The Duets

by Quinn, Meghan

  Christ.

  It’s Ryan.

  And she’s topless.

  And I can’t divert my eyes from her tits.

  “Where am I?” she groans, sitting up on her side, hair covering her face, her breasts swaying.

  Fuck, she’s hot.

  Look away, damn it.

  I turn to the side and clear my dry throat. “Uh, you’re in my room, Ryan.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see her flip her hair out of her line of vision to find me standing off by the windows.

  “Colby?”

  I nod. “Yup. And before you say anything, put a fucking shirt on.”

  She slowly scans her eyes down and then looks back up, unfazed. “Oh, they’re just tits.”

  “Please,” I practically growl, hating that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to tame my fucking boner.

  I’ve known Ryan for years now, and yeah, I’ve always thought she was pretty, as it’s hard not to when she looks the way she does. But I never once fantasized about her or felt any kind of attraction.

  Then I wake up next . . .

  Oh shit. Was that her breast I was squeezing earlier?

  I drag my hands down my face, irritated with myself. I never get this drunk, not even when Rory broke up with me, or when I found out about Rory and Stryder being together.

  I blame Ryan.

  Who still isn’t wearing a shirt.

  I push my hand through my hair and charge toward the bathroom. On my way, I pick up her dress and toss it at her. “Put that on.”

  I don’t bother to listen to her response as I shut the bathroom door behind me. Standing in front of the toilet, I lift the seat, brace a hand on the wall, and take a leak as my mind wanders.

  She ate my food, and she fed me drink after drink. There were speeches, she cried, I remember that. Then we were playing truth or dare . . . maybe some dancing. It gets fuzzy after that.

  We didn’t have sex. There is no way I could have had sex with her, not that drunk. I like to take pride in my libido, but that much alcohol in my system means no hard-on. Something I wish I could take claim to right now as my memory flashes images of Ryan’s naked torso in my head.

  Her skin is so damn smooth, her tits round and full. Real.

  My cock starts to grow in my hand as I attempt to stuff it back in my underwear, but there is no use. I’m turned on when I really shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be thinking about Ryan like that.

  But fuck, the feel of her boob in my hand, all soft and pillow like . . .

  Shit. It’s been too damn long since I’ve had sex if this is the reaction I have when I see a pair of naked breasts.

  There is no way I can go out there like this, so I drop my briefs to the floor, kick them to the side, and turn on the shower to the coldest setting. I lost myself for a second, but I won’t again. Control, Brooks. Get back in control.

  * * *

  When I step out of the shower, goosebumps spread across my skin, I dry off quickly, brush my teeth, and run my fingers through my hair.

  I don’t hear anything on the other side of the bathroom, so I’m hoping Ryan caught the hint and bolted to her room. That would be the best scenario.

  But . . .

  The minute I open the door to the mini suite, the TV’s on in the other room, there’s a cart of food next to the couch, and Ryan is lounging, feet up on the coffee table, breasts still not covered, and now I’m privy to her long, toned legs and minuscule underwear.

  Jesus Christ, this woman.

  Hanging on to my towel wrapped around my waist, I pick up my dress shirt from last night and chuck it at her. “For the love of God, cover up.”

  She scoffs at me, pops a piece of bacon in her mouth, and says, “You act as if they’re the ugliest boobs you’ve ever seen in your life.”

  Exact opposite. Exact. Opposite.

  “You’re Rory’s friend, and it isn’t appropriate. Please just put the goddamn shirt on.”

  She lets out a long breath as she starts putting the shirt over her head and rolling up the sleeves. “Fine, but it’s not like you haven’t seen them already since we slept together.”

  My stomach plummets and my eyes widen. Fuck. We slept together. I thought maybe since I was still wearing underwear this morning maybe we avoided that mistake. I guess not.

  I press my hand to my forehead. “We slept together?”

  “Yeah.” She pauses and then says, “Oh, I mean like just slept. We didn’t have sex if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I count to ten as my lips thin, ready to mouth off at her, the tension in my body building and building with every word coming out of her mouth.

  “You can’t just say things like we slept together.”

  The dishes clang together as she reaches for another piece of bacon. “Do you have a girlfriend or something?”

  “No.”

  “Then what does it matter if we had sex?”

  “You’re Rory’s best friend.”

  “So?” She shrugs and pours another cup of coffee. She nods at it as she holds it out to me. Reluctantly, I take it. “Stryder is your best friend. Didn’t stop him from marrying Rory.”

  Valid point, but still.

  She knowingly smiles at me and points her finger. “You know I’m right.”

  “Doesn’t fucking matter. I like to be present when I have sex, not some drunken mess.”

  She nods. “Ahh, you like to make sure you’re performing well. I get that and appreciate it. I’ve had my fair share of duds in the bedroom, and there is nothing more disappointing than a guy coming early and then snoring while he lays across your body after he’s gotten off.”

  I sit next to her on the couch and snag a piece of bacon, taking in the spread. Fruit not even touched, bacon almost gone. Pancakes half eaten, and there is a silver dome still over one of the plates.

  “Denver omelet for you.” She points at the covered plate. “Didn’t know what you would like but judging from the fantastically sculpted body you have, I guessed it wasn’t pancakes.”

  “Omelet is good, thank you.”

  She sips her coffee and directs her attention at the reruns of Seinfeld on the TV. “Thank yourself, I charged it all to your room.”

  “Great.”

  * * *

  Towel still wrapped around my waist, Ryan still in my shirt from last night, we’re both slouched on the couch, watching reruns of Friends. It’s past ten, and I have yet to make an attempt at being human.

  “Why didn’t you bring a date to the wedding?” Ryan asks during a commercial break. We’re watching the episode where Joey and Chandler challenge Rachel and Monica in a trivia game to win their apartment. One of my favorite episodes.

  “Didn’t have anyone to bring.”

  “Kind of brave, you know, not bringing a date to your ex-girlfriend’s wedding.”

  I take a sip of water from the bottle the hotel provided. Four-dollar water tastes like shit. “I didn’t look at it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like my ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Stryder is my best friend, and I’m genuinely happy for him.”

  Ryan turns to me and props her hands under the side of her face as she lies against the back of the couch. “If I were you, I would be incredibly jealous. No way I could be as understanding as you.”

  I shrug. “He’s my brother.”

  Silence falls between us as a toothpaste commercial comes on screen. “My boyfriend broke up with me right before the wedding. Three days ago actually.”

  Ryan is notorious for having a new boyfriend every month. Rory used to get so concerned when Ryan started dating a new guy, because she always put her heart on the line with each guy that walked into her life. Even while I dated Rory for a short period of time, I saw the heartache Ryan went through often. Rory’s biggest complaint was Ryan didn’t know how to choose the good guy, so she always went for the guy who was completely wrong for her.

  From the sound of it, she’s stuck in t
he same pattern.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did he break up with you?”

  “Who knows?” She sighs. “He said it was because he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend, but it only seemed to be that way when I told him I was holding out for marriage.”

  “Are you?”

  “Hell no. I just wanted to see his reaction. Clearly he wasn’t ready to be celibate. Figures. So I showed up to the wedding stag, hoping to find someone single and ready to get lost in the feeling of someone else’s body. But I ended up sharing a bed with you instead, someone who can’t bear to see me without a shirt on.”

  I don’t miss the dig.

  Instead of responding, I focus on the TV. I don’t want to say anything dickish, so I keep my mouth shut. I’ve learned it’s better to say nothing than something that’s going to get you in trouble.

  Apparently Ryan can’t take the silence because she asks, “When do you go back to Las Vegas?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What are you doing for the rest of the day? Have anyone to visit?”

  “No one,” I curtly answer. No way in hell am I going to say hello to my mom. She hasn’t earned the right to see me.

  “Then do something with me.”

  I turn toward her ready to say I have things to do, when I see a hint of sadness in her eyes. Ever since I’ve known Ryan, she’s been the quirky, hot girl who has never let anything get her down.

  Even when I “saved” her in the bar from that douche, she brushed it off as nothing. Happy and peppy, that’s Ryan Collier.

  Rory once said that Ryan masked her emotions from the world, appearing stronger than she really was. And since then, I’ve watched her from the sidelines. And right now? I can see it.

  But the girl sitting beside me, wearing my button-up shirt, her hair a tangled mess with last night’s makeup smeared over her eyes . . . she shows a sense of vulnerability, like she’s not just looking for company, but she needs company right now.

  Knowing I should say no, I say, “What did you have in mind?”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  RYAN

  Eleven years old . . .

  “What do you think, Mom?” I do a quick spin, showing off my new purple Juicy Couture track suit I picked specifically for my first day of sixth grade. Dad took me back-to-school shopping and let me get whatever I wanted, and I knew right away what was going to be my first purchase: this track suit. It’s a little tight, but I still have some baby fat to lose. That’s what Dad says. So I figured I have some growing to do this year and when I do, this will fit perfectly. It works for now and is so cool. I saw in People magazine the other day that Lindsay Lohan wore one. It was fate.

  I love shopping with Dad, because not only does he let me get whatever I want, he always makes me feel good about myself.

  Got new white Pumas to wear, a new white tank top for underneath that is shorter than I thought, but I’m making it work, and I curled the ends of my hair I spent all summer trying to dye with lemon juice so it wasn’t a mousy brown. Mom wasn’t happy, but it’s blonde and that’s all I care about, even if it looks a little brassy. That’s okay.

  Looking up from the book in her hand, Mom puts out her cigarette in a muffin she didn’t finish and gives me a once-over. I hold my arms out to the side so she can see everything, practically beaming from head to toe.

  By far my best back-to-school outfit to date.

  “What the hell are you wearing? Your gut is hanging out.”

  I quickly slap my arms to my side and look at my belly that seems to be larger than all the other girls I go to school with. Dad says it will go away when I stretch out. Mom thinks it’s from not playing a sport. She’s constantly making me work out when Dad is not around.

  “Um, it’s because my hands were up. I’ll make sure to keep them down at my side all day.”

  She motions to my mid-section. “That top is too tight, and it’s going to keep riding up. Put on something a little more flattering.”

  “But, Mom, it’s an ensemble. I can’t wear the jacket without the pants.”

  “Then take the pants off too.”

  I bite my bottom lip and look at my outfit. I don’t want to take it off. This is my chance to make a good impression, a fresh start at a new school. If I walk into school wearing this fancy track suit, everyone is going to think I’m cool.

  This year I want to be cool. I want friends. I want girls to want to hang out with me, invite me over to their house . . . have slumber parties.

  I have a plan to make that happen.

  And wearing this track suit is task number one.

  Gathering all the courage I can muster, I say, “Dad said he thought I looked nice, so I’m going to wear it.”

  That garners a large eye-roll from my mom and then a shake of her head just as my dad comes flying into the kitchen wearing his standard suit and carrying his designer briefcase. He looks me up and down, presses a kiss against my cheek, and says, “Looking gorgeous, boo bear. That color really makes the blue in your eyes pop.”

  I want to stick my tongue out at Mom, tell her I told you so, but I refrain. I’m a mature eleven-year-old now, heading into sixth grade. I need to act like one.

  “Thanks, Daddy.” I pull down on my top and head to the fridge where I grab an apple and some carrot sticks I put in a baggy last night. It’s a new day. I’m going to stay away from the junk food my mom buys, and I’m going to start fresh.

  I’ve got my track suit, my awesome shoes, and my hair is blonde and beautiful. I’m going to blow all these sixth graders out of the water.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  RYAN

  “What’s taking you so damn long?” Colby asks from the other side of the door as I finish up putting on mascara. I step back from the mirror and take in my appearance.

  Hair blown straight. Highlights on point. Makeup fresh and natural despite how much I have on. Cute jeans, cuter heels, and a blue crop top that makes my eyes look impossibly blue. I suck in my stomach and turn to the side. Looks like those pancakes weren’t the best idea this morning.

  Should I change? I don’t have anything else to wear really besides Colby’s dress shirt from last night, and that’s not going to look good.

  “Ryan, come on.”

  “Just putting on the last touches.” I twist my lips to the side, check out my backside, and concede that this will have to do. I’ll do an extra workout tomorrow.

  “Last touches of what?” he asks, completely annoyed.

  I swing the door open and walk into the living room where he’s sitting. When he looks at me, I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction.

  He stands from the couch, turns off the TV, and tosses the remote to the side. “Let’s go.”

  He pockets his phone and grabs the keys to his rental car before opening the door and gesturing me to follow him.

  No comment on my outfit, no second glance, and not even a widening of his eyes. Ouch. Okay. It doesn’t matter what Colby Brooks thinks anyway.

  I pick up my purse and follow him out the door and down the stairs. We’re on the second floor of the hotel so we don’t bother taking the elevator.

  “You don’t have to walk so fast, you know,” I say, trying to catch up to him in my heels.

  “It’s past noon. If you want to go up Pikes Peak, we have to move our asses.”

  “Well, you’re only as fast as your weakest link, and your weakest link right now is wearing heels.”

  Colby turns toward me, takes in my shoes, and rolls his eyes. No wonder Rory had such a hard time reading this guy when they were dating; he’s so hot and cold. “Why are you dressed up?”

  “This isn’t dressed up. This is how I’m normally put together.”

  He grunts something I can’t make out and leads me to a black SUV with black leather interior. It’s a really nice rental car, the type of car I could see Colby owning.

  “Nice car,” I say, hopping in.

>   I barely get my seatbelt on before Colby is pulling out of the parking spot and driving toward the mountains. His knuckles are white, his body tense, as he keeps his eyes focused on the road in front of him, his jaw ticking every once in a while.

  What’s his deal?

  “You know, if you’re going to be pissed the entire time, just take me back to the hotel and I’ll be on my way. I’d rather not spend my afternoon with someone who barely wants to talk to me.”

  He grips the steering wheel even tighter and doesn’t say a word.

  Oookay.

  “Colby, I’m serious, take me back to the hotel if you’re going to act like this.”

  “Just shut up, Ryan. Okay?”

  Excuse me? My eyes bug out as my jaw falls open. Did he tell me to shut up?

  “Uh, care to rephrase that?” I fold my arms across my chest. I learned a long time ago never to take shit from anyone, and even though Colby is a bit of a mystery when it comes to his erratic emotions, there is no way in hell I’m going to take crap from him.

  “Can you just be quiet?” He presses his hand to his forehead.

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  He let’s out a long exhale, his nostrils flaring as his forearms flex from his grip on the steering wheel, but he doesn’t say a word.

  “Colby.”

  Nothing.

  I poke his arm. “Colby, what the hell—”

  “I don’t want you thinking this is a date, okay?”

  I sit back, shocked, slightly insulted, and a whole lot of embarrassed.

  Meekly, I say, “I know it’s not a date.”

  Why would he think I thought this was a date? What does he really think of me? My boyfriend broke up with me three days ago, so I’m going to cling to the next guy who crosses my path?