by Alexis James
I’m so darn jealous I want to scream.
Talking about their plans, she was alight with life: sparkling brown eyes, pink cheeks. Now that the laptop is set aside, she’s back to giving me concerned looks and chewing hard on her bottom lip—a definite sign that she’s troubled.
She shrugs. “Not really. I’m worried about you. I’m worried about Marco. And I wonder what the heck is going to happen at the wedding.”
In two months she’s getting hitched, and if you think that hasn’t crossed my mind a few thousand times, then you’re wrong. It’s a day I wouldn’t miss for anything, not even a very hostile and hate filled ex-best friend. “It will be fine. We are adults. Even if we don’t act like it all the time.”
She kicks the railing in frustration. “I don’t understand any of this. You guys had a fight. People fight for crying out loud. Hell, you and Vic used to fight nonstop, but you didn’t cut one another off.”
“Tell that to Marco.”
“I have.”
I hate myself for asking, but I do. “What did he say?”
She rolls her eyes. “He said, and I quote…” she lowers her voice to mimic him “…none of your fucking business, Mia.” Shaking her head, she mutters, “He tells Cruz the same thing.”
Not surprising, given the fact that I’m sure he feels like he’s been pushed into a corner. By me mostly, but now by the family who is only trying to find some peace with it all. “Just let it be, Mia. It’s for the best.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “No, it’s not. What you two had was special and you might say it was friendship, but let me tell you it was the furthest thing from that.” She blows out a breath. “You guys are so dumb.”
I sigh and reach for her hand. “We were friends and now we’re not. And even though I regret that, I won’t ever regret what we had.” Blinking hard, I quickly look away. “He doesn’t want this, Mia. He likes the life he has, being free and easy. I tie him down too much. Our friendship ties him down too much.”
She makes a face at me. “You should tie him down. Right to the bed. And never leave.”
I snicker and grin at her. “My, my, my. Innocent little Mia Elliott has been playing nasty in the bedroom, I see.”
Her face flushes. “We are not talking about me. Focus here.”
“No, I’d prefer we talk about you and your S & M habits.”
Her eyes dart away, a dead giveaway. “Could we please get back to the subject at hand?” Leaning on the table, she whispers, “He’s so unhappy. It breaks my heart.”
Stupid, stubborn tears leak out and roll down my face. “I can’t hear that, Mia. I just can’t.”
Surging to her feet, she throws up her hands and starts yelling. “You’re being an idiot. The man loves you for crying out loud. And I know you love him so don’t bother denying it.” Her small hands tighten into fists. “Get your ass over there and make things right with him. He’s the best thing that ever happened to you.” She leans into my face. “And you’re by far the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
“He doesn’t want this. Why can’t you understand that?”
Slumping down into her chair, she weaves her fingers through her hair. “I understand the way you look at one another, because it’s the same way Cruz and I look at one another. When I watched him kiss you that day, I’d never seen two people more terrified to take the first step but so happy they did. I understand that love is hard and messy and painful, but I also understand that it’s the best thing in the world. The only thing.”
Tears flow freely now, the first I’ve shed in front of her since everything disintegrated between me and Marco. “It isn’t love. We like each other and we’re attracted to one another. At least we used to be.”
“Maybe you could be again.”
Wiping the tears away with my fingers, I reply, “I doubt it.”
After she’s gone and I’m sitting all alone with another margarita, I pull up the photos in my phone and one by one each memory surfaces, bringing a smile to my face. There’s the one he snapped of me sleeping on his couch, his Photobomb image grinning at catching me unaware. There’s one of the two of us sitting in a movie theater with large buckets of popcorn between us. We’d had a contest to see who could eat the most in the quickest amount of time. I won that one.
There’s one of him standing in his office that I snapped one day when I went by to pick him up for lunch. One of just our hands holding ice cream cones, mint chocolate dripping over his, Rocky Road dripping over mine. And of course, there’s a host of images from that day on the boat, those perfect abs of his on full display as he shows off, flexing for the camera.
What hits me then, so damn hard I feel the pain from the direct hit to my heart, is how easily I let him walk away. He pitched a fit, threw his tantrum, and then went for the silent treatment. I’ve done a whole lot of nothing since then. I’ve sat here feeling sorry for myself, being pissed at him, being pissed at myself, when I should have been over there every single day being the friend I always tell him I am. Friends don’t give up. They fight. They fight dirty with fists and blood and guts.
Moving with the first sense of purpose I’ve had in weeks, I sprint up the stairs, strip quickly and step into the shower. Marco may not want me there, and he might even slam the door in my face, but for the first time in weeks I’m determined to fight for what we had. I’ll camp out in front of his door if I have to, or set up shop in his office, but whatever happens, he’s going to know that this friend right here is for life.
Weekends suck. Weekdays suck. Pretty much all days of the week suck, but weekends are by far the worst. I’ve given up forcing myself into the clubs, making nice with plastic people and women who only want one thing. Ironic, since not long ago I was one of those same people and wanted the same thing.
On top of all days in general sucking the big dick, working with family members sucks even more. I feel like I’m constantly under the microscope from the moment I set foot in the office. If it’s not Mia running in and out asking what she can do, Cruz is hovering and giving me silent advice by way of lightening my workload. Then there’s Roman, who is so fucking positive about everything I want to puke. “Things will get better,” he says with a smile. “You’ll find that special girl, I just know it.” What he doesn’t know is that if he tells me any of that shit again, I’m going to punch him. And not regret it one bit.
Even Mama has gotten in on the action, placating me and showering me with food and a host of looks ranging from ‘you poor thing’ to ‘you need to fix this’. She doesn’t say a lot, but she doesn’t need to. The pitying look in her eyes says enough.
The only one not in on the action is Papa, who is content to hang with me on Sundays and watch sports. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t mention Amita, doesn’t even want to know how I am. We hang out like guys do, sharing space, being silent. I like the silence more than he knows. And I more than appreciate his ability to just shut the fuck up.
My late morning run did nothing for my mood, neither did the foot long sub I picked up on the way back to the house. I’ve eaten half the sub, downed a beer and a bottle of water, and scrolled through all the channels of nothing five times. I’ve watched part of a sitcom, an hour of cooking shows, and currently I’m scrolling through Netflix looking for a movie that will hold my attention. Not much does these days.
I’m wallowing, I’ll admit it, but only to myself and these four walls. I’m quite certain, now weeks after the fact, that I overreacted to Amita’s news about Vic. Sure, I was butt-hurt that she didn’t tell me about it from the get-go, but what I’ve realized in the silent weeks since I walked away from her is that I was more jealous than anything. Yeah, that’s right, you heard me. Marco Moran, of one-night stands and believer in all things non-monogamous, actually turned green at the idea that Amita might actually prefer Vic the Dick’s company to his own.
The word tool comes to mind, and for once it’s not in reference to Vic, surprising as that may be.
I was a tool when I cornered her in the hallway and started mouthing off. A tool of epic proportions. Something large and hefty straight out of the Snap-On catalog. Even though I’ve spent hours trying to justify my actions in my head, the bottom line is I fucked up and there’s no coming back from that. As much as her absence has left a gaping, bloody hole in my chest, the flip side is that if I had remained in her friend, chances are we’d have ended up here anyway. The most decent thing I could have done was walk away before things got messier between us.
The knock on my door is something I want to ignore. Chances are it’s one of my brothers, or maybe even Isabella, who has now started calling me twice daily to see how I am, taking her nursing skills to a whole new and rather obnoxious level. How many times do I have to say “I’m fine” before they believe me?
Another knock and I continue to ignore it and surf through the movies, passing the car chase one that Amita and I watched so long ago. If I think real hard, I can remember her as she was that day, seated next to me with a food container in one hand, yelling at the television, and her chopsticks in the other. I wish I would have kissed her that day and not waited until we were surrounded by a boat full of other people. Though, chances are if I had, we’d have ended up naked.
Wow, how I wish I had that image to take into the future with me.
The knock is louder this time, more like a good pounding, and with a mumbled curse I get to my feet and move toward the door. Whoever is there is going to get an earful. I don’t want company. I don’t want to do something or go somewhere. I just want to be left alone. And yes, I want to be left alone to wallow. I’m getting really good at it.
The last person in the world I expect to be standing at my door is Amita. The only person I want to be standing at my door is her, but I’ll keep that to myself for now. I’ll also not admit out loud that I’m pretty sure my heart actually skipped a few beats and that old familiar rolling in my stomach reminds me just how much one look from her can cut me off at the knees.
Keeping things casual between us is priority number one. Who knows, she may be here to finally give me the tongue lashing I deserve for how I behaved toward her. She might also be coming here out of some weird sense of obligation to inform me that she and Vic the Dick are back together.
I do my best to school my features. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she replies with a shaky smile. She’s as gorgeous as I remember, more so probably, dressed in those familiar ratty cutoff shorts, tank top, and sandals. One thing I love about her is that she never feels the need to dress to please. She wears what she wants, whether it is for comfort or style, and never what is expected of her. “May I come in?”
Taking a step back, I watch her stroll in and gaze around. I’m sure she’s shocked at all my clutter, the empty glasses on the coffee table, the shirt thrown over the back of the couch, piles of mail on the counter. Not that I believe clutter bothers her particularly, just that we both know I’m a lot more fastidious than this. Or at least I used to be.
She turns to face me once I’ve shut the door. “Am I interrupting something?”
I gesture toward the TV. “Yeah, it’s a really exciting Saturday afternoon.” She smirks at my sarcasm and takes a seat on the couch. I refrain from joining her, though I do grab the remote and power the tube down. While I set the remote aside and clear the remains of my uneaten half of a sandwich, I consider my next move. Her coming here is a major step for both of us. We’re both stubborn people, both convinced our opinions and feelings are the most important. I consider again that she might be here simply to inform me she has gotten back with her ex. I also consider how much courage it took for her to make that first move. I didn’t exactly leave her feeling welcome or wanted the last time we spoke.
Hate is easy. Love takes courage.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I remain standing and give her what I hope is a vague look. “What can I do for you, Amita?”
She lifts one dark brow and casually crosses one trim leg over the other. “Are you done being mad at me?”
I shrug. “I’m not mad.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, well if you’re not mad, why haven’t you called?”
My retort is epic. “Why haven’t you called?”
Her eyes narrow in anger. “Are we really going to do this again? Can’t we just scream it out and get back to being friends?”
“Is that what you want?”
Surging to her feet, she steps toward me. “Yes, you asshole. I miss you. I hate that you’re mad at me, and I want to apologize … but you won’t let me.”
Throwing my hands up, I reply, “Fine, go ahead and apologize.”
Her eyes roll at my flippant response. Then she takes a deep breath and states, “I’m sorry for not telling you I was meeting with Victor.”
“Apology accepted.” I point to the door. “You can leave now.”
She tries her best to hide the surprise she feels at my harsh, dismissive attitude. “Why are doing this?”
I can feel the anger starting to burn in my chest and a host of other undefined emotions lined up right behind. “Doing what exactly? Not rushing into your arms like you expect? Not tripping over myself to make things right with you?” I watch her recoil at my harsh words. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
The color fades from her face. “I want you.”
Rolling my eyes, I snap, “No you don’t. You want a lap dog, a rebound guy. Someone who will be there twenty-four seven so you don’t have to miss ol’ Vic.” Leaning toward her, I snarl, “Newsflash, babe, if you miss him so much, do us all a favor and get back together with him.”
Her eyes harden and surprisingly, she takes a step toward me, not away as I would have expected. “I do not want a lap dog. And I don’t miss Victor. The only person I’ve been missing is you. The only one I want is you, Marco, just you. No one else.”
I’m certain I don’t hear this right. She must be talking about me as a friend, but when she takes another step, then another till we’re toe to toe and she has to tip her head back to look at me, I can’t help but think that maybe she wants something more. I’m just not sure what that something more is.
“Look, babe, I’m done playing these games with you. Sure, we had our fun. I won’t lie, I enjoyed it. But I don’t think we’re cut out to be friends.”
A slow smile lights her face and my eyes widen as she slides her hands up my chest. “I don’t think so either. I think we’d be much better lovers.”
My stomach jolts and a surge of electricity zips its way through my body. “Nice try, beautiful.” Clearly she’s lost a few brain cells in the past few weeks.
She shrugs, taking it all in stride, then moves back just enough to peel her tank off, leaving me to stare bug-eyed at her red lace-covered tits. “I mean it, Marco. I’m done with all the games, with all the teasing, with me pushing and you running then you pushing and me running.” Her fingers fall to her waistband and she slowly pulls the button free and reaches for the zipper. “I’m tired of being lonely and wishing we were together. I’m tired of missing you every day and having to talk myself out of picking up the phone to call you.” Down goes the zipper, then down go the shorts, and soon she’s standing there in front of me like a gift from Heaven. The naughty, lace-covered kind of gift. “I’m tired of touching myself and pretending like it’s you. I want the real thing.”
Every ounce of blood in my body goes right to my dick. “Jesus, Amita, do you know what you’re asking here? If we do this, everything changes.”
Her eyes fill, which is completely unexpected considering she’s mid-seduction. “Everything has already changed. Don’t you see that? It changed the night we danced on your balcony. It changed the day you kissed me on the boat.” One tear rolls slowly down her face. “It changed when you walked away and I haven’t heard from you since.”
“I don’t do forever,” I warn. I owe her that much.
“Neither do I,” she replies.
“I don�
��t want to hurt you.”
She shrugs. “I’m already hurt.” And the truth of it is, she’s right. I have hurt her already, and she’s hurt me. I guess that’s what you do when you care about someone.
Fingers grasping the edge of my shirt, I tear it up and off and send it to the floor with her clothes. A small smile lifts the corners of her mouth as she looks me over thoroughly, almost like she’s never seen me half-naked before, or she wants to remind herself that she has. Then she lifts her gaze to mine and murmurs, “The shorts too.”
Chuckling, I reach for the waistband and tug the zipper down, sending my shorts to the floor. Her inhaled gasp tells me she wasn’t expecting me commando—or to be fully and completely erect. Her wide, hopeful eyes tell me she likes what she sees.
“Jesus, seriously? You’ve been hiding that all this time?” She points to my cock, where it’s standing at full attention, greeting her.
I smirk. “I’m gifted. I know.” I take a step toward her and twirl my finger in the air. “Lose the lace, sweet cheeks. I need to see those pretty tits up close and personal.”
Tawdry little shit that she is, she peels off the panties first, showing off a perfectly groomed dark strip between her legs that’s quite literally asking for my mouth. It is … believe me it is … I can almost hear the words begging out loud.
Christ, Moran. Stay on topic here.
When she finally reaches behind her back and undoes the bra then slowly lowers the straps down her arm, I quickly lose the ability to breathe or think. I can still feel though, which is damn good since I don’t recall ever being this hard. “Christ, sweet cheeks, you’ve been hiding that all this time?” Taking a step forward, I reach out and gently cup each perfectly upturned breast. They spill over my fingers, the perfect size Ds with pebbled rosy nipples asking to be licked. “Fuck, these are gorgeous.”
