by Alexis James
“You’re sure quiet today, Marco,” Mia comments as she hands the platter of enchiladas to Blondie.
“Tired.”
“Long weekend?” Amita asks. She does little to hide the snarkiness in her voice, earning her a whole lot of curious glances her way.
“Great weekend,” I reply with a fake smile. I’m certain I see a look of hurt cross her face, but maybe not. The face she’s showing me now is a whole lot of pissed off.
“Well, good for you.”
Mia sends her friend a confused look at the sharpness in her retort, then turns to me with a shrug. Slowly, the chatter around the table returns, but it’s clear Amita and I have no intention of following suit. The coldness between us remains well into the evening, after the dishes have been cleared and we’ve had coffee and dessert. I’m just grateful that for once Roman is too distracted to mouth off about it, since he’s the usual shit-stirrer in the family.
It isn’t until she is leaving when she finally speaks to me again, whisper-yelling, “Walk me out to my car.” I attempt an excuse, but she shoots me a dark look and points in the direction of the front door. Maybe she’s the one who is channeling her inner Cruz now and not me. That’s a standard Cruz Moran move if I ever saw one.
We move silently out to the curb, avoiding looking at one another in a silent pissing contest. Roman and the blonde move past us, saying their goodbyes. Isabella does too, but we both ignore all of them and continue to contemplate the surface of the sidewalk. Even Mia tries to get us talking as they move past. “Come on, you guys. Make up, will ya? This fighting is just dumb.”
“It’s his fault,” Amita snaps.
My head shoots up, and I glare at her. “Really, babe? You’re going to play that card?”
She gives me a hard stare. “What the hell does that mean?”
Fuck. I am not doing this with her. “You know what, never mind.”
I start to walk away when I hear, “You haven’t texted me.” Turning to face her, I see a different woman than the one she portrayed all through dinner or even seconds before. She seems smaller now, if that’s possible, and equally as broken as she was the night I had to put her to bed. “I miss my friend.”
I know it’s not possible for a heart to melt but if it could, mine would be doing that right then and there on the sidewalk in front of my parents’ house. I consider what the past few weeks have been like for her, recently on her own, still reeling from all that shit with Vic. And then I come off like some poser, pissing and moaning about her insisting we remain friends. What the hell did I expect? That she’d all of a sudden forget how much Vic hurt her and jump into my arms willingly? Jesus, the fact that she had her wits about her to not pull the rebound card with me says a whole helluva lot about how much our friendship means to her.
Without replying, I reach for her, pulling her into my arms and holding her in the friendliest way I know how: not too tightly, trying to keep all the important parts from not touching. I can’t help the fact that her tits are smashed against my chest. That’s simple logistics.
She whimpers, which sounds like a sob, but not, though thankfully there are no tears. That, after all the shit the past few weeks, would undo me completely. “I’m sorry, sweet cheeks,” I whisper into her hair.
“Okay,” she whispers back.
“Can we be friends again?”
“Okay.”
I chuckle and slowly release her from my embrace. “You probably think I’m the biggest dick in Miami.”
She smiles up at me and shrugs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Moran. I know plenty of guys with … I mean I know bigger dicks.”
We share a hearty laugh and when I glance down, I see that our fingertips are touching. Sadly, what feels so natural is what started all this in the first place, so I casually disengage our hands and shove mine in the pockets of my shorts. “I beg to differ, gorgeous.”
She props her hip against her piece of crap car and pulls her arms under those fantastic tits of hers. “So, how’ve you been? Loose and available?”
That weird surge of guilt drifts through my stomach again, but I quickly ignore it. “Of course. You would expect nothing less.”
Amita grins up at me. “You are correct.”
“And how about you, sweet cheeks, still breaking hearts and taking names?”
She chuckles. “Of course I am.”
Looking at her, all that exquisite beauty on the outside, and even more on the inside, I suddenly feel like the luckiest guy in the world. What’s the big deal if all we ever are is friends? Better that than some one-night fling we’ll both only regret in the end. Sex I can get anywhere, but friendship is rare and special and beautiful. Just like she is.
“I’ve missed you, sweet cheeks.”
Her smile is bright and happy and equal parts cocky and smug. “I knew you’d come around.”
“You’re a little shit, you know that.”
She offers up a shrug. “Eh, but you love … I mean, you like me.” Her eyes flash in fear from her almost slip of the tongue. For the sake of our friendship I pretend like I didn’t even notice.
The weird thing is, she’s right. Sort of. I do like her. A lot. On certain days, too much. If it was possible for me to love, I’d probably love someone like her. But it’s not and I don’t, so the smartest thing I can do is color myself lucky for having her in my life, for calling her my friend, and for hopefully making some fun memories with her in the future.
I give her tin can car a once over. “You going to be able to make it home in that thing?”
She looks indignant and thrusts out her hip as she points to it. “I’ll have you know that this fine automobile is an antique. It has more character—”
“More something,” I interrupt.
My rudeness earns me a narrow-eyed look as she continues, “… than your expensive penis on wheels.”
Howling with laughter at her reference to my beautiful white BMW, I reply, “Baby, if the choice is my gorgeous penis or your red shit-stain, I’ll take mine any day.”
She bites down on her lip, like she’s attempting to hold back her words, then mumbles, “I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”
Smirking, I lean forward and whisper, “Not touching what exactly?”
Amita rolls her eyes and drifts slowly around her vehicle. “See ya, hot stuff.”
I move out into the street, give her ass a good once-over, and drawl, “Later sweet cheeks.”
I hate to admit it, but those silent weeks without talking to Marco every day were miserable. I started to rely on his humor, wit, and even his sometimes less than appropriate flirting as a good distraction from all the changes in my life. I also believe that being separated from him gave me a chance to accept all the newness around me: the new apartment, new belongings, the new endless amount of alone time I now have—courtesy of one ex-boyfriend and one very occupied and very much in love best friend.
In those weeks when I was alternating between hating Marco and missing him so much, I wanted to scream. I occupied myself with the occasional wedding errand, my Maid of Honor duties increasing the closer we get to the big day. I spent a lot of time at work, a whole bunch of time at the gym, and probably too much time getting acquainted with all the shows I never got to watch on Netflix. I can’t count the number of things I’ve binged-watched since my fight with Marco, but let’s just say I reached a point where I seriously contemplated professional help.
Is there such a thing as Netflix Anonymous?
Now that Marco and I are back on speaking terms, I’m watching about the same amount of TV, but I’m a much, much happier gal. His dirty comments and crazy anecdotes always give me a reason to laugh, a reason to smile, which I desperately need some days—like last week, when I received a past due notice on the joint credit card that Victor and I used to have together. I’d sent him my part of the payment, and he assured me via text (because he still refuses to actually speak to me) that he’d make the payment. Apparently h
e’s now taken to lying, on top of locking me out of my own apartment, and pocketing any money I send him. What a swell guy.
After I arranged to take care of the bill on my own, I spent the next few days being alternately pissed off and so hurt I could barely speak. It was one of Marco’s crazy texts that pulled me out of my funk, just like yesterday when I ran into Victor’s sister in the grocery store and she hadn’t heard about our breakup. I had to try to explain it without making him appear like a complete ass. Not an easy feat.
I don’t need anyone to tell me how dependent on Marco I’ve become. I get that he’s a salve for all that ails me. I also understand I’m totally selfish, dictating the boundaries of our friendship, drawing firm lines in the sand, and of course going all ape shit nutso when he dares to cross those lines. No wonder the guy shot off in his car like a rocket and froze me out for two weeks.
But those frozen days are over, thank God, and tonight he and I are actually going out together. To be clear, it’s the two of us and a bunch of other people that are going out. We’re using the excuse of St. Patrick’s Day to drink and dance and get a little crazy. While I dig around in my closet for the perfect green item to wear, I consider making sure those boundaries stay firmly in place tonight. I know all too well how easy things (meaning me) can get when alcohol is involved. Pretty sure I was rather tipsy the first time I did the nasty with Victor.
Pulling out hanger after hanger, I toss the garments down onto the bed and take a step back. The dark green halter dress is a definite possibility but the cut and style makes it impossible to wear a bra, which could be an issue since I’ve declared myself off limits to all men. The cute green and white tee, while trendy, is just a bit too casual for an evening of bar hopping in Miami. The last item, lime green Capri pants that I’ll probably pair with a sleeveless button-up, is probably the wisest choice.
I spend a few too many minutes perusing my choices then make a quick call to Mia, shoot her a picture of each, and run through my choices. She asks the smart questions like: What shoes will I wear? What bag will I carry? Stuff that is important to smart, sexy gals like us. In the end we both decide on the Capris and once I take her advice and tie the white blouse at the waist, showing off a sliver of my flat stomach, I can feel the outfit slowly coming together. With my hair and makeup done, I step into four-inch platform sandals, toss my ID, some cash, gum, and lipstick in a small cross-body bag then take a last look in the mirror.
Smokin’ hot if I do say so.
Quack-quack.
A quick glance at my phone makes me laugh out loud.
Quit playing with yourself, sweet cheeks. I’m parked and waiting.
I quickly type:
I’m coming.
I leave the rest to his imagination.
By the time I step out onto the sidewalk and throw open his passenger door, I can tell we’re in for a wild night. “Baby Got Back” blares from his speakers, the entire car shaking under the weight of the heavy bass. I shimmy-shake into my seat, toss him a smile, and we launch into a perfect duo of the song the entire way to the club, complete with some seat dancing and the occasional fist bump.
“You’re a little nuts,” he comments as we step out of the car. While he glances around to see if the others have arrived, I use that opportunity to check him out. He’s wearing dark jeans that hug his tight and very delectable ass—I notice that only as a friend would. His shirt is casual, some solid linen in a shade of light green that probably cost a small fortune. His hair, always on the longish side, spills down onto his forehead in a wayward mess of waves that just beg for fingers to tease them into place. Not my fingers, mind you, but someone’s.
I follow along next to him toward the front of the club, where we wait to be allowed entrance like good little patrons. A text from Mia tells me they’re already inside and have secured a table. As I pass this info along to Marco, he informs me that Roman and his newest squeeze are inside as well.
It’s going to be a family affair, though he assures me some of his usual party buddies will be joining us. I’ve invited a few friends from work to round out our crew too. It should be a great time and a well-deserved distraction from all the recent chaos in my life.
By the time we finally make it inside and locate our friends, they are well into their drinks. Roman and his date are out on the dance floor, grinding on each other under the brightly colored strobe lights, but he manages to throw us a wave. We exchange hugs and hellos all around, make the necessary introductions of my friends and Marco’s, and then he struts off with one of his buddies to get us drinks.
I love the vibe of this place, a mix of Miami tropical and cool funk. The painted ceiling adds a bright splash of color and sets the tone for the entire space. Tube lights are suspended from above, bright neon lighting continuing throughout the space. When you walk in a sign that displays the club’s name is perched high on the main wall. The DJ is doing his thing, one hand holding up the large earphones over one ear, the other hand ‘raising the roof’ with the crowd. The music is loud and heavy, typical dance beats of some new and old tunes, which you can feel right in the center of your chest with each thump, thump, thump.
“My brother’s in love. Again,” Cruz drawls, rolling his eyes and nodding to where Roman and his lady friend are tongue deep in each other’s mouths.
Mia and I wrinkle our noses and cackle loudly. “Get a room!” The fact that they don’t pause once isn’t surprising. Roman is, after all, a very focused guy.
“You think he’ll ever find the one?” Mia asks to no one in particular.
“Doubt it,” Cruz replies, curling his hand around her waist and pulling her up against his body. They exchange a look that tells me more than I want or need to know, so I take my leave and join my coworkers out on the dance floor.
The dancing space is limited, but somehow we all manage to do our best. One song changes into another and first one drink then a second slides into my hands courtesy of my new best friend. As the alcohol bleeds through my veins, I finally start to feel like myself again. The same self I was back in college, fun and carefree, witty and just a little bit inappropriate. Definitely not the hardass gal I became during the years spent dueling with Victor.
I celebrate my newfound self with drink number three, some tropical concoction with an umbrella and a slice of pineapple perched on the side of the glass, and continue to shake my groove thing with a variety of different people. Marco occasionally drifts into my line of sight, always with a different woman or multiple women. My dance partners are much more G-rated: Mia, Mia and Cruz, Roman and the main squeeze, and my chicks from work. I do let some cutie pie tourist grind his dick against my ass for a bit, but when he gets a little too handsy, I shove him aside and do my own grinding against Mia, much to Cruz’s delight.
When I finally take a pause to hit the ladies room and sit a spell, Marco and two of his buddies are tossing back shots at our table and laughing about some secret boy thing I don’t question. I sit there, sipping water and enjoying the gentle buzz from all the fruity drinks, glancing around the club and at my table mates. I gotta give it to Marco, his friends are hot—like really, really hot. Not as hot as he is, but you get where I’m going. I vaguely recall their names: Mike, I think, and … Bob? Ben? Bill? Anyway, regardless of their names, they could definitely give Mr. Moran some competition in the lady-charming department.
“How are you doing, beautiful?” Bob/Ben/Bill asks me.
I shrug, ignoring his attempt at flirting and glance around the club once more. “I’m good. And you?”
He grins and leans close to me. The smell of tequila almost knocks me over. “I bet you are good, gorgeous, but so am I.”
Wow. “Did you really just say that to me?”
He looks a little stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Does that line work on women? Because if so, I need to have a chat with all my sisters out there.”
Bob/Ben/Bill has the nerve to look wounded. “I meant no harm,
beautiful.”
At that point he catches the attention of my handsome bestie. “What the fuck, Blake?” Huh. I could have sworn it was Bob/Ben/Bill and not Blake. Guess I’m tipsier than I thought. “I told you to leave her alone.”
My eyes shift to Marco. “You told him what?”
He looks slightly sheepish. “You heard me.”
I give him what I hope is a death stare. “Look, asshole, I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to warn your friends off.”
Marco leans across the small table and glares at me. “I’m your friend, Amita. That’s what friends do. They protect one another.”
I see where he’s coming from, but it still irritates me. The last thing I need in my life is some guy trying to control every situation. I just had four years of that with Vic. “Whatever. I’ll see you guys later.”
Stalking off, I make my way toward the bar with a firm plan in place to order a real drink this time, minus the fruit and umbrella, minus the mix and ice. I need alcohol, preferably tequila, but I’ll take whatever I can get my hands on at this point.
The crowd is thick, four deep, so I stand there and wait patiently for my turn, contemplating two shots so I don’t have to repeat this waiting fiasco again. When it’s finally my turn, I slap some cash down on the bar, bark out my order, and admire the quickness of the reed-thin bartender who can’t keep his eyes off my tits.
I’m just stepping back from the bar with my order, when I hear a familiar voice. “Hello, Mita.”
My stomach does a wild, gold medal-worthy flip as I slowly turn to face my ex. He looms above me, all six-five, two hundred and forty pounds of him, hazel eyes hard and unforgiving. I wish I could say that he looked terrible or that he wasn’t as good looking as I remember, but I’d be lying if I did. Looks aside, it doesn’t take long for me to remember all the hurtful things he said and did, and all the numerous ways he took our relationship and me for granted.
