Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  I raise my face. “Pretty sure you meant whiskey.”

  A small smile cracks on his tired face. “Make it a double.”

  “You’re on.”

  And that’s how I find myself at Speakeasy in Midtown at five p.m. We trade war stories and talk sports, and it eases some of the day from my shoulders.

  When we finish, David tips his chin and pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “And on that note, I should head home to the woman.”

  I clasp his hand in a good-bye shake, and when I leave, that last word resonates with me. There’s one woman I want to see.

  Josie closes late on Wednesdays so I catch the subway and exit at Seventy-Second. When I walk along the block where she works, the early evening crowds thickening around me, I swear I can feel the clouds lift and my heart start to lighten just from knowing I’ll see her. Josie is my sunshine in this rain-soaked day.

  As the smooth, intelligent voice of the audiobook narrator in my ears delves into the physics of perpetual motion, I pass a flower shop, spotting a bouquet of daisies. For the briefest of seconds, an idea takes hold. But I smash it, scoffing at myself. I’m only going to say hi to her. Bringing her flowers would be something one of her cheeseball dates would do. I’m not dating her. I don’t have to worry if she’ll be in my life tomorrow, or the next day, or the next year. She is in my life because she’s my friend, and that’s why I’m the one who gets to see her, who gets to stop by her work, who gets to hang out with her. The rest of the assholes aren’t good enough to even get past a first date.

  But she does like flowers.

  I stop, turn around, and buy the daisies from her friend Lily’s shop. I haven’t met Lily before, but the brunette who helps me is sweet and outgoing, so I assume she must be Josie’s friend. And I hope she sorts out the situation with her dickhead boyfriend, because whoever he is, he needs to treat her better.

  “The flowers are beautiful. Have a great evening,” I say, since the least I can do is be a considerate customer.

  “You, too,” she says with a friendly wave.

  I leave the store.

  As I near Josie’s bakery, a whole squadron of nerves launches in my chest. My heart speeds up. This doesn’t just feel like nerves from the day. This feels like something else entirely. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something that’s good, but terribly dangerous at the same damn time.

  Gripping the bouquet tighter, I push open the yellow door to the Sunshine Bakery. Josie works alone, bending to take a huge slice of chocolate cake from the glass counter. She stands, sets it in a white bakery box, and hands it to the customer, a thin redhead wearing jeans and heels. The customer rubs her hands together. “I can’t wait. This is my favorite cake in all of New York City.”

  Josie tilts her head and flashes the woman a wide, genuine smile. “I’m so happy to hear that. You deserve a slice today,” she says, then tells her the amount.

  Josie’s hair is swept back in a pink-checked bandana, her bangs showing. Her T-shirt is orange, with the cheery sun logo of her store. Bangles slip and slide on her wrist. When the customer leaves, Josie’s eyes find mine, and they light up.

  “Hey you!” she calls out and slinks around the counter to give me a hug. We don’t usually hug when we see each other, but maybe her arms are around me because I don’t stop by her work that often. Or maybe she senses that I need it.

  “Hey,” I say, then I steal a quick inhale. Today she is cake. She is frosting. She is sugar and everything good in the world, and all those strange sensations descend on me once more as my heart beats weirdly faster.

  When we separate, she arches an eyebrow. “What brings you to these environs, stranger? I’m about to close up.”

  I clear my throat and thrust the flowers at her.

  Her smile grows even bigger. She dips her nose to the petals and inhales. “I love them. My favorite.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to take them home. To make our place cheery,” she says as she heads to the door, locks it, and flips the sign to say “Closed.”

  When she turns around to meet my gaze, I sink down at one of the tables and drag a hand through my hair.

  “Uh-oh,” she says, joining me and setting down the bouquet. “Bad day at work?”

  I nod.

  She brings her chair even closer. “I’m guessing that means a real bad day, not a bad day like someone-at-the-hospital-ate-your-tuna-fish-sandwich-in-the-break-room-fridge bad day?”

  “I hate tuna fish sandwiches.”

  She laughs. “Me, too.” She takes a beat. “Tell me what happened.”

  So I do.

  And when I’m done, I feel a hell of a lot better, and lighter, and happier than I did after having drinks with David. No disrespect to the dude. He’s a cool cat.

  But he’s not Josie, and she’s quickly become the person I want to talk to.

  Scratch that. She’s been that person for a long time.

  Especially since she’s a great listener, and she has access to much better medicine than I do some days. The strawberry shortcake cupcake I eat as we walk home can cure almost any sadness.

  Later, I lie awake in bed.

  Darkness has fallen over our home. Moonlight cuts through the blinds, casting stripes of light over the navy bedspread. Outside, a horn bleats and a garbage truck slogs along the avenue, lifting and dumping, lifting and dumping.

  I flip to my side, the sheets slipping to my waist.

  The green lights on the clock flash 11:55 at me.

  But I can’t fall asleep easily like I usually do. I can’t blame the events at Mercy. I’ve had to let them go. Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be sharp for whatever comes my way. I’m not a superstitious man, but bad news comes in waves, so I need to be girded for a possible roulette wheel of destruction tomorrow.

  So it’s not the patients—may Blake, and the gunshot guy, too, rest in peace—that I’m thinking of anymore.

  It’s the woman on the other side of this wall. What’s keeping me up is the part of me that insisted on seeing her at the end of the day. The part that demanded I go to Sunshine Bakery, that I buy her flowers, that I tell her what happened.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining a patient is presenting with the same symptoms I have. What would I conclude?

  I list them in my head—heart beating faster unexpectedly, nerves appearing incon-fucking-veniently, desire to see the woman after a shitty day.

  When I get to the last one, I stop. On desire. Because there’s the embodiment of it in my doorway.

  In shadows, she stands. She raises her hand and waves. “Hey,” she says softly.

  “Hey.”

  “You awake?”

  “No. I’m sound asleep.”

  She laughs and leans her shoulder against the doorframe. She’s in her usual asleep attire. Boy shorts, like the kind you’d find in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Material as thin as a spider web, and just as wispy. She pairs them with a loose pink scoop-neck shirt. No bra.

  I’m so fucking screwed.

  I prop my head in my hand. “I thought you were the queen sleeper. What’s the story there? Insomnia visiting you?”

  She quirks her lips. Holds out her hands. “Lot on my mind.”

  I push up higher. “Yeah?”

  She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I keep thinking about your day.” Then she rolls her eyes. “You know me. Everything is all mushed together.”

  “Like cake batter, huh?”

  She nods. “I’m all blended,” she says, then mimes mixing up some goodies.

  “Do you want to . . . talk?”

  “I don’t want to keep you up.”

  “I’m already up.”

  Her eyes drift to my bed. My breath escapes my body. Shit. Fuck. Hell. Heaven. There’s no excuse for what I’m about to do. But I do it anyway.

  I pat my bed.

  A small lift of her lips is her answer.

  Then a step forward. Her
bare feet pad across my floor. Every moment is a chance to turn back. But every moment she comes closer.

  And closer.

  And now she lowers herself to my bed. She’s barely wearing anything. I’m only in briefs. She lies on top of the sheets. I’m under them. But she’s inches away.

  Technically, I can play my mind games with myself. I can rationalize this choice in a simple, logical way. We’re still dressed. A sheet separates us. She lies on her back. I’m propped on my side.

  But the moonlight, and the hour, and this aching in my chest won’t let me lie to myself anymore.

  I’m buzzed.

  I’m totally fucking tipsy on the possibility. We’ve hugged, we’ve touched, we’ve been like two middle-schoolers tapping shoulders and tickling waists.

  Tonight, we’re adults in bed.

  “I was thinking about your patient tonight.” Her tone is introspective. “You said Blake was thirty-four. And the heart attack was out of the blue. I’m only twenty-eight.”

  “You’re not going to have a heart attack, Josie.”

  “Right. I know. I mean, I think I won’t. I don’t eat too many treats,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Her hand drifts to her belly, and she pats it. “I mean, maybe a few more than I should.”

  “Stop it. You’re beautiful,” I say before I can think better of it.

  She arches a brow. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could lose five pounds. Maybe ten.”

  I roll my eyes. “If you lost five pounds, you wouldn’t be you. You’re a baker. No one wants a skinny baker. And trust me, wherever these five or ten pounds are that you want to lose, I don’t want to see them gone.”

  She smiles. “Thank you. The funny thing is, I think I’d regret not tasting and sampling the things I make more than I’d enjoy being five pounds lighter. So, honestly, I’m happy with my five or ten extra, I suppose. I feel like at the end of my life, whether it’s at age thirty-four or ninety or twenty-nine, I won’t be saying, ‘I wish I ate less cake.’ Or ‘I wish I had fewer seven-layer bars.’ And I don’t think I’ll be saying, ‘I should have spent more time on Facebook or Twitter or Snapchat,’ either.”

  I laugh. Josie’s hardly online. She’s social, but she’s social in real life. “What would you regret?”

  She shifts closer and props her head in her hand, mirroring me. The space between us is endless, and at the same time, it barely exists. Maybe six or seven inches separate us. Few enough for me to loop my fingers in her hair, tug her close, and kiss the hell out of her. But more than enough for me to not cross that line, too.

  Lines. Friendship. Having her in my life. Living with her. Those reasons ought to be enough to stay on this side of the kiss/don’t kiss divide.

  “I’m not sure I’d regret anything,” she says. “I’m trying to live a life without regrets. I’m glad I took over the bakery. I’m glad I took out the loan. I’m glad I pursued my dreams. I’m even glad I’m doing the whole online-dating thing,” she says, and my heart sinks like a stone.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to find the one. I’d like to fall in love. I’d like to have a family and all that jazz.”

  “You would?”

  She nods. “I would. I try to do the things that matter to me so I won’t have regrets. Do you have any regrets?”

  I flop to my back, reflecting on her question. “I’ve done the things I want to do so far. The things that are important to me. So, honestly, aside from you using my hand as Lyle Lyle, I can’t really think of a thing I regret not doing,” I say, deadpan all the way.

  She’s silent, and I look over at her.

  A smile spreads slowly across her pretty face. Her green eyes twinkle with mischief, and her soft, sweet lips lift into a sexy grin.

  Then she flips to her side, her back to me, and slides under the sheets. She scoots closer. I take that as my cue to spoon her.

  I’ve drunk too much champagne. I’ve eaten too much dessert. I’m in bed with Josie Hammer, her sweet, sexy body pressed to mine, and she reaches for my hand.

  I slide it over her shirt and between her breasts, and I groan.

  I’ve finally become a stuffed crocodile, and it’s better than all my fantasies.

  She sighs, the kind of sleepy nighttime sigh of contentment that comes from a woman who’s living a life without regret. I’d like to think I am, too. But when she falls asleep a minute later in my arms, I do regret something.

  I regret that I’m completely and utterly unable to resist my best friend.

  I press a soft kiss to the back of her neck, and I’m certain I can’t stay on this side of the divide anymore.

  18

  I must have fallen asleep, too.

  But when I wake up, it feels as if I’m still dreaming. My arms are wrapped around her, and my hand is wedged between the two most beautiful breasts I’ve ever felt.

  But it’s not my hand that is doing the most interesting thing.

  Not at all.

  Her hand is on my hip.

  She’s stroking me. She’s touching me. She’s running her fingers from my hip, down the outside of my leg.

  This is the best dream I’ve ever had.

  Her breath catches, and then the dream ratchets up. It goes to dream level twenty or fifty or ten million when she presses her ass against my dick. She pushes back lightly, and then a soft moan falls from her lips.

  Ohhhh.

  It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.

  And I surrender to it.

  “Josie,” I whisper, my voice raspy.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs.

  “Turn around, baby.”

  The sheets rustle, and then we’re face-to-face. I lift my hand, cup her cheek, and brush my thumb along her jaw. Then I kiss her, and holy fucking hell. I’m on fire in seconds. I’m lit up everywhere. Sparks, and desire, and lust—they all just fucking combust the second our lips touch.

  My fingers slide into her hair, and her hand slinks up my bare chest, and I kiss her without holding back. No reservations. No regrets.

  My tongue sweeps across hers, and she deepens the kiss, seeking more. She kisses me back with a raw hunger. Her lips are eager, and she explores mine just like I do to hers. It’s a hand-off, a back and forth. I lead, then she leads, then we both kiss greedily, and we can’t seem to get enough. I don’t want to stop because she tastes so fucking good, and she turns me on so fucking much, and I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

  And in mere seconds of kissing her, I can already tell how she’ll be in bed—how she’s give-and-take. Her hands travel up and down my chest, her nails scratch at my pecs, and her fingertips outline my abs. My hand curls around the back of her skull, holding her tight as I kiss her hard, sucking on her bottom lip, then the top, then just devouring her mouth.

  I push her shoulders down to the bed, and we’re no longer side to side. She’s on her back, and I know where she wants me. I know where I want to be.

  Her hand tugs at my hip and I move on top of her, and then I’m so far fucking gone. Because she spreads her legs. I grab her thigh, hook it around my hip, and then grind against her.

  Yeah, I’m dry humping her. And it’s fucking astonishing. I kiss and thrust, and she moans and arches. She kisses me with her whole body, and it makes my head swim with lust. I’m dying, fucking dying to be inside her.

  I’m so goddamn hard, and she’s already ridiculously wet. I can feel her damp panties through these flimsy shorts that I want to tear off her. But I don’t want to break contact—I just want to fuck Josie like this.

  When she matches a rough thrust of mine, a white-hot charge of pleasure surges down my spine, and I stop the kiss. I’m not in danger of firing early, but I can’t hold back what’s on my mind.

  She stares up at me with dazed eyes. I grab her chin, hold her face firmly. “You okay with all this?” I ask, my voice tight. I have to know. I need to make sure she’s good with what’s happening.

&nbs
p; “Completely,” she says, her voice as certain as my desire.

  I sigh, and it’s full of fucking gratitude that she’s on the same page. I stare into her eyes and say what I’ve longed to tell her. “I want you so much.”

  It’s not poetry. It’s not even the kind of filthy smut that probably wins awards wherever awards are handed out for that. But I don’t care. It’s the truth, plain and simple.

  “I want you, too, Chase,” she says.

  Her answer is my greatest wish.

  Letting go of her chin, I drop my face to her neck, sucking on her flesh. The scent of her cherry lotion floods my nostrils, and I’m getting high. She’s fucking cocaine to me, and God, I want more. It’s euphoric, it’s electric, the rush I get from smelling her, from moving against her, from kissing her.

  “God, you smell so good,” I growl. “Do you have any idea what it’s like having you as a roommate when you go around smelling like that?”

  She laughs lightly, and at the same time she tightens her legs around my ass. “How do I smell?”

  “Like cherries, and sex, and cake, and all I have to do is take one whiff of you and I’m rock-hard,” I say, thrusting against her to prove my point.

  She moans, stretching her neck. “You are rock-hard, and I love it. And I love that you’re turned on, because it’s the same for me with you.” She grabs my face, holding me as she grinds up into my dick. “I sniffed your shaving cream the other day.”

  My eyes widen. “You did?”

  “You weren’t home. I opened the medicine cabinet. I smelled it and I shivered.” Then she lowers her voice even more. “And it made me wet just thinking of you.”

  Lust rattles through my bones. I swivel my hips and grind against her through all these stupid clothes. “You were that aroused?”

  “God, yes,” she moans as she lets go of my face, her hands darting around to grab my ass.

  “When you tugged at that towel, I fucking went crazy,” I say, and the admissions are rolling out, rattling free, spilling everywhere.

  “The other morning?”

  I nod as I push against her.

  She gasps. “Oh God, please. I think I’m going to come like this,” she says, and that’s a battle cry if I ever heard one. I heed it. I fuck her with clothes on. She moans, and groans, and cries out. Somehow she spreads her legs wider, and then she just rocks up into me, finding a perfect rhythm against the outline of my cock.