by Alexis James
Never. Until the moment my lips touched Amita’s.
Saying I’ve been unnerved since our boat ride the week before and subsequent kiss would be a gross underestimation. I believe I played it off well, putting my expert acting skills to work and treating her like I always do: with a mix of gentle flirtation and close friendship and a healthy dose of sibling-like rivalry too.
For clarification sake, there is nothing sibling-like about what I feel for Amita.
What I do feel for her, though, is a weird mix that I’m completely unable to explain or define. Then you throw in one mind-blowing and very impulsive kiss and you’ve got one volatile accountant who can’t concentrate on tying his shoes, much less the blurry mess of numbers scattered across the computer screen.
Keeping her in the friend zone this week has taken a monumental effort on my part, but I believe I’ve done well. I shot her a text Sunday night just to say hey, but didn’t hear from her until the next morning. She hit me up Wednesday with a question about balance sheets but has since then been quiet. I’ve spent the better part of the morning debating with myself on whether or not to see if she wants to get together this weekend. As it stands now I’m still undecided.
See, this is why you can’t be friends with someone you’re attracted to. You start to second guess every single thing you say and do, until you end up wasting an entire week staring at your computer and working your way to the unemployment line.
“Got a minute?”
I look up to see the boss man, otherwise known as my big brother, standing in the open doorway, and I consider how much unemployment will pay as he strolls in and shuts the door behind him. The look on his face doesn’t exactly scream “hey, you’re doing a bang-up job.”
He settles into the chair across from me, one shiny shoe propped up on the opposing knee, hands threaded together in his lap. “You missed the meeting this morning.”
Dragging my hands through my hair, I murmur, “Sorry. The alarm didn’t go off.” Which isn’t completely a lie. After being unable to sleep for the majority of the night, I finally reset the alarm around four and managed to squeeze in a few hours. Then I sort of dozed for an hour, hitting the snooze every few minutes.
“What’s going on with you?”
I shrug. “Nothing man. I missed one meeting. Let it go.”
He glares at me. “It’s not the meeting I’m worried about. It’s you. All week you’ve been distracted.” Long fingers come up to scratch his chin. “This thing with Vic and Amita is really bothering you, isn’t it?”
Since I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, I pretend to go with the flow. “It’s on my mind.” Well, she is. Our kiss definitely is. But Vic? What the hell does he have to do with it?
“I can’t believe she actually agreed to talk with him.” His eyes find mine. “I also can’t believe you let her go.”
My stomach drops to the floor and my ability to breathe is cut off from the reality that Amita has kept this information from me, but apparently not my brother. Concealing my surprise is difficult, but somehow I manage to hide it by straightening the files on my desk. “I’m her friend, Cruz. Not her boyfriend. I’m not allowed to tell her what she can and can’t do.” Fuck that business. Had I known about this so-called talk, I’d have done everything in my power to stop it.
Cruz shoots me a confused look, but leaves his questions for another time. “We rescheduled the meeting for Monday morning. Be there.”
“I will.”
Once I’m alone again, I rise from the chair and step toward the window that looks down at the bustling and vibrant city. Well, I guess I now know why she’s been so unreachable this week. I wonder if she ever plans on telling me herself or if this bit of news was meant for Mia’s ears only, who we all know tells her betrothed everything. Maybe that’s what Amita intended, for word to get back to me via Cruz. Soften the blow if you may.
There’s nothing soft about what I’m feeling right now. I want to scream at her then track down Vic and do more than scream. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, strolling in months after the fact and thinking he can pick up where they left off?
He’s the man she spent four years with, I remind myself.
As if she knows I’m thinking about her, or thinking about having a loud verbal argument with her, my phone buzzes and her face lights up the screen: some goofy image she saved as her contact without my knowledge. Glancing at the screen, my stomach plummets.
Can you come over tonight? I’ll feed you. Need to talk.
Fuck. The three most dreaded words coming out of a female’s mouth. What she doesn’t understand is that I don’t feel like talking. I want to yell, throw shit around, and demand to know what the fuck she thinks she was doing meeting up with Vic.
Are they getting back together?
Slumping down into my chair, I hurl my stapler across the room. It lands with a thud against the wall, after leaving a huge dent in the plaster. Fantastic. Now I have office repairs to pay for on top of the fact that I’m potentially losing my best friend to her douche ex.
Fuck my life.
I quickly type “be there at seven” and set the phone aside.
I barely remember the remainder of the afternoon and by the time I’m on my way to her apartment, the only conclusion I’ve reached is that I need to start spending my time elsewhere. She’s got me all spun up in a way that makes me question who the hell I am and what the fuck I want. Life was so much easier when it didn’t involve feelings and emotions and when the only thing I had to worry about was finding my next easy lay.
She buzzes me up and I elect to take the stairs to draw out the moment. For the first time since I laid eyes on her, I don’t want to see her. What I want is to walk away and forget we ever started this crazy pseudo friendship that is really nothing more than a half-assed, sexless love affair. Minus the love, of course.
When she pulls the door open and greets me with a wary smile, I consider making up some dumb excuse to leave. The desperate look in her eyes draws me into the living room where she has a beer opened and waiting on the coffee table for me.
“How was your day?” she asks, settling next to me on the couch and tucking her casual sundress under her bare legs. Her hair spills over one shoulder, down across her amazing tits that I know now I’ll never see or touch. She gnaws at her full lower lip, the same one I kissed just a few days ago, and my entire body tightens in response. Christ, why the hell does she have to be so damn irresistible?
“It was fine.” I take a long pull on the beer and lean back against the couch. “What’s up? You wanted to talk.”
She fidgets around, picking at the label on her bottle. “We could eat first.”
Losing patience quickly, I snap, “Talk, Amita. Dinner can wait.”
She sighs loudly and sets her bottle back down on the table. “I need to tell you something.”
Unable to sit next to her any longer or feel the warmth from her skin or smell that sweet coconut and honey scent that drives me crazy, I surge to my feet and move toward the window, my back to her. “Tell me what?”
“Victor called me.”
Here we go. “Really? When?”
“After you dropped me off last weekend.”
Fucker. “How’d that go?”
There’s a long, painful, drawn-out pause and during the silence I swear my heart is about to burst out of my chest. I keep running the words ‘we’re getting back together’ over and over in my head, but I can’t seem to make sense of why.
“It was okay. He asked me to meet him for coffee. Which I did, on Sunday.”
“And?” I know I’m being a huge dick right now, but the idea that she’s kept this from me all week smarts. A lot.
She sighs again. “He was full of apologies about what happened. Told me he took me for granted. Promised he’d do better in the future.”
“He wants you back.” There’s no question there. I already know the answer.
“Yes, he does
.”
Well, that’s that I guess.
I turn to face her, though I don’t dare look at her directly or else I’m bound to do something stupid. Yell, scream, cry. Well, I won’t cry, but I sure as hell feel bad enough to. “I wish you luck.” You’ll need it, I think as move toward the front door. “See ya around.”
“Marco, wait! What are you doing?”
Patience gone, I spin to face her. “I’m leaving. What the fuck does it look like?”
She frowns and gets to her feet. “Why? I thought we were having dinner?” All of a sudden she blinks furiously and stutters. “W-wait a minute. L-luck? Luck for what?”
I roll my eyes and lean against the closed door. “Good luck working things out with Vic.”
Her steps slow the closer she gets to me. “There is nothing to work out. Is that what you think … that I got back with him?”
I shrug and look away. “Honestly, babe, I don’t know what to think, since you kept this from me all week and I had to find out about it from my brother.”
She looks shocked, then confused, then a wee bit embarrassed. “Ah shit. I knew Mia would open her mouth and say something.”
“Glad she did, since you couldn’t seem to find the time to.”
Her brown eyes widen at my tone. “Is that what all this is about? You’re pissed because I didn’t tell you first?”
I am pissed. Really, really pissed. But I’m also hurt, which I’m not at all willing to admit or disclose. “You know what, what you do in your own life is none of my damn business. I’ll see ya around.” Pulling open the door, I take off down the hall toward the stairs.
“Marco! Wait a minute!” I turn to see her scurrying after me, bare feet and all. “Please don’t leave yet.”
I loom over her when she comes to a stop in front of me. “Why not? Tell me why the hell I shouldn’t leave?” I take a step toward her and she retreats. “Tell me why it matters to you what the fuck I do, when it’s obvious I’m not supposed to care about what you do.” One more step forward for me, another back for her, and suddenly she’s against the wall and I can feel this situation start to unravel. “We’re friends, Amita, or have you forgotten?”
Her eyes narrow in anger. “I haven’t forgotten. But I think you have.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Pain skirts across her face and lands in her eyes. “You’re not acting like my friend right now.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Tears fill her eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
I take a step closer, lean my body against hers, and cage her in with my hands against the wall. “I am an asshole and a player. Or have you forgotten?” Glancing down, I make a big show of checking out her cleavage, feel her nipples harden in response. “I think you like that side of me.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what, babe? Stop behaving like the man I am and not like the fucking pussy-whipped friend you’ve turned me into?” The words flow freely now, my deliberate attempt to hurt her like she’s hurt me.
“Knock it off and let me go.”
Leaning closer, I throw in a small grind of my pelvis against hers and growl, “You like that I’m always hot for you, that you can get me hard just by looking at me.” I nuzzle her neck and breathe in the sweet scent of her skin. “You love how I react to you. You probably get off thinking about it.”
“Please stop,” she whispers and the small sob that follows is all the wake-up call I need.
Stepping back, I release her from my hold and turn toward the stairs, taking them two at a time until I’m standing out on the sidewalk breathing heavily and hating myself. I pause for a moment, hopeful she’ll follow. When five minutes pass, then five more, I take a shaky breath and get behind the wheel.
Refusing to acknowledge what an ass I’ve been to her, I gun the engine and pull away from the curb. The cure-all for anything Amita-related is to get good and drunk and find the easiest, warmest pussy to lose myself in. I should have known that our friendship would never work, and while I hate myself for how I behaved, the heart of what I said was true. I am her pussy-whipped friend and have been for months now. I spend all my time thinking about her or planning things for us to do. I spend all my free time with her. Hell, I’ve even stopped meeting my friends to party.
I can’t even remember the last time I hooked up with some chick. It’s been a long, long time. Too long, which is probably why I’ve been so volatile with Amita. Getting laid will go a long way into putting my head on straight. I need to get back to my normal schedule of things: work, exercise, partying. Making a life with a good friend by my side has caused nothing but problems for me since day one.
Pulling up to the club where I can guarantee my party group will be, I exit the car and stroll toward the front door, when a familiar voice calls my name. “Hey, Marco. How’ve you been?”
I turn to find Lacey standing there in a short, tight mini dress that barely hides the goods. And even though I shudder at the idea of being with her right now, I grab my balls in one hand and my bruised ego in the other and drawl, “Hey, gorgeous.”
She moves closer and slides her hand in mine. “How about we blow off this joint and go back to my place? I’ll gladly blow something else.”
I should feel good about her offer, and in the past I’d not only be feeling good, I’d have some snappy comeback and already be semi-hard. So having to force a reaction not only pisses me off, it’s yet another reminder that I’ve let Amita fuck with my head one too many times.
Throwing Lacey a broad grin, I reply, “Sounds like a plan, babe.”
I was wise to go on a men hiatus. I should not have, however, limited it to potential men I might want to date. I should have included all men, particularly those I used to refer to as my friends. Particularly one Marco Moran.
In the weeks since Marco’s blowup by the stairwell, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve learned it’s possible to eat an entire half-gallon of ice cream and still manage to wolf down a small pepperoni pizza thirty minutes later. I’ve learned that an impulsive haircut at one of those cheap walk-in joints can leave you with not just a few inches missing off your locks but more like five or six. I’ve learned that silence is painful; it literally causes a headache and this weird sensation in my chest that lingers for hours on end. And I’ve learned that missing someone can quite literally be so excruciating even your fingernails start to hurt.
I’ve spent a lot of time alone since he walked away, most of it dissecting exactly what our relationship was after all his harsh accusations. Much to my horror, I found that he’s mostly right about a lot of it. I don’t believe, however, that he was pussy-whipped by me. Or maybe he was and I mistook it for affection.
He was right, though. I was and I am attracted to that bad boy side of him. I like the way he’s always sort of standing on the edge, ready to dive off into the vast unknown. He’s fearless in how he behaves, what he says, things he does. And even though he was way out of line that night in the hallway, his truths speak to the heart of the dysfunction of our friendship. I do like the way he reacts to me and how he makes it all too clear that if I said the word we’d be in bed together. Sure, it turns me on, but why wouldn’t it? He’s a beautiful specimen of man and he wants me, just me, at least for those moments when we’re alone together. The other times I’m sure he wants whatever piece of tail is available. But when we’re together he doesn’t want what I can do for him or how clean I can keep his house like Victor did, he simply wants me naked, raw, unchained, and that’s exactly where I want to be.
Not anymore though. That ship has left the harbor for a faraway land. He no longer texts me, and I no longer show up at the office to meet Mia for lunch, on the off chance we’ll run into one another. I no longer attend Sunday family dinners either. As effectively as he’s cut me off, I’ve done the same as well.
While I might be reeling in such excruciating pain that I sometimes forget to blink, I remin
d myself that this is for the best. From the beginning he and I have been a volatile mix of unreciprocated sex (is there such a thing?) and a knowledge of one another on a very, very deep level. That would be super fantastic if we were a couple, but Marco and I are friends—or rather we were before I made the grave error of keeping the truth from him and before he reacted like a jealous boyfriend.
Distance is good, right? Maybe someday soon he’ll chat me up and we can have coffee or catch a movie and things will go back to normal.
Were we ever normal?
God no. Normal is boring. Normal is four years with Victor, faking orgasms and tripping over shoes in the walkway. Marco is alive. Alive with passion, alive with laughter, alive with this crazy sense of curiosity about the world like it’s open for his inspection and he can’t wait to see what’s out there. Disappointingly, I was only alive when I was with him. Now, alone and left to wonder what’s next, I only feel numb.
Mia shoots me a concerned look from her post on the elliptical machine next to mine. “You’re not into this today. Let’s go back to your place and talk.”
Huh. I guess I didn’t realize that I’d been standing there on the machine, staring off into space for who knows how long. “Yeah, okay.”
One of the many things I love about Mia is her ability to know when not to talk. She reads me like a book and can tell when all I need is her standing next to me, not hopeful words or empty promises, just her silent strength and love. She gives me that all the way to our cars and continues to do so when we arrive at my building and while we stroll to the elevator. In fact, she’s so silent I’m beginning to wonder if the issue today isn’t me, but her.
“You okay, sister?” I ask once we’re seated on the balcony, icy margaritas between us. We’ve gotten the wedding talk out of the way, made a list of things we need to do in the next few weeks, and she’s told me all about the honeymoon that Cruz is planning. He’s whisking her off to the Seychelles for ten days and by the looks of the pictures she pulled up on my laptop, I’d say the man is spending a small fortune to keep his bride all to himself. The romantic bungalow comes complete with an unobstructed ocean view, complete and absolute privacy, and a secluded swimming pool and hot tub. It’s the perfect honeymoon getaway for the perfect most lovable couple.
