Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

  I can tell from the trembling of her lower lip that she has no clue what I’m talking about. “Sorry. I can talk to someone else—”

  “No. Sorry, ignore that. What’s going on?”

  She tells me the facts quickly and it’s like I’m talking to a younger version of myself. The conversation feels like a weird therapy technique. I wonder if it was her note that was confiscated and read aloud in the teachers’ lounge the other day.

  “Do you think I should go for it?” she asks. “Y’know, tell him how I feel?”

  I don’t hesitate before confidently replying, “Do not, under any circumstances, tell him how you feel. Take your feelings to the grave.”

  “The grave?!” Her mouth drops.

  Too morbid?

  “Okay, just take them to college. You don’t want to ruin that friendship.”

  “It’s just—we were reading that Tennyson poem in your class the other day, the one that ends with ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

  “Oh, Tennyson? He’s a quack.”

  “But you said they made him a lord because of the strength of his poetry.”

  “Did I say that? Well, the point is, why would you risk what you have right now?”

  “I think it could be something even more.”

  “More?!” I want to shake her. “Why do you need more? Isn’t your friendship great as is? Isn’t spending time with him your favorite part of life? Why would you want to go and screw that up?”

  There are fat drops of water collecting in the corners of her eyes. I realize I’ve been shouting.

  She turns and runs from the room, backpack nearly taking her down as she swoops around the corner.

  Well, my work here is done.

  Except, the next day, I see her and Truman holding hands in the hall. Truman leads her over to her locker and then cages her in against it for a kiss. If I had a foghorn, I’d blow it in their ears.

  Fortunately, Ian is on hallway duty and he breaks up their display of young love before I can.

  He tells them to save it for after school, or better yet, for when they turn 25, and then he turns and our eyes catch. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in two days. There’s emotion clouding his usually friendly gaze. His trademark easy smile is gone. His dark brows are furrowed into a line.

  It’s all my fault.

  I have to suppress the urge to run and fling myself into his arms.

  Be my friend again, please! I want to shout.

  His smoldering gaze warns me away. Even more, it says, That could be us. I could pin you to a locker like that if only you’d let me.

  At least I think that’s what it says. I don’t have much time to translate it because he passes me by quickly, without a word. My breath whooshes out of me and it feels like I’ve been shot.

  “Ian!” I shout after him impulsively.

  He shakes his head and keeps walking. “I have to get back to my classroom.”

  I’m so emotionally frustrated—and so sexually frustrated—I could scream. In fact, I do. A tiny freshman boy runs past my classroom door, probably trying to get to his class on time, and I don’t hesitate to shout, “No running in the halls!”

  His face crumples in fear. I slam my classroom door closed and listen as a snarky senior laughs. “Sheesh, Ms. A clearly needs to get laid.”

  Finally, somebody gets me!

  12

  I A N

  It’s Wednesday…West Wing Wednesday. Four days since the kiss, and four days since I’ve talked to Sam. I don’t have a plan. I’m not trying to punish her; I’m just trying to regain some semblance of control. If she wants to stay just friends, that’s going to be hard for me. We’ve crossed a line. I can’t erase that kiss or that phone call, and if she wants me to try, I’m going to need some distance. It gets lonely standing out on a limb all by yourself.

  Still, I know I’m being a jerk. Her face was the saddest thing when I brushed her off in the hall yesterday, but what does she expect? I’m not a saint. I’m a guy who’s in love with his best friend, a woman who seems to eat her cake but also keep it in a hermetically sealed cryopreservation tank for all eternity.

  Life continues on in the four days since we last spoke, albeit way shittier. I take my anger out on my soccer players. They think I’m an asshole for making them run so many laps at practice all week, but I run with them, insisting that if I can do it, so can they—except I have a secret weapon they don’t: heartache. I think I could run from here to Alaska if I had to, Forrest Gump style.

  I step into the shower after practice and crank the temperature until it’s scalding. I stick my head under the water and close my eyes, thinking of Sam. She’s not going to come to West Wing Wednesday. She isn’t going to show her face. There are Blue Apron dinners in the fridge going to waste because I’m not going to cook meals meant for two people and eat them by all myself like a caricature of a lovelorn schmuck.

  I think I hear a noise out in my living room. I pause and tilt my ear in that direction.

  Suddenly, my shower door is yanked open. I think I’m about to be stabbed like I’m in a Hitchcock film.

  “FUCK!” I shout, nearly punching Sam in the face before I realize it’s her. “Can you not?”

  She ignores me and steps into the shower fully clothed. I blink, trying to determine if I’m having a hallucination. How many laps did I run today? Can a person succumb to heat stroke without realizing it?

  “I know this is a bad idea,” she says, holding up her hands to block the spray from the showerhead. It’s futile. She’s soaked within seconds. “I almost didn’t come. I sat outside your house for like thirty minutes, trying to cool down and debating whether or not I’d come inside. Your neighbors think I’m a juvenile delinquent casing the neighborhood. Move over.”

  “What the hell?”

  She pokes my chest so I have no choice but to forfeit some of the hot water.

  “I said scooch.”

  “You’re still wearing your shoes.”

  She kicks off her tennis shoes aggressively, yanks off her socks, and tosses them out of the shower. Then she looks back up at me. “Better?”

  I’m completely nude, obviously, and she’s standing there in a soaked cotton t-shirt and jeans. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She pushes my chest. “Looking for a fight. I’m pissed…I think.”

  “Want to wait until I’m finished here?” I’m having a hard time defending myself while holding a hand over my dick.

  “Obviously not.”

  “Why are you pissed?”

  I think if I had a shirt, she’d grab me by the scruff. As it is, she goes on her tiptoes and wraps her hands around my shoulders. My muscles flex instinctively beneath her touch. It’s a warning of sorts: she might be the one doing the touching now, but only because I’m allowing it.

  “Because you’ve broken me in half.”

  That’s when I see the sadness in her expression, her downturned mouth, her huge worried eyes. She sounds deeply troubled and I’m intrigued by her sudden bout of honesty. It’s why I’m not pushing her out of the shower…or up against the tile.

  “How so?”

  “I made two kids cry at school today. I’m an angry fireball. I can’t stop thinking about you kissing me.” Her hands dig into my shoulders with each word she speaks.

  “Are all those things related?”

  She sidles up closer and her chest hits mine. Her jeans brush my legs. My hand stays firmly planted in front of my groin. “Listen up, you, I’ve had enough of this. No more silent treatment. No more pretending like we aren’t friends.” She’s wiping her wet hair out of her face. We’re both drenched—drenched and angry. “If there’s no going back, I need you to bang me against this tile so we can figure this out once and for all. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  My refusal works her up even more. “Oh yeah? You keep pushing and poking and finally I’m
giving in, whether you like it or not.” She steps back and tries to pry her t-shirt off over her head, but it’s stuck to her like a second skin. “Dammit. Hold on.”

  She has to work at it for a few seconds. It’s up covering her eyes now, and she’s a toddler trying to dress herself for the first time. She jerks this way and that, knocking my bottles of shampoo and conditioner to the ground and nearly wiping out when she trips on one of them. I reach out and steady her hips. With a heavy sigh, she finally gets it off and flings it over the top of the shower door. I smirk at her newly disheveled appearance. Her hair is a tangled mess. Water droplets collect on the ends of her dark lashes. Her bra is creamy blue and see-through thanks to the steady stream of water hitting her.

  “Come on, Ian! Man up! Just kiss me!”

  She’s got herself so worked up, her skin is flushed everywhere.

  “No. Get out of my shower.”

  I turn my back to her and dip my head under the water. That really pisses her off. Her angry fists pound into my back.

  “I’m telling you I want you and suddenly you’re no longer interested?!”

  She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, so I decide to show her. I turn back around and my hand drops. I step forward and push right up against her body, tipping my head down to meet her eyes. She wasn’t kidding—she’s a fuming little ball of molten lava. I think she wants to destroy me for doing this to us, for changing our friendship forever.

  My hands grip her biceps, which are like two popsicle sticks. My hardness digs into her stomach and her mouth goes wide with wonder.

  “Still want to have this conversation right now, Hot Lips?”

  She doesn’t answer me. She’s in a daze. I’ve hypnotized her.

  “Still think this is a good idea?”

  “Everyone at school wants you,” she whispers, eyes wide. “You’re mine and you don’t even know it. I’ve never told you.”

  Her admission fucks with my self-control. I want to hitch her legs around my waist so I can burrow myself deep inside her. I’m going to write on her forehead with a Sharpie while she’s sleeping: Property of Mr. Fletcher. Hands off.

  “I don’t like the version of Ian you’ve been the last few days,” she says quietly before nibbling on the edge of her bottom lip. She’s refusing to meet my gaze. Instead, she’s roving the contours of my chest.

  “What version is that?”

  The edge of her mouth tips up. “The nice guy—or rather, the not so nice guy. You walked right by me in the hallway yesterday. You skipped out on lunch in the teachers’ lounge. You know I overslept on Monday because you didn’t call me?”

  I can’t resist a small smile. “They make these devices called alarm clocks. Great invention, think they had them back in the Stone Ages.”

  “I already have one of those and he goes by Ian. Not to be confused with…”

  I don’t laugh. Not even a little.

  “You see, there’s our problem: I don’t want to be your alarm clock anymore.”

  Her face falls and she stops charting a course across my chest.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, call me crazy, but I’m standing here completely nude and we’re chatting—not exactly my idea of a good time. I want to take a shower with you and…”

  I shake my head. There’s no point in finishing that thought. Instead, I release her and step back so she has enough space to leave. She’s going to tug on the glass door and walk away. There will be sad puddles of water left in her wake. I’ll probably slip on one and eat shit on my way out of the shower.

  She’s not moving though.

  Her blue eyes are cartoonishly large as she stares up at me. There are so many thoughts flickering through her brain at once, I think she’s going to overheat.

  “Sam?”

  “Just be quiet for a second,” she snaps.

  Slowly, painfully, her gaze drips down my face, across my neck and chest and abs, and then…lower. It’s the first time she’s really taken me in and, Jesus, I swear her jaw drops. Those rosy cheeks make me even harder, and now I think I’m scaring the poor girl.

  I chuckle under my breath and reach over to open the glass door, giving her an easy out.

  She yanks it closed again.

  “I said be quiet!”

  I haven’t said a word.

  “What are you—”

  I begin to ask a question I already know the answer to, but Sam is bending down on her knees in front of me. The glass fogs up. Steam rises. She sits back on her heels and I know the tile is probably digging into her knees, but she doesn’t care. In this new position, I block the shower spray from pelting her. She’s drenched and beautiful and licking her goddamn lips.

  “I want to…” she begins on a whisper.

  Now I’m the one overheating.

  We’ve talked about blowjobs before and I know they aren’t usually Sam’s thing, but she’s looking at my dick like it’s an ice cream cone melting before her eyes.

  “Step closer,” she begs.

  I obey. Her hands hit my thighs immediately. Her fingers grip hard.

  “God, you have the best legs.”

  She’s staring straight at my penis and that’s what she says.

  “Thanks? Is that what you needed a closer look for?”

  “I mean obviously your…that is good too. I mean, it’s way bigger than I remember it being that one time I got a good peek, but I’ve always put your legs and your butt on a pedestal. That’s why I went comatose at the gym the other day.”

  For emphasis, she reaches around with both hands and grabs my butt cheeks.

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re the only woman I know who could turn a blowjob into a weird physical exam.”

  She squeezes my butt twice like she’s honking a bicycle horn. “What do you mean? You’re not getting a blowjob. I’m just going to squeeze your butt for a while.”

  “Hilarious.”

  Her gaze settles back on the end goal and she wets her bottom lip again. A groan dies on my tongue. I don’t want to scare her.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, you can save the awkwardness. I don’t care. It’s just us, Sam. Me and you.”

  “Right.” She nods, growing confident enough to drag one of her hands back around to the front of my hip. Then she slowly reaches over and circles her palm around my dick. She has the softest, surest grip. My eyes roll back in my head. My hips jerk forward on instinct. “Sam,” I warn.

  “I’m barely touching it!” she says defensively.

  Yeah, I know. It’s been a fucking while since I’ve slept with someone, and also this fantasy has been building for, oh, I don’t know…a millennium. I won’t last for shit.

  “Just don’t drag it out. Our entire time as friends has been a tease, foreplay. It’s been like five-play or six-play.”

  She leans forward and presses a closed-mouth kiss to the tip. It’s adorable and I’m ascending to nirvana. I press my hand to the tiled wall behind her and she gets the hint. Her hand starts sliding up and down my length slowly. Water hits my shoulders and drags down my body, making her strokes wet and warm. She picks up the pace and she’s looking up at me. Her eyes are so open and earnest, it’s almost hard to meet them.

  I’ve never had a handjob that felt this good. I don’t know if it’s her technique or how badly I’ve wanted it, like how on some days the diner burger you’ve eaten dozens of times tastes like five-star cuisine.

  Eventually, when I’ve all but converted to Samanthaism, she leans forward and wraps her mouth around the tip. I’d throw my hands up in a hallelujah, but I’m in danger of collapsing on top of her. I have to keep ahold of the tile wall as she takes me in and out. It’s everything, the alpha and the omega: the sight of her full lips wrapped around my length, the feel of her warm mouth and the back of her throat. My stomach clenches and she takes me deeper.

  Drops of water slide down her chin and neck and the top of her chest. I can
see her breasts through her bra, two pink tips beneath blue lace. I reach down with one hand and circle my thumb there. Her eyes close and she moans. I feel the vibration in her throat and there’s no sensation better. I do it again and she speeds up, sucking me off with short, tight strokes. I don’t think I have blood circulating anywhere else in my body. It’s all headed south, as if every one of my trillions of red blood cells wants to be a part of this moment. I try to stave off an orgasm for as long as possible, which is a perfect microcosm of my relationship with Sam, a high-stakes battle between denial and submission.

  Her hand clenches at the base of my dick, holding me steady as she pumps me in and out of her mouth even faster. Tingles start at the base of my spine. I’m seconds away from coming and I try to tell her so.

  “Sam…I’m…”

  Communication isn’t working for me. I tap on her head like I’m trying to turn off a blaring alarm clock.

  She smiles, shakes her head, and keeps going.

  I take my foot off the brakes after that. I lean down and wrap my hand around her neck and I fuck her mouth like I will one day fuck her. She holds still and opens up and takes everything like a good little Sam. I can hear her starting to struggle for breath, and I’m not trying to kill her, but in my head it’s suddenly a matter of life and death. I watch her eyes, knowing she’d tell me if she wanted to tap out, but there’s no fear there. She’s loving this as much as I am, and it’s that thought that finally sends me over the edge.

  I close my eyes and groan as shocks of pleasure rack through my body. I pump into her mouth and her fingers dig into my lower back as she swallows and swallows some more.

  It’s a slow descent back to reality. I think I must stand there in a haze for an hour or two. I’ve used up all the water on Earth before I think to turn back and cut the shower.

  Sam pushes up to stand and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like a goddamn champ. She’s smirking, proud of herself.

  “Still with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t going to freak out and run?”

  “I don’t think I have the energy.”

  “Well then, c’mon,” I say, stepping out and reaching for two towels. “Let’s go get you some ice for those knees.”