One Last Shot (Pub Fiction #3)

by Gillian Jones

  “Yes, sir! I got it.” I salute her. With her arm wrapped around me, we meet the rest of the girls for a few much-needed shooters before heading to the dance floor.

  Unfortunately for me, my relief is short lived. I can’t seem to shake the impact of what Matt said from creeping into my mind, even if I am having a blast with my girls as we dance like lunatics to the playlist Kat and I made specifically from our university days. Between the alcohol, my inability to get Matt’s words out of my head, the way it felt being in his arms, and how he comforted me today, I need a minute to pull my shit together. I’m losing myself. I’m confused, conflicted, and I’m not happy anymore.

  This. I hate this. These feelings are exactly what I was worried about coming back here to face him. He affects me. And I don’t have a clue how to make it stop. No, that’s a lie; I do know how, it’s a matter of trust, is all. Catching Kat’s eye, I mouth: “pee”. She mimes: “should I come with you?” but I shake her off, signalling that I’ll be right back before making a mad dash off the dance floor.

  When I exit the washroom, I let out an immediate gasp. Matt is standing at the threshold of the men’s room, the expansive maroon hallway suddenly not feeling so large. The second our eyes latch, the charge is electric—instant. An unseen current crackles in the air; an anticipation of which one of us will make the first move to say or do something lingers between us. Suddenly, I imagine we look like two trains challenging each other on the same track. It’s our version of Chicken.

  “Claire.” It’s a whisper.

  “Matty.” It’s a response.

  We collide, like the two stubborn trains I imagined, crashing on the same track, bodies fusing together, melding into each other. Words are whispered, our mouths millimetres apart. My hands embrace his face. Looking into those knowing eyes, I know this: I’m losing.

  A rush of heat begins in my chest, my heart thumps, warmth spreads to my core. Suddenly, I’m frantic, my movements become frantic. I can’t get close enough to this man. I pull his mouth to mine, taking the lead. Moving my hands into his hair, I grasp the strands, pulling him even closer. I kiss him harder, slipping my tongue past his perfectly smooth lips. Standing as one in the middle of the hallway, we’re a mass of twisted arms, tongues and feels. Oh, those fucking feels. The ones coming back ten-fold, nagging to be told why I deny myself this, him, if he makes me feel so alive—so happy—when I’m in his arms, making me think of wanting more. With a heady groan, he pushes us back into the women’s washroom, kicking the door closed and locking it behind us.

  “Fuck, Claire. You’re so perfect. I can’t stay away. I tried. Lord knows, I begged myself to walk past you. To leave you here. But I can’t. You’re in me too deep,” Matt says, as he leads me to the sinks.

  He hoists me up on the countertop in front of him, pulling my skirt up and nudging my knees apart, stepping between them. He pulls my bum forward to line us up in perfect position, his hard erection pushing against my core through his tuxedo pants.

  Matt nuzzles his face into my neck. The hint of a five o’clock shadow roughening his chin ignites my senses, his hot breath ghosts over my warming skin. “Miss you every damn day,” he trails his tongue along my neck, “miss feeling the calm you give me in spite of the hell you put me through.” He kisses my nose. “Miss all of us,” he nuzzles back into my neck again, “miss our talks, our laughs.” His fingers start a slow, explorative journey along my legs, and immediately gooseflesh appears under his touch, my body becoming lit as a candle as he inches his hands closer to where I want them most.

  “Matty, we can’t,” I say, making a feeble attempt to push his hands away. I’m not even convincing myself. It’s futile.

  Matt undoes the zipper resting against my back, pulling the front of my dress down until it exposes my barely there pale blue adhesive shelf bra. My nipples harden under the approving gaze (and the cold air blowing down from the air conditioning vent above us), causing me to jump at the sensations they add the moment he releases the front clasps. Matt gives me a slow kiss before gently pushing me back to rest against the counter’s mirrored wall. I’m splayed out in front of him, once again at his mercy.

  “Goddamned beautiful. Love these, baby. Your tits are amazing.” He licks his lips while running the back of his hand along my breastbone. My nipples ache to be touched, my body leans in for his touch, a touch that doesn’t come. He chuckles at the neediness he sees displayed out in front of him, still not giving me what he knows I want, what he wants, too. He just continues to glide his hand everywhere but my throbbing nipples.

  “Jesus, Matt, suck on my tits already, I can’t take it. I need your mouth on me,” I groan, realizing I’ve been dry humping him this whole time. Looking down, I feel myself blush, taking in the wet spot I’ve left on his pants in my excitement.

  Matt follows my eyes’ path, concern furrowing his brows until he sees what I see. He grits: “Do you know how fucking hot that is? Jesus, Claire, you want me just as bad, baby…”

  “Matt, I want to but we can’t. I can’t keep doing this right now. I still need time to think,” I try to say, but it’s beyond pointless; seeing my wetness on his pants has spurred on the beast. Groaning, he moves his head down, taking my aching nipple between his teeth, giving it that perfect amount of pressure, the one that makes me buck. “Yes, Matt. There…”

  “Fuck, I love these, so fucking sensitive,” he mutters, as he nips then soothes my nipple with his wet tongue. I hear myself moan, and push myself forward again meeting his hardness. Matty picks up his pace, assaulting both of my nipples, licking, sucking and pinching each between his finger and thumb, rolling each peak to perfection before he grips my ass, pulling me hard against him. We move in tandem, our clothes causing the most amazing friction, and I swear I’m seeing stars from the impact of us like this.

  Matt’s movements stall, and I whimper. He pulls me back up, our chests meeting, the material of his ribbed tuxedo shirt brushing my still sensitive nipples.

  Suddenly, he re-clasps my bra, pulls my dress and bra straps back up over my shoulders, and zips up my dress. His hands cradle my face before I can articulate my confusion.

  “Matty, wh—”

  “Shh, baby, I know. Just listen.”

  “Matty.” It’s a whine. I feel tears stinging, embarrassment threatening. Was I wrong, and he doesn’t want me?

  “Stop thinking silly shit,” he warns, knowing me too well. “I want you like I want my next breath. But you’re right. We can’t keep doing it like this. It’s not helping either of us. How can I show you we’re more—the real thing—if all we do is this? We need to talk, Claire. There’s so much to be said. We need to figure us out. With our hands to ourselves, we need to sit and talk,” he adds, looking me in the eye, sweeping my hair from my face along with the doubt, for that split second anyway.

  But rather than give in, agreeing that I know he’s right. I push him away. I’m scared, I panic at the thought of all of the realizations I’ve been having today and I’m overwhelmed. I haven’t a clue how to process it, and I feel my brain shutting down as the familiar panic sets in.

  I put on my proverbial running shoes and, like the coward I am, I fucking sprint. Deliberately and maliciously. Like the bitch I am. One last nail. Rather than talking to Matt, I ruin us.

  “Well, it’s not going to be more, Matt. It can’t be, and you know what? We don’t need to talk. I’m not some broken-ass chick who needs talking to and fixing. I just don’t want you, not like you want me. I only want us to fuck. Give me that, we’re good together.” I pause, hopping off the counter. “Can’t you just fuck me?” I say. “If not, then we’re done here.”

  I stand up straight, rearranging my dress, trying my hardest to hide the tremble in my voice and the shaking I feel radiating from my lying self. I can’t even look at him as I deliver the final blow.

  “Besides, I don’t know when you thought we were anything. Go back to dating, Matt. I already am. In fact, I got a few numbers tonight.
I have a few dates lined up for next week. Jude is more than happy to take me out,” I add flippantly. Lies. I’m going to Hell. “I suggest you do the same. It’s time to move on. It’s over, there’s nothing here other than a few more casual fucks, if you wa—”

  “Bullshit.” He cuts me off, grabbing me by the wrist, pulling me to him. I tilt my head back as he goes off like a match. “Fuck you, Claire. You know what? Fuck you,” he bites, his voice laced with the venom I deserve. “You feel it too. You know this is bullshit.” He shakes with anger, but a look of defeat is slowly overtaking his beautiful features and I’m dying on the inside, knowing I’m doing this to him. “But you know what? I’m done.” He releases his hold. “I’m done waiting for you to see what we have. God, I’m a loser. Two fucking years I’ve waited and hoped you’d come back to me, that maybe you’d realize being with me was the fix to your broken, if that even makes any fucking sense.” He paces in front of me, anger radiating from his body. Turning to look at me one last time, he hisses words that will haunt me forever: “Why not love me like you’re losing me, but instead, keep me, and let me keep you in return? Why not believe that we can be happy, build our lives together? I get it. I get that your parents died, and that it affected you. But why the hell are you punishing me for it? I’m here. And I want you. So fucking much.”

  “Matt. Stop. I’m no—”

  “You’re a chickenshit, Claire.” He cuts me off. “Chicken to take a fucking chance on me being your happiness. Too scared that something might happen to me, but fuck, Claire, life is a risk. Anyone can just fuck; it takes courage to love, and to be loved. Stop being a coward and jump toward me rather than running away from me. All I wanna do is love you.”

  “Matty, I can’t…” I begin, the sobs inhibiting my ability to speak.

  “Yeah. I’m starting to finally get that. I guess it just took a few years. I’m a bit slow on the uptake, I guess, eh? I’m such a fucking idiot.” He rubs his hands along his face. “You know what? I’m done.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I hear you loud and clear, so hear me now. I’m really fucking done.” He pauses, shaking his head, jaw clenched tight, “Done. I’m out. Here’s your space, I hope the two of you are happy,” Matt practically spits as he leaves, almost breaking the door open.

  He can’t get away from me fast enough, and I can’t blame him.

  Chapter 22

  Matt

  “Fuck,” I shout, pulling my hands through my hair, missing the length after my pre-wedding haircut. What the fuck was that? What the hell was I thinking saying all that, leaving her like I did?

  I’m pretty sure I just seriously pissed off that troll thing that has been lying dormant in Claire. Proving to her that she was right about us, first with my ultimatum on the dance floor and now with that disaster in the washroom.

  How the fuck did we go so fast from all hot and heavy right to the end of us?

  “Whatever. She needed to be called out on her shit. I’m done, I don’t need it,” I mutter before calling the bartender over and ordering a Coors Light, my voice still gruff with emotion.

  “Hey, Matty. What’s up, man?” Justin slides up beside me.

  “Not much. You?” I grip the bar for support, trying to rein in my temper. I need to get outta here before I see her again, before I go berserk and wreck the place.

  “Nothing. I was just dancing with some hot piece until her boyfriend cut in,” he laughs. “I thought I was getting in with her tonight, but nope.” After all these years, Justin’s still embracing the single life with no plans to settle down. Maybe I need to be more like this guy. Hang out with him more. Maybe I really do need to give up on Claire this time. For the first time in two years, it seems like this might really be it, I contemplate, taking a pull of my beer.

  “Catch you later, man. I’m gonna go sit outside, get some air,” I say over my shoulder, heading for the back deck of the golf course clubhouse.

  “You okay, dude?” Justin calls to my retreating back.

  “Yeah—no. I will be though, just gotta lot on my mind. I’ll call you if I don’t see you before I go.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Come find me if you wanna talk, man.”

  “Will do.” I tip my beer at him.

  Walking outside in the warm August air, I spot Levi sitting at one of the tables, alone, drinking an amber liquid, the bottle resting in the centre, a few empty glasses surrounding it. I think about sitting at another table, but it’s Levi, and I could use a stiff drink. Levi’s a great guy, and he’s been through a lot with his girl, Braun, in the past, so I know he won’t pry or bring shit up unless I do.

  “Hey, man.” I pull out a chair across from him. “Enjoying the view?” I ask, puzzled, as his chair is facing the parking lot.

  “No, asshole, I’m waiting for my wife. She’s gone to drop off Grams and the kids.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her, you lazy fucker?” I tease.

  “See, I told her I was gonna look like an asshole.” He shakes his head. “She insisted that I stay, seeing as it’s my brother’s wedding. She was worried it might take her a bit to settle Parker down. Little Man’s cutting his molars, and they’ve been giving him a rough go, so he’s all about Mommy right now. And she didn’t want me to not be here. Besides, Braun won’t be able to relax until she knows Parker’s okay with his grandma.”

  “How’s Grams doing, anyway?” I ask, pouring a glass of whiskey to replace my beer.

  “Good, but Braun doesn’t want to tire her, even though she’s been in remission and cancer clear. So she’ll stay awhile, try to make it easier for Grams, not that the woman needs it. It’s just Braun being Braun, ya know?”

  “Yeah. Fucking women.”

  “Hey, dude, that’s my wife, don’t be lumping her in with your pissiness and whatever female drama you’ve got going on.”

  I laugh. If he only knew. “Pissy. Fuck, I’m beyond pissy. I’m right fucked up, raging. Claire, she’s just so bloody infuriating. Stubborn. The worst part is, I can see she knows she’s wrong. I know her—she’s mine. I know she feels the same way, she just needs to get over that messed up shit she’s convinced herself is law, stupid notions from when she was fourteen-fucking-years old,” I vent, and then apologize for losing it.

  “No need to apologize,” Levi smiles, “I totally understand. Been there, done that, my friend. I was starting to think it was an Eddison curse, the woman-operated torture chamber, but now seeing you, I think it’s the curse of men in general.” We laugh, and he tops off our drinks.

  “Want my advice?” Levi swirls his whiskey before taking a sip.

  “Sure, if you got any. I mean, you know Claire. She’s a royal pain in the ass.” I laugh, thinking of her face when I left her in the washroom, and a wave of guilt crashes over me.

  “Be there for her, man.” Levi pauses as if contemplating, “I know she’s got some issues to get over, but the best thing I learned was to be there. Be her friend. Support her, don’t push or pressure. Encourage her, and love her from afar until she’s ready. Claire’s a smart girl, she’ll come around. Little firecracker that one,” he shakes his head, “but I tell you man, if you’d told me that Braunwyn Daniels was going to be my wife the day she walked into Pub Fiction, I’d have bet the bar that you were insane. But now look at me. Sitting alone, having a drink, waiting for my best friend to hurry the fuck back to me so I can have fun at my little brother’s wedding.”

  A car door slams in the distance. I know immediately without turning that it’s Braun. The way Levi’s face lights up tells me that much.

  “I’ll catch you later,” Levi says, patting my shoulder as he passes. “Gotta go get my girl.”

  Yeah, me too.

  I just don’t know how.

  Chapter 23

  Claire

  “No, Felix. Get off. It’s too early for Just Dance Kitty-style,” I moan, trying to roll over, shifting to my side and trying to plop Felix the fur ball alarm clock off of me. He’s evil. He does this every
time I’m hungover. It’s like the little devil knows I’m a hurtin’ unit and wants to punish me for all the times I’ve nearly stepped on his tail, as well as the later breakfast he is sure to know he’s going to be getting today. The little bugger is quite smart, really. It’s a love-hate relationship sometimes, but we deal.

  I’m just about asleep again when my phone goes off, signalling a call from Kat.

  “What the hell did I ever do to you, world?” I mumble, reaching over to the white night table for my phone. “Why the hell aren’t you in a plane or busy moaning out your hubby’s name?” I groan.

  “Well, it’s nice to hear your voice, too. How are you feeling, lush?” she teases.

  “My head is a little fuzzy. I was trying to sleep, but between you and Felix, I’d say I’ve been sleep-blocked,” I pout.

  “Okay, okay. I won’t keep you, gritchy.” I roll my eyes at her version of grumpy and bitchy meshed together. “We’ve actually just arrived at the hotel and I wanted to check in to make sure you’re okay. See how we’re feeling today.”

  “I feel like shit. To be expected when you date a bottle or two of red wine, I guess.”

  “Plus the shots.”

  “The shots! Jesus, don’t remind me. Seriously though, Kat, it’s your honeymoon. Get off the phone. I’m fine. I’ll be better after greasy food and water. Now, go run to your room and spend the next two weeks spreading your legs for your hubby and don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

  “All right. All right. But know I’ve got my phone if you need me for anything.”

  “Kat. Honestly. I’ll be great. I feel a bit hungover is all.”

  “Yeah, but, Claire…last night you were so upset. I hated leaving you. The things you were saying. I just…I’m worried.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. I know I drank a shit ton, but we were having fun. Listening to her go on about shit I said, memories start flooding back in tiny flashes from the wedding.