Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  Yeah, there’s no need for anything more.

  Until Josie clears her throat. “So . . .”

  And that one word sucks up all the oxygen in the room.

  All the happy, floaty, let’s-get-drunk-and-screw vibe vanishes. It evaporates into the night. In one syllable, I know it’s time to talk.

  Though Josie and I can chat about anything, whatever comes after the “so” is the one thing I’m not ready to discuss. Because what’s happening with us is fraught with too many complications. Screwing your roommate is like operating on a kidney, only you can’t do it without harming a main artery. Too many systems are linked together—the home, the friendship, the sex, the rent. Even the utilities are part of our sex life.

  Naturally, my next step is to try to defuse the bomb.

  “By ‘so’, you mean the two-letter Scrabble word S-O, or the three-letter one that’s an action performed by a seamstress?”

  She laughs, shakes her head, and sets her hand on my thigh. “Chase,” she says, and her tone is friendly but serious at the same damn time.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to talk about what’s going on. With us.”

  Like a steel rod has been implanted in my spine, I straighten and say roughly, “Okay.”

  Why does dread flood me at the mere prospect of this conversation?

  Oh, right. Because the last woman I felt this way for had an affair while we were together. Ergo, relationships and me don’t get along well. I open my heart, and it’s stomped on. Add in the little, tiny, miniscule fact that falling for your friend means you’re likely to lose that friend when the relationship goes belly up, and all I want to do is imitate a monk.

  Well, just the vow-of-silence part. Not the other vows.

  “You know how everything blends together for me?” she asks.

  “Josie in a mixer,” I answer.

  A small smile is her response. “And this”—she points from her to me—“has the potential to make one big milkshake of emotions.” The look in her eyes is fierce and resolute. “I know myself. You know me, too. You’ve seen how emotions all spill over. I don’t try to compartmentalize. I’m no good at it. It’s all here,” she says, tapping her chest. “And with you and me, I can see this becoming the biggest milkshake of all. We’re friends, we’re roommates, and now we’re lovers. I can’t keep all the ingredients separated. Do you see what I mean?”

  For the barest sliver of a second, I imagine we’re going to skip the hard part. She’ll say she’s fallen for me, too, and let’s just live like this forever and ever without a thing going wrong.

  “Do you mean you like milkshakes?” I ask carefully, because I’m not sure if this is her preamble to telling me she’s had the same goddamn epiphany I have and that we’ll be the first pair of friends in the history of the universe not to fuck up the transition to the next “ship”—the one that goes with “relation.”

  There’s a first time for everything, right?

  She laughs lightly. “I do like milkshakes, Chase,” she says and runs her fingers down my chest. “But you can’t have them for every meal.”

  “The milkshake diet is completely physician approved,” I deadpan.

  But she’s not in the mood to tease, or to eat sweets all day long, evidently. “What I mean is,” she says, “I want us to be careful. I want us to have an understanding. I don’t want to get my heart broken, and I don't want to hurt you, and most of all, I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

  And that’s why I kept my mouth closed in the first place, and why the zipper on it will stay shut. Her words only cement the need for me to compartmentalize even if she can’t. To keep love on one side, and sex on the other.

  “Separate drawers,” I say with a nod. I mime opening a bureau. “We need to keep this sex thing in a separate drawer”—then I close it—“and the friendship in another.”

  If we don’t, we run the very real risk of losing the friendship.

  She flashes a brief smile. “Yes. Don’t you think that’s the best way for us to stay in each other’s lives?”

  I nod because of course I’ve got to make sure she knows I’m not going to screw this up. I need her to know I can do as asked. “And you need me to help you keep the fact that I can make you come ridiculously hard in one drawer, and that I pay half the rent check in another?”

  “And our awesome Scrabble teamwork in one more, please,” she says, laughing. Then her chuckles quiet down. “It’s not easy for me to keep everything on opposite sides. You have to know I’m completely and utterly turned on by you, that you absolutely get bonus points for being great in bed, and you’re my dearest friend, and I think you’re amazing.” I can’t help but grin at the compliments. “And I also can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

  A life without Josie sounds like a living hell. “I don’t want to lose you, either.”

  “That’s why I need you to be the tough one. You need to be the doctor who rips off the Band-Aid eventually,” she says with a rueful smile.

  “Take advantage of the MD, why don’t you,” I grumble, jokingly.

  But she’s serious. “I don’t want to be Adele. I don’t want to be gone from your life.” Her voice breaks, and this girl—God, she wears her emotions on her sleeve. She lets them out in the open for me to see. She’s fearless and bold, not just in bed, but right here as she lays her heart on the line.

  There’s no tiptoeing around this topic. No doorbell ringing in the middle of a tough conversation, truncating it. Nope. We’re not avoiding the issue—we’re diving into the deep end as Josie opens her heart to me even more.

  Everything she does makes me want her, in every way.

  “That’s why I think this is the only way to do this,” she adds.

  I swallow tightly, remembering the emptiness I felt when Adele moved on. I force myself to recall the hurt of losing someone I cared deeply for. Sure, the lonely nights sucked, but what ached more was the absence of a person I relied on. My friend. “I can’t stand the thought of not being friends with you. We can’t let that happen.”

  “I don’t want that to happen, either,” she says, her tone so earnest it hooks right into my chest. “But I also don’t want to get fooled again like I did with Damien.”

  I give her a hard stare. “I’m not Damien. That guy surpassed acceptable levels of douchery by a million percent.”

  “I know, but it still hurt. I learned my lesson with him, and I want us to be completely clear from the get-go about what this can and can’t be. We have to draw lines. We need to promise that whatever this sex thing is, we go back to being friends when we’re done.”

  “Fine,” I say, because that’s what I want. To keep her.

  “We just have to accept that we have crazy chemistry from living together, right?”

  I nod. Maybe I even punctuate it with a wag of my tongue.

  She laughs. “And we need to get that out of our system, right?”

  I remind myself that compartmentalization is my special skill. I’ve honed it over the years. I’ve made it a goddamn practice. I take care of the body, and others handle the heart and mind. For once, Josie wants me to lean on my top talent—my ability to separate the physical from the emotional. She wants me to take the best possible care of her orgasms then send her on her way with regular friendship check-ups.

  This ought to be easy.

  This ought to be easy as pie.

  “Josie, we are on the same page,” I say, squaring my shoulders and giving her my best show of confidence. She doesn’t need to know I’m stupidly falling for her. I’ll apply the brakes and stop myself from falling further. This thing between us won’t need to be more than a sweet little tryst with my sexy, gorgeous, daring, wild roommate.

  All those strange sensations swarming my chest? Done. I’m giving them the boot. Tossing them out with the trash. See you later, falling in love.

  Josie breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you feel the same way. I’d be so sad if y
ou were out of my life.”

  I laugh and cup her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. I’d never do anything to risk losing you. You’re not just my friend. I hate to break it to Wyatt, but you’re my best friend.”

  “You’re mine, too.” She beams. “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Like ‘Scotland’s Burning.’”

  “Look out, look out,” she sings, and I join in our horrible duet.

  When we’re done massacring the song, I hold out a fist for knocking, keeping it all on the level. “We’re roomies with benefits until we get it out of our system.”

  She knocks back, and we’re all good now.

  Only, I can’t stop. I need to sell this to the judge and jury. I need to be thoroughly convincing so she doesn’t know how close I was to spilling my guts. “And you should totally date,” I add, all nonchalant.

  She arches an eyebrow. “I’m not going to date while we’re screwing.”

  “But when we’re done,” I add. Like the magnanimous, generous, wonderful friend I am. Who, evidently, likes to state the patently obvious.

  “Okay,” she says, hesitantly.

  “When we’re out of each other’s systems,” I add, and plaster on a smile, reminding her that we will be over eventually. We are a temporary fling. There’s no point dwelling on how I felt earlier.

  There’s no point at all. Not even when we screw again that night on the couch. Not even when she wraps her arms around me and whispers my name. Not even when she tells me how good it is.

  Nope. I don’t let any of that affect me.

  Not at all.

  Not in the least.

  I’m steel.

  Even when she falls asleep in my arms again, curling up next to me and smelling like her, and like me, and like the best sex I’ve ever known. Because it was more than just sex.

  Only . . . it can’t be.

  23

  From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book

  Josie’s Chocolate Oh-No-You-Didn’t-Do-That Milkshake Recipe

  * * *

  Ingredients

  * * *

  1 pint chocolate ice cream

  Ideally some variety that is incredibly decadent and delicious, and will make you feel like you’re falling . . . even though you’re totally not, and you can’t, and you won’t.

  1/4 cup milk

  Milk is good for you! Milk makes for healthy bones! This recipe is clearly a health food.

  Some ice

  To numb your heart.

  * * *

  Dump all ingredients in a blender and blend on high until it’s all one big milkshake of feelings, and emotions, and sex, and heartache, and friendship, and possibilities. Then, down the hatch.

  Now, the next part of the recipe is the most essential. Once you’ve consumed the milkshake of your mixed-up, stirred-up, fused-and-confused feelings, brush your hands together, slap on a smile, and don’t ever blend them again. Eat the ice cream separately, just like you’re going to have that man.

  That’s all you can do to protect your heart. That’s the only way to have him. Anything more and you might lose the best friend you’ve ever had.

  24

  A few days later, after I treat a runner who collapsed from dehydration during his morning run in Central Park, the charge nurse marches over to me, a clipboard in hand.

  “Dr. Summers, you’re wanted,” Sandy barks, her drill sergeant voice making me stand at attention.

  I’m her soldier. “What have we got?”

  I expect her to rattle off a litany of incoming trauma. Instead, she points her thumb in the direction of the lobby. “Pretty brunette in the waiting room asking for you.”

  My ears perk. My dick springs to attention. My heart leaps. Josie has stopped by. Maybe she brought me lunch. My stomach growls. Pavlovian organ. Come to think of it, my cock is, too, judging from the speed of its response to the words “pretty brunette.”

  Full-on salute in my scrubs. Nice work, dick.

  It’s no surprise, though, since the last few nights with Josie have been mind-blowing, and it’s not only my mind that’s been blown. But I haven’t just been on the receiving end of the pleasure. Like Josie, I’m a taker and I’m also a giver. I’ve doled out multiple orgasms, and exponents of orgasms, too, administered in all sorts of ways.

  She’s voracious, and I’ve satisfied her appetite each and every time. Including with my tongue. When I first went down on her, once wasn’t enough for either of us. I gave her a double like that, and she came even harder the second time.

  The next morning, I found a bakery bag on the living room table with two chocolate chip cookies in it and a note that said: Good things come in pairs.

  A day later, after a marathon session testing the sturdiness of our furniture, she left me a brownie, and the card attached read: I think you burned this off last night. By the way, I’m super impressed with how sturdy our table is. Not to mention the wall.

  I can’t wait to see why she’s here at noon.

  I thank Sandy then take off, striding through the corridor and past the nurse’s desk. I push on the big, swinging doors that lead to the waiting room. A twenty-something dude in a hoodie hunches over in a chair, hacking. A muscular mom in yoga pants clutches a toddler in her arms. The kid’s face is flushed, and he’s shivering. Fever, I suspect. A handful of others wait, too, staring at phones or the TV hanging on the wall. We pride ourselves at Mercy on some of the shortest waits in the ER world, and judging from the markedly un-crowded lobby, we’re doing okay in that pursuit.

  But that also means it’s easy to see Josie’s not here. I deflate. Yes, all the parts that were inflated.

  “Hey, Dr. Summers.”

  I turn in the direction of a most decidedly masculine voice. The angular face is familiar. Sharp nose. Kind eyes. Blond hair. The light switches on. I smile and point at the guy. “Aquaman.”

  The man whose forehead doubled as a parking lot for a sex souvenir walks to me and extends a hand. He wears a sharp white dress shirt and expensive slacks. Funny, I didn’t peg him for a wealthy businessman when he was in his Aquaman threads, but his duds today, from the cufflinks to the silk of his shirt, make it clear this man is rolling in it. You never know who likes to swing from the chandeliers.

  I shake his hand, then turn to the aforementioned pretty brunette by his side.

  “And the mermaid,” I add, and she smiles and shakes my hand. A diamond ring sparkles on her finger. She’s decked out in sharp clothes, too, with a full-on executive businesswoman look.

  “I’m Cassidy,” she says.

  “Good to meet you. And good to see you again,” I say to my former patient. “How’s the chandelier abstinence program going?”

  He smiles. His girlfriend does, too, her cheeks turning red. “We took your advice,” he tells me. “The kitchen table is indeed a fine alternative.”

  “Excellent. And this,” I say, pointing to his forehead. The tiniest of tiny scars is barely visible. “This looks good.”

  “I know,” he says with a wide grin. “You can barely tell it’s there.”

  His girlfriend sets a hand on his shoulder and gazes at him adoringly. “It’s the perfect amount of rugged, sexy scar,” she says sweetly, then dusts a kiss on his cheek. She turns to me. “And thank you, Doctor. You really did an amazing job stitching up Kevin. You can hardly tell.”

  “Excellent. That’s my job. To make my work invisible.”

  “Invisible Man,” Kevin says, like he just coined the moniker for a new superhero. He clears his throat. “We wanted to get you a little thank-you gift. For taking such good care of me. And for your suggestions. The table, but also another one you gave us. We took you up on it, and we hope you like it, too.”

  My eyebrows rise in curiosity.

  Cassidy hands me a greeting-card-size envelope. I slide my thumb under the flap and open it. Inside is a white business card, along with a gift certificate for a cooking class. Enticing appetizers and alluring desserts.

&nb
sp; I crack up, remembering our conversation on the exam table when I encouraged him to take a cooking class. “Well done, Aquaman. Well done.”

  Kevin smiles widely and holds his hands out in a sheepish shrug. “Doctor’s orders. Far be it for me to defy them.”

  “You’re a good man to follow them.”

  “And listen,” he begins, adopting a more serious tone.

  I tilt my head, waiting.

  His blue eyes meet mine. “There’s something else I need to thank you for.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’s that?”

  But when a siren blares, and the tell-tale sign of an incoming ambulance screeches outside, I say, “Sorry, but that’s my cue to go.”

  We say a quick good-bye, and as I rush back into the ER, I make a hasty pit stop at the waiting room desk. A bleached blonde with tired eyes looks up at me. “Yes, Doctor?”

  I nod at the sick toddler. “Make sure the kid gets seen as soon as you can, okay?”

  She nods.

  I head back to the madhouse, taking a quick glance at the gift along the way. It’s a cooking class for two. I stuff it in my pocket, because we have a fifty-year-old man suffering from a heart attack coming in. This time, we save a life.

  After a busy afternoon with no break in sight, I finish my shift and find a text from Wyatt.

  In your hood. Grab a brew?

  I text back with a yes, and we settle on a nearby location—Spencer and Charlotte’s bar, The Lucky Spot. Spencer’s behind the counter this time, and he tips his chin in greeting as we stroll in.

  He pours some beers and places the glasses on the counter with a clang. “So a doctor and a carpenter walk into a bar…”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah? And what happens next? The bartender serves up a pale ale and a punchline?”

  His green eyes study Wyatt and me. “Yes. Because want to know what happens when you cross a surgeon with a carpenter?”