” I ask, sounding like someone has their hands wrapped around my throat. I’m dying.

  “No.” One of his hand traces along my jaw. “No more games.”

  His touch is feather light and I’m embarrassed to find myself leaning into it. I’m a cat, angling for pets.

  “The fact is,” he says solemnly, “I’m ready to try this out, but you don’t seem to be.”

  He’s looking at my lips, studying them like he’s going to have to recreate them from memory later.

  “So?”

  Does that mean he’ll take what he wants anyway? Because truthfully, I love that idea—all pleasure and no consequences. He can run his hand up under my dress and touch me like he wanted to touch me on the phone the other night while I pretend like I kept my wits about me. I’ll have the moral high road while he explores each of my immoral low roads. Win-win.

  “So I’m going to let you slide off this desk and we’re going to walk to the parking lot like we always do, as friends.”

  Is he kidding? I thought this was leading somewhere. My panties are wet because my entire body thought this was leading somewhere.

  He tries to step back, but my fingers clench the front of his tuxedo shirt in a vice grip and I drag him closer. “Ask me another question.”

  “No.”

  “Fine, I’ll ask. Sam, do you want me to kiss you right now?”

  Then I tilt my head and press my lips lightly to his.

  11

  S A M

  He’s so shocked, and for a second, neither of us closes our eyes. We’re just two friends with our mouths pressed together. I could be resuscitating him for all anybody knows. But, from this angle, I can see his eyes are eclipsing. For three long seconds, we don’t move a muscle. I fall into the Ian ocean, letting those blue eyes completely drown me. We’re frozen in time, and I realize we still haven’t moved.

  He’s going to make me do the heavy lifting. That’s okay. Years of dating poor kissers have ensured my mastery of the one-sided smooch. One hand skates up over his chest (nice), collarbone (nicer), broad shoulder (nicest), and then it loops around the corded muscle at his neck. My nails drag along the base of his hair and he relaxes against me. I resist a smirk. Step one is complete.

  Step two is harder because I have to break the kiss. It’s like opening the airlock in space; either the outside door is sealed and we survive intact, or all the air gets sucked out of the moment and I die. For a moment, I keep our foreheads pressed together, but our lips aren’t touching. We’re oh-so-close and I’m building the suspense by threading my fingers in his hair and wetting my bottom lip. When his hands tighten on my waist, I know I have him, but I have to be sure. The uppercut is when I take his full bottom lip between my teeth. He groans. Yes, Ian, you’ll want to take off that nice suit because I play dirty.

  What the hell are you doing to me? he asks silently.

  Beating you at your own game, I mentally reply with a smirk, and then I kiss him again. This time there’s no stoicism on his part. He hauls me up against his chest and slants his mouth against mine. It hits me like a ton of bricks that we’re kissing. IAN FLETCHER AND I ARE KISSING. I would exclaim this out loud if my mouth weren’t currently occupied with something much more important.

  Here’s the thing: Ian might have been frozen a few moments ago, but he’s not anymore. His hands dip under his coat and he pushes it off my shoulders. His palms burn across my neck and then lower, skating the outer edges of my breasts. My nipples tighten. His touch sears. I have no doubt my dress is charred and moments from disintegrating into a pile of ash at my feet.

  We’re best friends, kissing the exact same way we do everything else: we take liberties, we go too far, we blur and redraw the borders of our comfort zones.

  His hands tighten around my waist and he rocks his hips against me, grinding. My fingers curl against his skin and the same adjective from earlier comes to mind: BIG. There’s a new one, too: H
ARD. Full sentences will come later when my brain isn’t going haywire.

  He rocks his hips again and the gesture says, Feel this, Sam? That’s for you.

  I make a sound in the back of my throat that I’ve never heard before (a guttural moan mixed with the word “please”) and he delivers, gently coaxing my lips apart and touching the tip of his tongue to mine. Oh yes. Our PG kiss has turned X-rated. I’m glad to see he’s retaliating with vigor.

  Don’t stop, don’t stop.

  I’ve been deprived of this kiss for so long, and now that it’s happening, I’d like it to last for at least one to two decades. We’ll barricade the windows and door. We’ll tear the pages from the English textbooks stacked against the back wall and make a cozy sex nest. We’ll survive by taking little nibbles of each other every now and then, like little love cannibals. I’m aware it isn’t the most well-adjusted thing to think about during a passionate kiss, but it’s just the kind of joke Ian and I would crack up about for hours. It fits.

  In an attempt to bring my body completely flush with his, I nearly fall off the desk. He grins against my mouth and I growl in warning. He must be thinking funny thoughts in his head too, which suddenly irks me. I won’t share this newfound lust with the old Sam and Ian—they have plenty of things to sustain them, but this red-hot fire is the only thing keeping this moment going.

  To prove my point, my hand hits the top of his suit pants. His smile disappears in a millisecond and our kiss ratchets up another few degrees. As a reward for his superb skills, I think I’ll let him peel me out of this slip of a dress so we can fulfill every fantasy I’ve ever had. What a genius idea. Let’s get to it.

  I slide my hand farther into his pants just as a loud shrieking bell blares overhead, piercing the walls of my quiet classroom. We leap apart so fast I have to reach out to stabilize myself in order to not tip backward off the desk.

  Principal Pruitt’s voice sounds over the PA system next. “Those were some excellent dance skills, Oak Hill students! I wish we could party all night, but it’s time to head home. Please proceed to the carpool lane if you have a parent or friend picking you up. No loitering!”

  Then his voice cuts off. Ugh. Imagine if your boss had the ability to pipe in his stupid voice while you were in the middle of life-changing sex. Mood officially killed.

  Ian and I stare silently at one another.

  I’m breathing like I just climbed Everest. I think my heart is palpitating.

  I want to pick up right where we left off, but I’m frozen.

  Ian looks perfectly relaxed. His breathing isn’t even labored. You’d never know I just assaulted him except for the fact that his hair is adorably tousled and his shirt is extra wrinkled thanks to my greedy little pincers.

  When I push off the desk and try to stand, my knees decide to function less like bones and more like jelly. I play it off by acting like I wanted to crumple to the floor anyway. I do need to put my heels back on.

  He steps forward and helps me to stand. Then he grabs his suit jacket and rights it on my shoulders with gentle care.

  “Come on. If we don’t hurry, they’ll lock us in here overnight.”

  He makes it sound like that’d be a bad thing.

  “We have snacks, right? I think I still have one of your Clif Bars under my chair…” I trail off.

  He shakes his head and turns to walk out into the hall. I have no choice but to follow.

  We barely make it a few steps before a security guard aims an accusing flashlight at us. The hallway isn’t even dark. It’s a little overkill. “Hey! You kids were supposed to stay in the cafeteria.”

  “We’re teachers,” Ian says smoothly.

  The security guard purses his lips in disbelief and grumbles under his breath as we pass, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “I think we’re going to get detention,” Ian jokes.

  I don’t laugh. My sanity is crumbling.

  He glances over at me, and whatever he sees makes him shake his head with annoyance. What? Do I look that bad?

  “Just remember when you go home and freak out, you did this to yourself.”

  “What?”

  “You’re spiraling.”

  I laugh like a shrill lunatic. “No, I’m not!”

  I am. A soft breeze could topple me. I don’t let him touch me when we get to my car. I’m scared I’ll latch onto him again, which would be terrible because we aren’t alone anymore. There are other people out in the parking lot—teachers, chaperones, Principal Pruitt. He waves at us as he and his wife head to their car. Ian and I smile and wave like plastic figurines. Our body language says, No kissing here! None at all! Just two well-behaved employees!

  “I thought you two left after you finished your chaperoning duties?” he shouts from a few cars over.

  “We were going to, but then Ian got sick.” The lie sails off my tongue effortlessly. I want to pat myself on the back.

  “Oh no.” Principal Pruitt frowns. “What do you have, son?”

  “Food poisoning,” I supply for him. “You know how it goes—out both ends, pretty bad. I had to unlock the supply closet to get more toilet paper for him.”

  “Yup. Sam had it too, even worse than I did. Never heard anything like it before in my life.”

  I resist the urge to stomp on his foot.

  Principal Pruitt looks deeply concerned. “Now that you mention it, you both look like you’ve been through the ringer. Did you guys share food or something?”

  We swapped some saliva—does that count?

  We’re given orders to rest and hydrate and take it easy tomorrow.

  When they’re gone, Ian opens my car door and folds me down inside. “Food poisoning? Really?”

  “It was the only way to explain our ragged appearance.”

  He reaches over me and starts my car.

  “Can you drive?”

  “I don’t know. What if I get pulled over? I’m not drunk, but I sure as shit can’t walk a straight line right now. Did you drug me?”

  He’s covering the door and leaning down, filling the entire doorframe. “I hate the way your brain works sometimes.”

  The dig cuts deep. I can’t change who I am no matter how hard I try.

  I stare straight ahead, out the front window.

  “Why can’t you just let this happen without sabotaging it?”

  “I’m not sabotaging it,” I insist, offended.

  “Okay, then let’s go out on a date tomorrow night.”

  “I can’t.”

  He shakes his head, pissed. “Good night Sam.”

  NO! Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he understand that I want to preserve what we have? That people fight their entire lives to find a friend like we have in each other? We’re soul mates who shouldn’t risk mating. Soul buds. Soul pals?

  “Wait!” I wrap my hand around his forearm. It’s so muscled and sexy, I lose track of what I was about to say. When my gaze drags back up to his angry scowl, I remember. “Don’t be mad at me.”

  He’s never been mad at me. I didn’t realize it’s my worst fear until this moment.

  “I’m not. Sam—” He cuts himself off and heaves in a deep sigh. Then he steps back and grabs the door. “Go home.”

  And I do. I go home and I lie awake in my bed and I try to ignore the terrible feeling that my friendship with Ian will never be the same after tonight, that I’ve already started to lose him. The thought shreds my heart.

  Ian and I don’t talk at all on Sunday. It’s the worst day I’ve had in a long time. I mope around the apartment and stay in my pajamas. I grab for my phone every time I hear a phantom ring. I watch a PBS special about jellyfish and remember the time I got stung at the beach and Ian swooped me up in his arms and carried me out of the water like a hero.

  Monday morning, my wakeup call never comes. I sleep straight past first period; that’s how much I’ve come to rely on Ian. Fortunately, Principal Pruitt assumes I’m still recovering from food poisoning, so there’s no need
to explain my tardiness or the fact that they had to pull in a sub to cover for me. During lunch, Ian avoids the teachers’ lounge and I’m forced to converse with other people. It’s so annoying. I have to complete my sentences and everything or they get confused. Ashley asks me how the Valentine’s Day dance went and I’m so paranoid, I snap my gaze to her and ask her what she means.

  Her face scrunches in confusion. “Just, like, was it a total bore or what?”

  Oh.

  I tell her it was fine, eat the rest of my lunch in two bites, and then scurry right back to my classroom. It’s not exactly a smart move. After all, it’s the scene of the crime. The desk we made out on should be removed from rotation and enshrined. Students have sat at it all morning, oblivious to the fact that Ian rocked my world in that exact spot not 48 hours ago.

  I’ve thought about him a lot since our kiss, obsessed over him. As proof, my mind can warp any topic right back to him. While my students take a test, I look out the window of my classroom at the cloudless blue sky…Ian blue. After class, I overhear my students dissecting last night’s Game of Thrones episode and wonder if Ian watched it without me. I scroll past a funny meme on Reddit and resist the urge to text it to him.

  I never wanted to tell Ian how I felt because I was scared of our friendship crumbling. I didn’t want to have to experience life without Ian, and it turns out my fears were valid because this fucking sucks.

  One of my students comes up to me after sixth period, after most everyone has filed out. Her name’s Jade. She’s sweet and she takes my class seriously. I like her.

  “Ms. Abrams, could I get your advice about something?”

  I’m in no state to be doling out advice, but her eyes are hopeful and I’d feel terrible turning her down. “Sure thing. What’s up?”

  “Well, I was wondering…I have this best friend, Truman. He’s in your fourth period. Anyway, we’ve been best friends since like sixth grade, but I think I want it to be something more.”

  I blink at her question.

  Is this a joke?

  “What are you talking about? Did someone put you up to this?”