Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  And I must be some kind of a masochist because why else would I torture myself?

  Harlow’s skin is sleep-warm and her limbs heavy where they rest against me. I’ll never last more than a minute with her looking down at me—sleepy and needy—with nothing between us.

  It takes me only a second to decide, to roll us both over and slip back between her thighs. Her legs fall open, knees bent and pressed to my sides. “I just want to feel you,” I tell her again, trying to ignore the eager way she nods, how willingly she agrees with me. Her mouth is too tempting, lips wet and parted, and I lean in, tasting her. “And if you want . . . I could pull out?”

  She pushes her words out between tiny, biting kisses: “Would you . . . come . . . on me?”

  There have always been things I’ve been into—things that got me off in the privacy of my own head—sex acts that are hard to bring up in a new, more tentative relationship. I want to be messy, rough, a little dirty, a little taboo. I want to claim Harlow everywhere, try anything she wants, and see the mark of rope and teeth and my spankings on her skin.

  I like that she wants this as much as I do.

  “You want that?” I ask, slowly pressing inside and nearly growling from the pleasure of it. “You want to see it on your skin?”

  Harlow throws her head back, fingers twisting in the sheets. Her tits move with each of my thrusts, the mattress squeaks in the darkness, and I’m only vaguely aware that there are neighbors next door, people both upstairs and down. But the only thing I care about is the way she grips me from the inside out, how her skin looks in the moonlight and the tiny sounds that escape her mouth with every thrust.

  I’m too close and it’s too fast but I don’t think either of us even cares. A spark flashes hot and moves down my spine, heat that settles in my lower body. I feel myself get harder, my fingers grip her hips so tightly I’m actually afraid she’ll be bruised tomorrow.

  And then Harlow is coming, clenching around my cock and I’m holding on by a thread, riding her through it with my jaw tight and my body so tense just to hold my own release at bay. She gasps, pushes up into me, claws at my chest until her arms slide down my torso, feeling where I’m moving in her. With a groan I pull out, hand moving over my length in a blur and my orgasm is there, so close that I can’t hear anything but static in my ears. Her name is on my lips and I wish I’d thought ahead to turn on a lamp so I could see her face as I cover her stomach, her tits, her neck.

  Harlow looks down at my come on her skin, runs a finger through it and around her nipple. The action is instinctive, and possessive . . . and I know in that moment that I am absolutely, thoroughly fucked over this girl.

  I fall to the mattress in a heap of boneless limbs, my heart racing so hard that I actually have to work to breathe, to gain control of my arms and my legs.

  “You’ll stay the night?” Harlow asks, and I lift my head just long enough to look at her.

  “Yeah, I have breakfast with the guys in the morning, though. I can’t stay too late.”

  Harlow yawns, reaching for a discarded T-shirt to wipe the mess from her skin. “I have to pick my mom up, anyway,” she says absently. “I’ll wake you before I leave.”

  I nod, kissing Harlow’s jaw and then her cheek, feeling the flush beneath her skin against my lips.

  “Love you,” she says, eyes already fluttering closed.

  It has to be coming up on three in the morning, and I say, “I love you” back as I pull her close, molding my body to the shape of hers. I’m so tired, but alert enough to know that something doesn’t sit right. I just wish I were awake enough to figure out what it is.

  HARLOW LEAVES BRIGHT and early like she said she would. She wakes me with kisses and invites me to take a shower. I fuck her against the bathroom wall before we ever manage to get in.

  San Diego smells like the ocean in the morning, like salt and wind and something sharp that wraps like an old blanket around everything. It smells so close to home some days, that if I close my eyes I can almost forget where I am, over a thousand miles and a lifetime away from where I’m supposed to be. It’s a little unnerving.

  Even scarier? How much it’s starting to feel right, and how many times I’ve considered not leaving at all.

  A call from Colton first thing out of the shower pops the Harlow bubble I’ve been floating in, and brings me crashing, face-first back into reality.

  I’d texted him after the initial meeting with the Adventure Channel, with a brief “It was good, lots to talk about, I’ll fill you in later.” But I never did—not that night or the next morning—hoping I could put them off just long enough to decide what the fuck we should all do with the rest of our lives. I still have no idea. Of course when I call him back it goes straight to voicemail—because it’s eight in the morning and they’re actually working—and I promise to get back to him later that night, to explain everything.

  Now I just have to decide what the hell I’m going to tell them.

  On the one hand, I’m glad my brothers are clearly so busy they’ve barely had a moment to worry about the meeting, or even realize that I’ve been avoiding the discussion altogether. I’ve never been this irresponsible in my entire life.

  Do we sign on for the show? Do we not? The terms they’re offering are great, the money a godsend. But it will change everything: How we live, how people see us. How we see ourselves. And what about Harlow—how would that even work? Before recently the impact this would have on a potential relationship was the furthest thing from my mind. But now, it fucking matters. Unless I leave the business and my family, I can’t see a time I’d ever be in California on a more permanent basis. And unless Harlow has an even bigger surprise up her sleeve, she won’t be moving to Vancouver Island anytime soon.

  Harlow on the deck of our run-down boat . . . now that’s a sight I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared to see.

  I’m positive I’d feel better if I talked to Ansel and Oliver, and am feeling more than a little guilty about not having told them what’s going on. The truth is that I haven’t seen as much as them as I’d like lately, which is why I find myself navigating the narrow streets of the Gaslamp Quarter, attempting to parallel park my giant truck to meet them both for breakfast.

  The sidewalks are fairly empty this early in the morning, the streets littered with delivery trucks and a handful of ambitious healthy types out for a morning run. I spot Oliver’s beat-up car as I turn up Fifth, walking toward Maryjane’s.

  I see the guys in a booth near the back, a set of stylized Mick Jagger prints hanging on the wall above them, and a TV tuned to a music channel just off to the side.

  “Ladies,” I say, and slide into the seat next to Ansel. “Gorgeous day outside.”

  “Finn,” Ansel says. He reaches for the mug in front of me and fills it with hot coffee from a carafe left by the waitress. “We ordered for you. I got you the most manly thing on the menu.”

  I laugh. “Thank you.”

  Oliver is sitting directly across from me. “You seem decidedly less surly this morning. Anyone in particular we should thank?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Olls.”

  Oliver leans forward, pushes his glasses up his nose before resting his forearms on the table. “You’re right, where are my manners? Good morning, Finnigan. How are you?”

  Ansel chuckles next to me.

  “I’m excellent, thank you. And how are you, Oliver?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” he says, nodding. “I did notice you didn’t come home last night. In fact, you haven’t been spending much time at home, at all lately. I was beginning to grow concerned. Young man, alone in a big, strange city, wandering the streets all night . . .”

  “This sounds like a story I’d like to hear,” Ansel agrees, taking a sip of his coffee.

  But Oliver isn’t done. “You’ve never really been a one-time-hookup kind of a guy, so I can’t help but wonder who you’re spending all your time with.”

  “I was at Harlow’s
,” I admit. “We’ve been, um . . . seeing each other.”

  I’m saved from their interrogation when the waitress arrives with our breakfast. “Wow. This is certainly . . . manly.” I study the towering sandwich made of toast, bacon, and fried eggs with bright yellow yolk oozing out onto the plate.

  “Would it be possible for me to get more of this,” Ansel asks her, holding up a small white bowl filled with some sort of brown sugar mix. “I have a . . .” He stops to tap a finger against his mouth, searching for the word. “A, um . . . comment ce dire? When you like sweet things?”

  The waitress blinks at least three times, and even sways a little where she stands. I’m about to reach out and steady her when she finally shakes her head, eyes coming back into focus.

  “A sweet tooth?” she asks.

  “Yes! That’s it, a sweet tooth! And I would love more of this.”

  Pink floods her cheeks and she nods, taking the bowl from him before wandering away from the table, in search of Ansel’s brown sugar.

  “Jesus Christ, Ansel,” Oliver says.

  “What?”

  “I am totally telling Mia you did that,” I say.

  Ansel dumps a bowl of blackberries into his oatmeal and looks up at each of us, blinking innocently. “Did what?”

  “Why didn’t you just fuck her on the table?” I ask. “It would have been only slightly more awkward for us.”

  “She’s probably pregnant now.” Oliver points his knife in the direction of the kitchen. “Try explaining that to your wife.”

  Laughing, I say, “I bet she brings him every goddamn bowl of brown sugar they have in the place.”

  “You’re both very funny,” Ansel deadpans.

  “How is Mia, anyway?” I ask.

  Ansel looks up at me with the most goofy, dimpled smile I’ve ever seen. “Perfect.”

  “Ugh,” Oliver says, setting his fork down. “Do not get him started. Lola says she’s had to start warning them before she comes over. Last time she could hear them all the way down Julianne’s driveway.”

  Ansel only shrugs, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I am quite the vocal lover, and would never stifle the loud, satisfied cries of my wife during what is possibly the best sex anyone has ever had.” He leans in, looks us both in the eye in turn, and repeats, “Ever.”

  Both Oliver and I burst out laughing when we realize that, at some point during this monologue, our waitress has materialized at the table and placed a giant bowl of brown sugar in front of Ansel. I’m not sure how much she just heard, but judging by the blush creeping up her neck and flashing hotly across her face, I’m guessing it was enough.

  “Merci,” Ansel says again, smiling widely.

  The poor girl mumbles “You’re welcome,” before she turns and heads back to the kitchen.

  “I hate you,” Oliver says.

  “You wouldn’t hate anyone if you were getting a little yourself.”

  “He’s got a point,” I agree.

  Oliver takes a bite of his breakfast, shrugging.

  “Come on. You’re a good-looking, successful guy,” Ansel says. “Why aren’t you seeing someone?”

  “Are we really doing the Sex and the City thing right now? In case you haven’t noticed, Carrie, I just opened the store. When would I have the time to meet anyone?”

  “Who’s Carrie?” I ask.

  Ignoring me, Ansel says, “Are you kidding me? I’ve only been there a few times and it’s crawling with weird hot chicks.”

  “Eh. I’m not really looking.”

  Ansel narrows his eyes. “Not looking? That doesn’t make any sense. You have a penis.”

  Oliver laughs. “I do.”

  “You’ve never had a problem getting laid and yet I haven’t seen you with anyone but Lola since I got—” Ansel stops, his mouth forming the word for a few beats before he says, “Ohhhh. I get it.”

  “ ‘Oh’?” I repeat, glancing between them. “Get what?”

  “You like Lola.”

  Oliver is already shaking his head. “No, no, I don’t. We’re just friends.”

  “ ‘Friends,’ ” Ansel and I repeat in unison.

  “Honestly. I like her. But not like her like her. She’s smart and fun to hang out with, that’s it.”

  Jesus Christ, he is a terrible liar.

  “You two were married,” I remind him.

  “Yeah, but unlike you two, I never even kissed her.”

  Ansel is already shaking his head. “We all kissed them. I even have the photo somewhere. She’s the hottest nerd girl alive.”

  “Just because you got married doesn’t mean everyone else needs to settle down. Look at Finn.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. I can only assume—and don’t try and deny it—you’ve been fucking Harlow the entire time you’ve been here and you’re not ready to propose.”

  “Um,” I say, picking up my knife and digging into my food with renewed interest. “I mean, we’re . . . it might not be strictly just friends anymore.”

  Ansel lifts his hand and cups it around his ear as if he didn’t hear me correctly. “Comment?” he says in French. What?

  “I like her.” I bring my fork to my lips and hold it there, adding, “More than like her.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Ansel says, and I snort, taking the bite.

  “Holy shit. Finn,” Oliver says. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  “But, wait. You’re leaving,” he adds. “Aren’t you? I mean I know you haven’t really told me what you’re doing here, but I was never under the impression it was anything permanent.”

  “It’s not. I’ve been looking into some business things, but I have to go back soon. I’m not really sure what Harlow and I are going to do.”

  The table is silent and we each pretend to be interested in our food, everyone trying to process the giant admission I’ve just dropped like a bomb in front of us.

  “You guys are good, though, right?” I ask Ansel. “You and Mia? Being apart.” Mia and Ansel have been doing the long-distance thing for a few months now, and if anything, they seem even more infatuated with each other than they did in Vegas.

  Ansel leans against the back of the bench and exhales, this deep, long breath. It’s the kind of breath you take when you’re so full of something you feel like you might explode if you don’t let it out.

  “Things are going . . .” He swipes his hand down his face. “I’m just so happy. The days when we’re apart are hard, of course. But when we’re together, it’s like I don’t even remember. None of that matters.”

  Oliver swallows, points his fork at me. “You two are thinking about doing the long-distance thing?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing yet.”

  “You like it here, yeah?” Oliver asks. “In San Diego?”

  “Yeah, of course. But I have to go back eventually.” My food sits, practically untouched in front of me, and I push it around with my fork. I suddenly have no desire to eat. “I mean, not eventually, but probably in the next day or two.”

  “You’ll make it work,” Ansel says. “Harlow’s not going to leave her mom right now, but—”

  My head snaps up and I blink over to him, the same sense of unease I felt last night in bed flares in my chest. “Why wouldn’t she leave her mom?”

  “Well, how she’s . . .” Ansel’s words trail off and he glances nervously over to Oliver. “Shit.”

  Oliver is a rock, usually completely unreadable, but I know him better than almost anyone. The way he shifts in his seat, he’s definitely uncomfortable. And then it all clicks, and before either of them have even said anything, I know.

  Harlow mentioning that her mother wasn’t feeling well. Mr. Furley asking after Madeline. Harlow’s flashes of desperation and need for escape.

  Harlow’s mom is sick sick. Not just with the flu, or a lingering cold.

  “Jesus Christ,” I groan, pressin
g my hands to my face.

  “Breast cancer,” Oliver says quietly. “I think . . . stage . . . advanced? She had surgery a couple of weeks ago, and is between rounds of chemo.”

  “Stage three?” I guess.

  He nods. “That sounds right. From what I hear she’s doing all right, for now.”

  I can’t do anything but stare down at my plate, a familiar ache pulsing fresh in my chest. I’m not sure who I’m madder at: Harlow for keeping this from me, for telling everyone but me, or at everyone else for keeping her secret. I told her everything and she couldn’t even tell me this? The one thing I would have understood. The only thing I could have offered her.

  I drop my fork and the sound rings through the restaurant, louder than the shitty rock song playing on the TV overhead, louder than the other customers. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy, leaden in my stomach, and I’m not sure if I want to throw it up or get the fuck out of here.

  “Finn,” Oliver says, reaching out to grip my arm. “Look, I don’t know why she didn’t tell you, okay? But it wasn’t my secret to tell. I swear to God.”

  “I know.”

  “She had to have had her reasons,” Ansel says quietly.

  “Yeah, thanks. That’s super comforting.”

  “Think about this before you do anything crazy, okay? I fucked up so bad with Mia . . . just, hear her out.”

  I stand, pulling out my wallet and tossing a twenty to the table.

  “Where are you going?” Oliver says.

  I shake my head. I can feel my pulse pounding inside my ribs, hear the rush of blood in my head. My heart hurts for her, but I’m frustrated and confused about why she didn’t just tell me. My face feels hot and I’m not sure if I want to find Harlow and ask what the fuck is going on . . . or if I just want to hit the road and drive.

  “I’ve got some calls to make,” I say instead. “I haven’t been the best captain or brother lately and I need to catch up. They’re doing some repairs and I need to check in on a few things. I’ll talk to you guys later.”

  Chapter THIRTEEN