by Alexis James
Her eyes fill again, and she quickly looks away as she shoves her glass toward me. “More.”
Against my better judgement, I refill it one last time, stashing the nearly empty bottle away and making a mental note to replace it. While she tosses it back, I do the same with mine, just in case she gets any wild ideas about wanting it too. Chances are I won’t feel a thing from one more than generous shot. Chances are she’ll be passed out in about twenty minutes from all of hers.
She slams the empty glass down on the counter and I wince, expecting it to shatter. “Men are such assholes.” Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. I should have known this had to do with Vic.
“Not all men, babe. Just some of them.”
Shoving her hair behind her ears, she leans tiredly on her hand, elbow propped on the bar. “Are you an asshole?”
I nod. “Sure. Sometimes.”
Amita gives me a hard look. “Do you think it’s possible, for you and me to be friends?”
I shrug. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
She yawns as the alcohol starts to take over. “What I want is to sleep all night.”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure you’ll get that wish.” It’s only mid-afternoon, but chances are she’ll be dead to the world shortly.
Propping her chin up with both hands, she turns her sleepy smile on me, whispering, “You’re really cute.”
“Thanks, sweet cheeks. So are you.”
Her eyes fill again and if I could, I’d ram my fist down fucking Vic’s throat. “No, I’m not. I’m not a good person.”
What the hell? What did that dickhead do to her? “Darlin’, you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. Hands down.” Moving around the bar, I take the seat next to her and once more wipe away her tears with my fingers. “You’re having a rough day. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
She nods as her face crumbles, sobbing as she falls against my chest. I do the only thing I can do. I wrap her in my arms and hold her while she grieves, letting her gain strength from my embrace.
I have no idea how long we sit there together, but it feels like hours. I honestly didn’t know a woman could cry this much, but then again, I’ve never been around a woman who was filled with so much pain it was practically a living, breathing entity.
At some point during her breakdown, Mia pokes her head into the kitchen and gives me a worried look, which I quickly shut down when I mouth, “I’ve got her.” Thankfully, she trusts me enough to know I’ll take good care of her friend and once more trots upstairs to give us privacy.
When the tears eventually subside and Amita is slumped exhaustedly in my arms, I lift her off her feet, cradle her head against my chest, then move slowly down the hall. The great thing about Cruz’s house is that he has a bunch of guest rooms, some here and a few upstairs, so I can literally choose whichever one suits me.
I head toward the end of the hall, to the last room on the left, next to the impressive workout room, to give her the most privacy. As I shove the door open and step inside, I see all too clearly what she was unable to say out loud. Boxes are stacked around the room, clothes spilling out of some, her large black purse tossed in the middle of the bed. Obviously, she’s been staying here. The question is why.
I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. At least I know this … dickhead Vic is the reason.
Shoving aside the bedding and her purse, I gently lower her to the mattress. She mumbles something incoherent, but immediately falls back asleep, hands tucked under her face. As carefully as I can, I unlace her running shoes and slide them off one at a time, setting them aside so she doesn’t trip over them. As a precaution, I grab the trash can from the bathroom and prop it on the nightstand, just in case the tequila decides to work its way north.
My fingers skim over her silky head, tucking the dark locks behind her ear as I watch her inhale and exhale. How sick am I that I’d give anything to lie down next to her and just hold her for a little while? What the hell does that say about me as a person? The poor woman is racked with pain, and I’m standing her leering over her like some psycho. I need to have my damn head examined.
Shutting the door behind me, I head toward the front of the house, where Mia and Cruz are waiting for me. Mia steps forward, worried and anxious, asking, “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know, babe. She’s pretty upset. She drank a lot, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” My eyes skirt from her to him and back again. “You guys gonna tell me what happened with her and Vic?”
They share a lingering look, then Mia leans back against the bar and murmurs, “They broke up.”
“Yeah, I gathered that much. So why is she so torn up? Last time I spoke with her, she seemed almost anxious to cut those ties.”
“He threw her out,” Cruz snaps, dragging his hands through his hair, then reaches for Mia’s hand. “Changed the locks when she was at work, and she had to get the cops involved just to get her stuff.”
Rage bubbles up and the need for revenge is profound. “What the fuck?” I prop my ass on the nearest bar stool and pull my arms across my chest. “I still don’t get it. Why isn’t she pissed? Why is she so upset?”
“She feels guilty because she should have ended it years ago. She doesn’t believe she tried hard enough to make it work.” Mia shrugs. “She’s got a lot of reasons, so we’ve just been giving her the time she needs.”
I nod my head toward the hall. “How long has she been staying here?”
“A few weeks. Just until she gets into a new place.” Mia glances down the hallway, then back at me. “They broke up on Valentine’s Day.”
Jesus. No wonder Amita is so torched. “How can I help?”
It’s Cruz’s turn to speak. “Just be a friend to her. She doesn’t need your usual bull shit.”
I glare over at him. “Give me some fucking credit, will ya?”
Mia interjects before things get heated. “Cruz got her into a nice apartment. We’re just waiting for them to paint and replace the carpet.”
I suppose I should feel grateful, but I’m still slightly irritated with my judgmental older brother. “You guys will let me know if I can help?” They both nod. “I’m just going to check on her, and then I’ll let myself out. Keep me posted, okay?”
“We will,” Mia says with a smile, giving me a firm hug. “Thanks for caring about her, Marco. You’re a good guy.”
My eyes shoot to Cruz’s, though my statement is directed to her. “Glad you think so.”
Back down the hall, I quietly let myself into the room, finding her in the same position I left her in a short time ago. I hate the idea that she might wake up and wonder what the hell we said to one another, or worse … wake up needing to talk to someone other than Mia.
Thinking quickly, I grab up the notepad and pen on the nightstand, scribble down my number and address, and leave it propped up against the lamp so it’s the first thing she’ll see when she wakes. Chances are she’ll never call me, but I still want to give her the option should she ever feel like reaching out.
“Sleep well, sweet cheeks,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her head. Coconut and honey fill my nostrils as I take one long, last look at her before stepping out of the room and pulling the door closed behind me.
Reaching for one of the boxes stacked just outside the kitchen, I marvel at how quickly things can change in such a short period of time. A mere a month ago I was still living with Victor, still putting up with his crap because I felt like I had to, still talking myself into trying to love him each and every day. Now, here I am, no longer even speaking to that twatwaffle and moving into my bright and shiny new apartment.
It’s been an eventful month, complete with the residual off and on waterworks, the occasional bouts of screaming, and the mortification that comes with believing you knew someone when in reality you didn’t know them at all.
I suppose I could have chosen a better day or time to break things off with Victor, but really, woul
d that have mattered in the end? Probably not. At first he seemed genuinely hurt and angered to think that I wasn’t willing to work on making things better. He was more than shocked to hear I was considering saying goodbye. Then he started to show his ugly side, lobbing hurtful insults toward me, telling me how inept I am in every area, but particularly the one involving us being naked together.
I’m a pretty tough chick, so at first I took it because I really felt like I deserved it. I knew there was a certain amount of manliness he was trying to retain after being dumped on Valentine’s Day, but when I tried to walk back through the door to start to pack my things a few days later and found he’d changed the locks, I quite literally came uncorked. It wasn’t pretty. Not one single bit. I showed up at his work a hostile hot mess, screaming at him and rambling curse words together until security had to escort me out. Thank God I have good friends, otherwise I would have been out of a job as well as homeless.
Cruz pulled some strings and called in a few favors, and Mia contacted the cops and together the three of us packed up my things, under the very angry and hostile watchful eyes of my now ex-boyfriend. Without one word they moved me temporarily into their house, welcoming all my craziness and up and down emotions with patience and understanding.
Coming apart on Marco was possibly my lowest point, but I’m grateful to him just the same. He didn’t ask questions but was simply there for me when I needed him, being the friend he said he hoped he could be. I could have done without the tequila, which in retrospect was not my wisest move, especially when I spent the majority of that evening with my head in the toilet.
When I finally came up for air and found his note, the scrawled “take care of yourself, sweet cheeks,” followed by his phone number and address, I knew right then and there I’d made a friend for life.
So I saved his information in my phone, sent him a thank you text, and ever since then we’ve been trading barbs off and on a few times each day. We never actually speak, corresponding only by text. Each time he sends me some witty quip, or his newest thing (the best and boldest word to describe my ex), I smile and remind myself that having good friends is better than any stupid old love any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Whatever the hell that means.
Shoving kitchen items into appropriate cupboards, my phone quacks, signaling my first Marco text of the day. Setting aside the glass bowl that I’m certain was Victor’s—ha, ha, take that, you asshole—I grasp the phone and swipe my finger across the message.
Hey, sweet cheeks. I ’m buried balls deep in work so I can’t help you unpack. I can take you out for a burger later on. Interested?
Chuckling, I respond:
You’re on (notice how I didn’t type UR?). Text me when you’re here and I’ll come down.
He responds with dirty, dry wit as usual.
I’d much prefer you just come, but I’ll take what I can get.
What I love most about Marco is his ability to not take himself seriously. He’s quick to flirt and to say things that are totally inappropriate, knowing that I, or anyone else he’s speaking to, will realize how full of shit he is. It’s easy to be yourself when you’re with someone like him. And though we haven’t spent any amount of time together recently, we have shared a lot in our texts. We know each other’s favorite color (mine red, his yellow), and I know he hasn’t dated seriously since college. He can’t provide (or won’t provide) the number of women he’s slept with, even though I’ve challenged him with this task on a daily basis, mostly to annoy him. I know that the person he admires most is his older brother, but he made me promise never to tell. We know each other’s favorite foods and drinks and yes, even our favorite sex position (he of course asked that one). For the record, his is some convoluted butterfly thing that he promises to show me (like that will ever happen). Mine is the standard girl on top.
Dropping the phone back onto the counter, I make quick work of the two large boxes while simultaneously making a list of things I need. Most of what was in the apartment I shared with Victor belonged to me prior to us living together but even as mad as I was at him, I couldn’t leave him empty handed. So he got the toaster and my favorite skillet, and I got the coffee maker and the majority of the pots and pans.
From there I move upstairs to the bedroom. My apartment is a mirror image of the one Mia had before she decided to become roomies with Mr. Boss Man: a two-story apartment with tile on the main floor and plush beige carpeting upstairs and very boring light beige walls that practically beg for color. There’s a tiny bath located under the stairs for guests, and the master bath upstairs boasts a decent sized shower and Jacuzzi tub that I can’t wait to soak in. The balcony is tiny, just like the one Mia and I used to share on Saturday afternoons after our workouts, and I have a truly amazing view … of the building next door. Eh, I’ll suffer in silence.
I always loved her space and when I expressed my desire for something similar, Cruz made it happen. Clearly the man has ties to most everyone in Miami, not that I’m complaining. I got new paint, new carpeting, and a rockin’ new stainless-steel fridge out of the deal. I also got some of what he tried to sell me as ‘hand-me-down’ furniture, but when I found the price tag on the backside of the sofa I caught him red-handed. The man will hold my heart in his hands forever. Good thing he has Mia or I’d donate my life to him. And the rest of my person too, just because.
I also got a cozy new queen-sized bed, though that purchase I made on my own with my slowly dwindling savings. I picked up a cheap but decent looking dresser and two equally cheap but decent looking nightstands to round out the space, and I also plunked down some cash on new bedding, because there’s no way in hell I was taking the cum-stained piece of crap comforter from my old place. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it.
It doesn’t take long to get things situated up here and to add a considerable amount of things to my ever growing list. I’m pretty sure I can hear my savings disintegrating, not that it’s particularly flush on a good day.
By the time the apartment starts to look like a home, I’m worn out, famished, and in desperate need of a shower. I quickly shoot Marco a text, ask for an ETA, and when he messages back, I realize I’ve got about twenty minutes to make myself presentable.
Leaving my hair washing for another day, I shower quickly, swipe on a few coats of mascara, and brush my hair up into a high ponytail. After pulling on a cute, shimmery top, black skinny jeans, and sandals, I grab my phone and purse and move quickly down the stairs. Just in time too, because Marco’s text quacks across my phone, his “COME, SWEET CHEEKS. COME!” sending me into a fit of laughter as I scurry down the stairwell and out through the lobby door.
His sleek, white Beemer is idling at the curb, the darkly tinted windows shielding him from view. Yanking open the door, I slide into the car and let my eyes briefly drift over him, murmuring, “Told you I’d come.” Damn, the man is fine. Almost criminally so. I’m not sure how it’s possible to have tousled hair that still manages to look business-like and cool, but he and Cruz seem to have cornered the market on that. He’s not quite as tall as his intimidating older brother, or as muscly as baby brother Roman, but he still manages to stand a good ten inches or so above me. Couple all the yumminess with a panty-wetting smile and dreamy blue-green eyes, and it’s a wonder I can actually carry on a conversation with the man. Good thing I’m done with all men in general, other than those I refer to as friends. The only thing getting between these legs in the foreseeable future is either my hand or my trusty vibrator.
He smacks his hand on the steering wheel, announcing, “Dammit. I wanted to see that.”
“In your dreams, hot stuff.” Seat belt locked, I shoot him a sideways glance. “So, where are you taking me?”
He rattles off the name of some place by the beach where Vic took me a year or so ago then shifts the car into gear and roars forward down the street. Tonight the music of choice is Mary J. Blige, her first album—and my favorite by far. He’s apparently a big fan of R
& B music, as am I, and I wonder why we’ve never addressed that subject in our ‘getting to know you’ daily texts.
“Who is your favorite singer?”
His eyes dart briefly to mine. “Good question. Not sure I can answer. I love the old stuff, Al Green and Marvin Gaye. The new stuff…” he gestures toward the stereo “…but there’s no one artist I’m addicted to if that’s what you’re asking. You?”
“Same. I do like rap on occasion, and sometimes Mia and I listen to that Spanish guitar stuff, which I love.” I watch his large and very well groomed hand grab the stick shift, and I grin with inner giddiness. I do so appreciate nice hands.
We chat off and on during the brief drive and after Marco helps me out of the car, we move into the casual restaurant. He requests a seat by the window, which overlooks the beach down below.
Once we’re seated with beers between us and orders for cheeseburgers and fries are on their way, he leans forward on the table, clasping his perfect fingers together as his eyes find mine. “How you doing, sweet cheeks? Feeling a little better?”
I realize then that the last time we laid eyes on one another was when I was a snot-nosed, drunken hot mess, crying in his arms until I fell asleep. Not exactly an attractive image. “I’m fine. I’m really sorry I imploded on you that day at Cruz and Mia’s.” Though I’m not sorry to have heard—via Mia, not my memory—that it was he who tucked me into bed. Just wish I could recall a bit of that.
He shrugs it off. “I’m just glad you’re better.” He takes a healthy sip of his beer and gratefully changes the subject. “So, how’s the new place?”
I give him a quick update on my unpacking, show him the hefty list I’ve got going that I shoved into my purse in case I got a wild hair to add to it during our meal. The waitress drops off our burgers, swinging her hips for Marco’s benefit, and then we settle in to eat.
I take a healthy bite of the juicy burger and my taste buds go all orgasmic. Damn, this is just what I needed: a hot and juicy piece of meat to remind me what’s important in life. Couple a great meal with the eye candy sitting across from me and I’ve got a recipe for some decent fantasizing while taking the vibrator out for a spin later on tonight. I almost can’t wait to get home.
