Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  She starts snapping photos on her phone.

  “I’m calling the psych hospital. We’re checking you in,” I say, wincing because my stupid toe smarts now.

  Nick catches her gaze and sets his bat on the ground, leaning casually onto it, like he’s some kind of star ball player. “Hey, Harper. You’re looking foxy.”

  Foxy? What the hell? Down is up and right is wrong, and New York is falling into the ocean instead of California, because why the hell is my best guy friend hitting on my sister?

  Harper juts out a hip coquettishly. She waves at Nick with her fingers and bats her eyelashes. “So are you, hot stuff,” she says, then winks at him before she points at his shirt. “Can you take it off? So I can get another shot.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, sounding like a stripper as he yanks off his T-shirt.

  “Yum.” She smacks her lips and mimes making a cat claw. She leans into me and whispers, “I am so going to be visiting him one-handed tonight in my fantasies.”

  My eyes pop out of my head, and I clasp her shoulders.

  “You have to stop now. We can get you help. There are treatment centers for temporary insanity.”

  “There’s no stopping this train,” she says, tossing her glove on the ground. Shoving her cone into my hand, she struts over to Nick, who’s shirtless, his chest and abs on full display. Harper runs her fingernails down his pecs, then locks her arms around his neck.

  My fists clench, not because I want to hit Nick, but because some primal brotherly protective instinct is curling through me.

  “Dude. Hands off. That’s my sister.”

  Harper swivels around. “Gotcha! That’s for ruining Santa Claus for me.”

  23

  It takes a while to erase the image of my sister and Nick wrapped up in each other, even if it was just a prank, but I manage.

  Thanks to my new obsession.

  This photo. I can’t stop thinking about what Harper said about Charlotte, and I can’t stop looking at that picture on Page Six like it holds all the clues to the universe in it.

  I stare at it as I head into the Columbus Circle station, having dropped my bat and glove at Nick’s apartment near the park. My head is bent over my phone as I trot down the stairs, then slip inside the downtown train. I wrap my hand around a pole while a hipster girl in green skinny pants shoves her way onto the car, sliding past the doors just before they close. She carries bags on each arm.

  “Whew,” she says, relieved to have made it. But the edge of a cloth bag is caught in the door, so she yanks it free and turns in a tangle, spinning around.

  Something whacks my funny bone, and I cringe. “Ow.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Are you okay? Is it my mayonnaise?”

  “Mayonnaise?” I ask, as I rub my palm over my elbow while the train slaloms around a curve in the tunnel. What is it about funny bones that hurt so damn much?

  “I have jars of pesto mayonnaise in this bag. I made it myself. I’m giving it to friends. Is it okay?” There’s terror in her eyes as she roots around in the straw bag on her shoulder.

  Pain radiates through my lower arm while she ascertains the state of her condiments. “Don’t worry about me. Your mayo just attacked me, but I won’t file charges,” I mumble under my breath as I wince.

  She looks up, realization dawning on her. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Yes. Elbow matches my toe now.”

  “You got hit with mayo on your toe?”

  “No. A baseball bat attacked my foot earlier. Apparently, inanimate objects are out to get me today,” I say as the sharpness subsides. “Is your mayonnaise going to make it?”

  She nods and beams as we chug into the next stop. “It will live. Sorry I hit you.”

  “It’s okay. Hazard of big city living.”

  She peers at my hand. I’m clutching my phone still. The picture is splashed across the screen. “Cute couple.”

  “Oh. Right,” I say, raising my phone.

  “They look really happy together,” Mayo Girl adds.

  “Do they?”

  She nods. “Definitely.”

  “What do you think he should tell her?”

  She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”

  “So she knows how he feels?”

  She shrugs and smiles wide. “He should just tell her how he feels. If he likes her as much as pesto mayo, he should let her know that.”

  “I’ll tell him to consider that,” I say when the train reaches its midtown stop.

  As I climb up the steps and exit into the early evening, I know this situation with Charlotte isn’t as simple as mayonnaise, and that’s not only because mayonnaise is my least favorite food.

  The Lucky Spot is a zoo. There’s no time to think. No time to plan. And certainly no time to figure out what to do with the strange new notions that are implanting themselves in my head.

  I need to strategize this, but I don’t even know what this is.

  Being more than friends?

  Feeling something real?

  Finding out if she feels the same?

  What is the word for this feeling? It’s like my chest is a trampoline, and my heart is doing backflips on it. Only, I’ve never practiced them before, and if I do them again I could land on my head.

  Or my ass.

  Or even my face.

  So yeah. With a packed bar on a Friday night, I’m not so sure I can figure out what to do with the pesto mayo feelings.

  During the evening rush, I alternate between catching up on purchase orders on my laptop, telling Charlotte about the train attack, and helping out behind the bar, while in the back office Charlotte works on ideas for a new marketing campaign.

  “Out of Belvedere,” Jenny remarks from the counter as she waggles an empty bottle.

  “I’ll grab one,” I say and head to the office, where Charlotte is perched on a reclining chair, wearing jeans, and a white strappy top. When I see her, I freeze-frame through images—the photo of us, the moment on the corner of Forty-third, the pesto mayo, the toothpaste, the words she said to Abe the other night. My heart slams against my rib cage, and I wonder if this crazy overtime beating is why there are books, movies, songs, poetry about people falling—

  “Hey you,” she says, and the softness in her tone wafts over me. But it’s the sweetness that hooks me. That sweetness feels personal, and just for me.

  Yes.

  This is why there are books, movies, songs and poetry about falling for someone. I roam my eyes over her, and even though we haven’t christened this office or the bar yet, and even though I want to, my thoughts aren’t on sex. They’re on her, and on this jumble of words like alphabet soup inside my head.

  “Hey you back,” I say softly. I point at the cabinet behind her. “I need a Belvedere.”

  “I’ll grab it.” She sets her iPad on the chair, stands, and reaches for the cabinet handle. As she stretches, her shirt rides up, revealing a small sliver of her back.

  “You look gorgeous,” I say.

  She glances back at me and smiles. “So do you. Your house later? Mine?”

  Maybe this is just sex for her. Maybe that’s all she wants. But even so, I need to know.

  “Yes. Either,” I say as she opens the cupboard, and I inch closer to plant a kiss on her bare neck.

  Then pain slices through me with a thunk as the cabinet door connects with my skull. It reverberates. It takes over my head, my body, every single cell.

  I curse up a motherfucking storm, because this hurts like hell.

  “Oh my God, oh my God. Are you okay?” she says in a panic, her hands on my shoulder.

  My right palm covers my eye, my head roaring as the thump echoes in my skull, epicentered in my temple.

  “I think you hit my head,” I say, because the whack has turned me into Captain Obvious.

  “Oh God.” This time she whispers the words, and she’s staring at me like I’ve lost an eye.

  “What is it?” I ask, and while I’m
pretty sure I’m not down to one eye, since I can still see, I suspect my face isn’t pretty.

  “That’s the biggest goose egg I’ve ever seen.”

  24

  Things I learned tonight.

  First, I checked the calendar. Turns out it is Abuse Spencer Day, and abuse occurs in threes. But it’s past midnight now, so I’d like to think the threat level has downgraded to green.

  But you never know.

  Second, the goose egg is the largest known bump in recorded human history, but three hours of continuous ice have not only frozen my temple but reduced the swelling to pretty much nothing. However, the bruise on the side of my face is what’s referred to as a “whoa, dude, that’s a big-ass bruise.”

  That’s what the guy at Duane Reade said when I picked up ibuprofen.

  Third, ibuprofen has worked wonders.

  But the real test comes now. There’s a buzzing near the door, and it’s Charlotte, since she texted me she was on her way with supplies. I turn to Fido. He’s sound asleep on the couch pillow, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. “Can you answer it?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I drag myself off the sofa and head to the door. I press the buzzer. “Hello? Is it the world’s hottest nurse that I ordered from the temp nursing agency?”

  Her laugher bounces through the intercom.

  “Why yes, it is, and I’m here to give you a sponge bath.”

  I buzz Charlotte in, open the door, and wait till the elevator creaks up the six flights then lets her off. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I watch her walk toward me.

  “Don’t tell me your eyes hurt, too,” she teases.

  “No, just this,” I say, lightly brushing near my temple.

  She’s holding several bags, and I shut the door behind her and return to my couch. She sets the bags down on the coffee table, and studies me. Raising her fingers, she moves them close to the bruise, but doesn’t touch. “Does it hurt?”

  I nod.

  She leans over me and dusts a kiss on my forehead.

  I moan for effect. “So much. It hurts so much.”

  She shakes her head, then pulls back to look at me. “Seriously. How do you feel?”

  I scrunch up the corner of my mouth, torn with whether to tell her the truth—getting better—or to go for sympathy and sex. My decision-making process lasts all of a nanosecond. “Awful,” I mutter, and that earns me one more kiss.

  She sits up straight, brushes her palms together, and says, “Okay. I brought you your favorite drink,” she says, reaching for the bag, and showing me an airplane-size bottle of scotch. I raise an eyebrow appreciatively. “Cold sesame noodles from your favorite Chinese restaurant.” She grabs a white carton, and holds it up like it’s on display. I lick my lips. “Or,” she begins, dipping her hand into another bag as she retrieves something wrapped in white butcher paper, “the grilled paninis you love from the bodega on the corner. Chicken and provolone, hold the mayo. Since you hate mayo.”

  Forget sympathy and sex. This is what I want. Her, here with me, knowing all these things. I cup her cheeks. “I want it all,” I tell her.

  She kisses me, but her kisses are tentative, her lips nervous. “I’m not broken,” I say as I pull away.

  “I just feel bad. It’s my fault. I hit you with a cabinet door.”

  “Well, it wasn’t intentional.” I pause. “Or was it?”

  She shakes her head. “Of course not.”

  “Am I that hideous to look at now?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. You’re gorgeous, as always.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I just feel terrible for hurting you. I want you to feel better. That’s why I brought you this care package.” She gestures to the goodies.

  “And I appreciate it.”

  “Let me get you some more ice,” she says, and heads to the kitchen to grab a cold pack from the freezer. When she returns, she presses it to my forehead. Gently, I swat her hand away.

  “Charlotte, I’ve been icing it for hours. If you ice it anymore, the goose egg will reverse itself and get sucked into my brain. That’s a very dangerous condition.”

  She narrows her eyes but relents, setting down the pack. She gestures to the bottle of ibuprofen. “Do you need any more?”

  I shake my head. “I took two at ten p.m. I’m drunk on the stuff right now.”

  She wrings her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  I push my head back on the pillow. “Am I somehow doing something that makes you think I give a shit that you whacked me? Unless this horrific bruise is going to stop you from fucking me right now, I don’t care,” I say loudly.

  She shakes her head.

  I soften my voice as I run a finger down her neck. “Then stop fussing over me. I don’t want ibuprofen. I don’t want ice. I don’t even want cold noodles, and they’re my second favorite food behind those sandwiches you brought me, hold the mayo please.”

  “What do you want?”

  I curl my hand around the back of her head and tug her down to me. Her lips hover inches from mine. I thought I didn’t want sex and sympathy. I was right on that account. I want sex and something else, though.

  Sex with her. Sex with feelings. Sex with the only woman I’ve ever felt this way for. I whisper in her ear, “You.”

  She shivers against me, then slowly, playfully she moves down my body.

  As she reaches the waistband of my basketball shorts, she wiggles her eyebrows. Pressing her hand against my erection, she says, “I find it amusing that your goose egg matches your dick, Spencer.”

  “Yeah? In what way? Not color, I hope.”

  “The biggest ever,” she says, then tugs off my shorts and briefs. I yank off my shirt. “This will make everything better,” she murmurs as she pushes my chest flat on the couch and kneels between my legs. Her eyes stay on me as she takes her time, settling in, licking her lips, getting ready.

  She takes the head of my dick in her mouth, and I sigh, I groan, I moan.

  This is the very definition of heaven. Look it up. Dictionary. Right there. Charlotte’s lips on my cock. She teases me, swirling her tongue around the head then licking the length of my shaft. She works her way up, flattening her tongue on the underside, and heat shoots through my veins.

  My hips shift, and I want her to take me all the way in, but her kisses on my dick are driving me wild. The way she licks me like I’m her favorite candy is lightning along my spine. It crackles.

  She opens wider and draws me in, sucking the head, and my eyes fall closed as I rock into her fantastic mouth.

  But I don’t keep my eyes closed for long. I need to see her. To watch her. Her hair spills all over my thighs, her head bobs between my legs, and her lips are swollen and red as my dick slides through them.

  No better image ever.

  Staring unabashedly at my goddess, I thread my fingers tighter into those strands, yanking on her hair. “Take more,” I whisper, urging her on, and she does, dropping her mouth lower then cupping my balls in her hand. I close my eyes and hiss, and then I can’t help it. I start to move, to pump, to fuck her beautiful mouth. My hand on the back of her head pulls her closer, seeking more. My skin burns up, and I’m close to tripping that switch, to coming hard in her mouth.

  “Fuck,” I say on a rough groan as I pull her off me.

  I can’t come in her mouth. Not when I want her this much. Not when I want her to come.

  “You don’t like it?” she asks, worry etched in her beautiful brown eyes.

  I scoff. “I love it, but I want you to ride me.” I reach for my wallet and a condom. “And I want you to ride me now. That’s the only thing that will make me feel better.”

  She shucks off her clothes in seconds flat and straddles me. I reach for her hips and lower her onto my dick, thrilling at the hot, tight feel of her. She gasps as she takes me in.

  “You’re so wet for me. Is that all from sucking my dick?” I ask, as I move her up and down.

 
; She nods and pants, and then she does the sexiest thing. It’s like she’s not even thinking about it, which is what makes it so sexy. She drags her hand over her breasts as I thrust into her. She’s touching her own tits, and it’s fantastic. Everything inside me sizzles. My blood runs to Mercury levels as I watch her ride me, like a gorgeous, languid cowgirl. Her hands brush down her belly, that flat, soft belly I want to lick and kiss. She moans and pants, and it is the hottest thing in the world to witness—she’s touching herself as she’s fucking me.

  She rides me, sliding up and down on my cock, finding her friction, chasing her release.

  It’s like she’s masturbating with my dick.

  I want her to use me. To do whatever she wants with me. To have me in any way that feels good to her. Her breath hitches, her shoulders tremble, and she starts to lose control. Grabbing her hips, I urge her on. “Let go for me, baby. You’re so beautiful when you come.”

  “I’m close, so close,” she murmurs, grinding on me, taking me deep, her moans turning to cries.

  I burn up all over as I watch her. I am comprised of nothing but heat. Her lips. Her mouth. Her eyes. Everything. She is my fucking everything.

  Her hand flies into her hair, and she runs her fingers through it as her other hand plays with her tits. Her eyes are closed, and she’s completely lost in her own pleasure. She is beautiful and breathtaking as she fucks me to the edge. Soon she’s thrusting wildly on me, and now I need to be in this with her.

  “Look at me,” I tell her, my voice hoarse.

  Her eyes flutter open. They are hazy and full of lust and passion, and something more, something that feels incredibly new and yet intensely familiar. She starts to close them again.

  “Look at me.” This time it’s a command, rough and heated.

  “But I fall apart faster when I do,” she murmurs in protest, but it’s more of an admission, because her gaze locks to mine as she lowers her face close to me, her hands curling around my shoulders. “And I want it to last,” she says on a moan. I know she’s talking about sex, only I can’t help but think she means something else, too. Like I do.