"Tyson."
"What about Tyson?"
"Call him. See if he wants to hang out tonight. I mean, that's what you guys are doing, right? You're becoming friends again, and friends hang out. Call him."
Sliding the towel off my head, I run my fingers through my tangled hair. "No. I can't call him tonight. We already have dinner plans tomorrow night."
"Who cares? Look, I have to go. I'm really sorry. I'll try and stop by Sunday evening to see Max."
"It's okay. I'll see you Sunday." I move to end the call when I hear him yell my name through the phone.
"What?"
"Call. Him." He hangs up before I can respond to his bossiness and I'm left staring at my phone in confusion.
I can't have drinks with Tyson tonight. Can I? Although I can't really deny that I would love to see him again, and it would be really nice to see him outside of work. In fact, since our lunch and brief texting session yesterday, I haven't been able to get him off of my mind.
You know what? Fuck it! I pick up my phone and scroll down to his name. My thumb hovers tentatively over the ‘talk’ button as I give my self an internal pep talk. There is no reason to be nervous. We are friends and friends have dinner and drinks. The only problem is that I can't stop picturing myself shoving Tyson up against a door so that I can rip his pants off, fall to my knees, and worship every inch of his body. And I can't stop imagining him hovering over me and making sweet love to me.
Shit. Where's my damn vibrator when I need it?
I hit ‘talk’ and tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder as I rummage through the clothes on my bed. The skinny jeans and peasant top I’d contemplated wearing earlier were great when I thought I was going out with Levi. But if I go out with Tyson, I need something a little different...a little sexier. The phone rings four times and goes to voicemail. I end the call with a huff, deciding to shoot him a quick text rather than leaving a voicemail.
Me: Any plans for tonight? Max left earlier than expected and I was wondering if you wanted to go get dinner and have a few drinks with me.
My hair is way too long and takes forever to blow-dry. Standing in front of the mirror, I hold my hair on top of my head and then lower it back down, trying to decide the best way to style it. Down—definitely down.
Tyson always did like it down. He used to tell me that when my hair was down and I walked by, he could smell the soft vanilla scent of my shampoo. Picking up my phone, I double-check that the volume is on high, nervous that I might miss his response.
I gather my hair over my left shoulder and pin it in place so that the silky waves drape over my chest. I pull out a few chunks of hair to frame my face and spray it lightly with hairspray. Perfect.
My attention keeps wandering to my silent phone. What is he doing? Why hasn't he replied yet? My eyes flit nervously to my watch. Get a grip, Harley, it's only been twenty minutes. Maybe he's busy, or at work, or— "Fuck," I grunt, my head hanging low. I can't believe that he already has me tied up in knots like this.
What the fuck is my problem?
I promised myself that I would never get like this over a man again—especially not Tyson—and then look what happens! He walks his fine ass back into my life and within days, he’s successfully turned my life upside down. My phone chirps, startling me out of my thoughts, and my fingers itch to grab it and see what it says. A small part of me doesn't want to see the text at all because what if he rejects me? What if he turns down my offer? Or worse, what if he's on another date?
The self-control it takes me to walk across the bathroom without touching my phone is indescribable. "He can just wait," I murmur to myself. Reaching into the drawer, I pull out my makeup bag and begin my ritual. Foundation. Blush. Eye shadow. Mascara. The 'smokey eye' that some girls can pull off is a horrible look for me so I usually stick to my 'less is more' motto. I do, however, apply an extra few extra layers of mascara. If there is one thing about myself that I like, it's my eyes. I was lucky enough to inherit my mom's sage-green eyes and my dad's long lashes.
Looking in the mirror, I do a final once-over, smiling brightly at what I see. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Now I just hope that I didn't get all decked out to sit at home and watch reruns of Friends, while my friends are all otherwise occupied.
My phone chirps again, signaling an unviewed message. Picking it up, I walk through the house to the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of wine. I mean, why not, right? Giving my glass a slight twirl, I take a sip. My body is humming with anticipation and butterflies have taken flight in my stomach. Fucking hell, what is wrong with me? Grow some balls, Harley!
Swiping my finger across the screen, the beginning of a message appears on my phone.
Tyson: I'm at work but—
My hope plummets. Work. Of course he's at work. He's a resident…he works all the damn time. My fingers quickly unlock the phone to bring up the full message.
Tyson: I'm at work but I get off at 7. I would need to run home and get cleaned up, so maybe 8ish. Is that too late for you?
Hope blooms in my chest once again at his words. Hell no, eight isn't too late.
Me: No, that's perfect. Do you want me to meet you downtown since you'll be at your condo?
The butterflies in my stomach shift from fluttering nervously to quivering in anticipation. Taking a deep breath, I open my throat and down the entire glass of wine. I know, I know...It's very un-ladylike. But I'm nervous, damnit!
Crap. Clothes. I need clothes.
I scurry off the couch, sliding across the hardwood floor as I attempt to run down the hallway to my room. Flipping the light on in my closet, I make my way to the back, completely bypassing the skinny jeans and peasant top. Okay, I need something sweet and sexy. There is nothing I want more than to have Tyson back in my life, but more than that, I really want him to notice me. My hand hovers nervously over a hanger as Levi's words repeat in my head...“I’m a guy, Harley, and I saw the way he looked at you when you walked into the bar the other night."
I want to see that look on Tyson's face. Making my decision, I pull a top from its hanger and toss it on the bed next to my skinny jeans. A quick glance at my phone indicates a reply from Tyson.
Tyson: I was going to stay at my parents’ rental house since I have the rest of the weekend off. Why don't we meet somewhere near you.
Me: Okay. How about My Dad's Bar?
Tyson: Um. Okay. I didn't know your dad owned a bar. Is that new?
Me: Ha! No. It's a new tavern in town. It’s called My Dad's Bar. You'll like it. They have great food too if you're hungry!
Tyson: I ate a late lunch. I'll google the address and meet you there around 8.
Okay. I was really excited when he decided to go with me, but now I'm unsure. I've known Tyson my whole life. He's usually quite happy and talkative so the answers I'm getting seem a little off, which sort of bugs me.
Me: K
My eyes roam over the outfit on the bed and I bite my lower lip, contemplating how I'm going to approach this. It's obvious after the way he left lunch the other day that something spooked him. I'm just not sure what that something was.
Shaking my head, I scoop up the clothes I'd laid out and put them back into the closet. I really need to make up my freakin' mind, I mumble to myself. I pull out my favorite pair of faded, boot-cut jeans and shimmy into them. I love these jeans. They're the perfect wash, they have a small tear in the right upper thigh that gives them a rugged look, and they make my ass look three sizes smaller.
I pull my favorite graphic tee out of the drawer and slip it on, and then finish the outfit off with my Converse. Hmmm...something looks off. The hair—it’s definitely the hair. The hair is sexy, but I'm now going for casual so I reach up and pull the pins out, run my fingers through it a few times, and let the waves fall down my back. Perfect.
If Tyson wants his friend, Harley, back, then by gosh that's what he's going to get. I read the words printed on my shirt through the mirror and smirk. It's time
to get my friend back.
WALKING INTO MY DAD'S Bar, I notice two things right away. One, Tyson isn’t here yet. Two, apparently its ‘fight night’ and I'm one of only a few females in the entire place. The bar is filled to capacity with groups of men, all watching the TV intently. Every couple of seconds, they all jump out of their seats in anticipation, their fists ready to pump the air.
Men.
I walk to the back of the bar and slide into a booth. It looks a little more private than an open table. A gorgeous waitress approaches and hands me a menu. I order an Amaretto and Coke and she walks off without a second glance. As I silently read the descriptions of the entrées, my stomach lets out a fierce growl and I suddenly realize that I haven't eaten since I made Max biscuits and gravy this morning.
My waitress returns, placing my drink on the table in front of me, and pulls out her notepad. "What can I get you, hon?" I grimace at the nickname; it's almost as bad as being called ‘ma'am.’ Leaning forward, I read her nametag. Brittany...oh, how fitting.
"Yes, can I get a plate of your chicken quesadillas? Oh...and a water, please." She glances at my mixed drink and then back at me with a blank look on her face."Okaaaay," she says slowly. "Anything else?"
My head pops up as Tyson slides into the seat across from me. "Yup. I'll take a Bud Light bottle, please."
Brittany turns her head in Tyson's direction and smiles appreciatively at what she sees. She nods her head slowly. "Sure thing, sugar." Leaning forward, she places her palms on the table, her cleavage on full display. "My name is Brittany. Holler if you need anything."
Bitch. I hate her.
Tyson smiles lightly, his eyes never wavering from hers, and nods his head. My eyes glare a hole in her back as she retreats. Who the hell does she think she is? Can’t she see that he isn’t here alone? I scoff internally at the nerve of that girl. Shifting in my seat, I reach for my drink and my eyes land on the amused face across from me.
"What?" I ask innocently, taking a sip of my sweet drink.
His smile grows and he shakes his head. "Nothing."
Brittany returns and hands Tyson his beer. Reaching in her pocket, she pulls out a napkin and slides it to him, the movement causing the side of her breast to brush against his arm. My mouth drops open in shock at her blatant flirting.
Smiling sincerely, Tyson grabs the napkin and uses it to wipe the wetness from his bottle before tossing it aside, completely ignoring the phone number she'd scribbled on the back. Brittany stalks off and relief washes through me at his rejection of her.
"So," he says, a smile tugging at his lips. "Should I read the next sentence?" His grin is infectious and I smirk back, reveling in his playful behavior. Growing up, Tyson and I always had a thing for text-based t-shirts. In my attempt to rekindle our friendship, I wore one tonight to see if I'd get a reaction out of him, which thankfully I did. I look down, reading the words written across my chest.
DO NOT
READ
THE NEXT
SENTENCE
I look down further at the part that he can't see. In smaller print, closer to the bottom of the shirt, it says:
You little rebel. I like you.
"I don't know. How bad do you want to know what it says?" I’ve always loved taunting Tyson and vice-versa.
He lifts an eyebrow, briefly studying me. Then, he tilts his beer bottle and takes a drink, his eyes holding mine the entire time. "I'm good. I don't need to know."
I throw my head back and laugh at his poor attempt at indifference. He's dying to read it. "Suit yourself," I shrug.
Brittany returns with my quesadillas and two plates, and then walks off.
"You pissed her off." Grabbing one of the plates, I pile on a few triangles of the Mexican masterpiece and a dollop of sour cream. I push the second plate to Tyson and gesture for him to help himself.
"Who cares," he replies, shoving a bite of food into his mouth. "I can't stand it when women are so blatantly sexual. It's like they think that a sexy smile and large rack will get them everywhere in life. I prefer my women to be more subtle and less flashy."
I'm subtle, I think to myself.
Our conversation is light and comfortable as we finish our food and it leaves me feeling satisfied in a way I haven't felt in years. Tyson leans back in the booth, resting his hand on his stomach.
"I thought you weren't hungry," I tease.
"I shouldn't be. Avery brought in leftover pot roast and cheesecake, and I ate way too much of it," he groans.
"Who's Avery?" Reaching for my glass, I take a drink, trying to appear casual. My stomach twists. Who the fuck is Avery?
His eyes flash briefly with an unknown emotion. "She's one of the ER docs. I'm surprised you haven't met her?"
"Who knows? Maybe I have. I've met so many doctors."
"She's really nice, and maybe a few years older than us. She's smart and has been a great mentor. Most of the doctors down there are older, so it's nice to have someone around that's closer to my age. You guys would probably get along great."
Nodding my head, I smile tightly, choosing not to respond. At that moment, loud cheers ring throughout the bar and I stare intently at the action on the big-screen TV, attempting to look interested. Silence engulfs us and guilt rips through my chest. Things just got really uncomfortable and it’s totally my fault.
I finish my drink and signal our waitress for another round. Shifting in the booth, I turn toward Tyson. His eyes are trained on his beer bottle as he slowly turns it while picking off the label.
"Wanna play a game?" I ask, intent on alleviating the awkwardness I caused.
His head stays down but he raises his eyes to meet mine. Why do I find that move so damn sexy? "What do you have in mind?" he asks as Brittany replaces our empty drinks with fresh ones.
"Can we get eight shots? Four Tequila and four Southern Comfort, please?"
Tyson raises his eyebrows at my request and Brittany merely nods and walks off. "I'm not sure shots are a good idea," he says.
"Why not? Wait...I get it," I croon with mock understanding. "You've become a lightweight over the past five years, haven’t you? You're afraid I'll out-drink you." Tyson has never been one to back down from a challenge, and I'm going to take full advantage of that right now.
"Hell no, I'm not a lightweight," he scoffs. "What are the rules?" I can't help the joy that settles in my chest at the thought that maybe—just maybe—I still know more about him than anyone else, even after five years apart. I wonder how much he remembers about me?
"It's easy." Propping my elbows on the surface in front of me, I entwine my fingers and pin Tyson with a questioning glare. "You want our friendship back, right?"
His face softens and he smiles sweetly. "Right."
"Okay. We each get to ask a question. You either answer or take a shot."
"We can ask anything?" he clarifies.
"Anything." Sliding the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, he scoots forward in his seat and rubs his hands together mischievously. My eyes drift down and lock on the roped veins that run from his hands to his elbows, and I watch with rapt attention as his muscles tick with each movement. Good God, he has sexy forearms.
I shake my head. WTF? Sexy forearms?
"Let's do this. You go first," he says.
Reaching over, I grab the shots that Brittany dropped off and line them up in the middle of the table.
My eyes shift to his. "Okay. I'll start off easy. What's my favorite color?"
"You're kidding, right?" Leaning back in the booth, he crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.
Okaaaay. Apparently I've insulted him.
"What? It's a simple question. I'm asking if you remember my favorite color."
"Of course I do, Harley. I might have been gone for the past five years, but I didn't forget anything." I stare at him, lifting my glass to take a sip, and he sighs. "Purple. And not just any purple...bright purple."
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Your turn.
" Leaning back, I cross my legs and take another drink in anticipation. This game could really turn out to be fun, as long as he doesn't ask ab—
"Are you in a sexually romantic relationship?" Amaretto spews from my mouth and my eyes widen in horror. Tyson laughs and hands me a napkin. Dabbing my mouth and wiping off the table, I avoid eye contact. I mean, HELLO! Who the fuck asks that as a first question?
"Wow. You aren't holding back, are you?" His eyes smile but he doesn't respond. How the hell do I answer that? Technically, the answer is no, I'm not currently in a sexually romantic relationship. Then again, I did mess around with Levi a few weeks ago. Does that count? Fuck it.
Reaching across the table, I grab a shot glass. Disappointment flashes briefly across Tyson's face and I hesitate, but I still can't speak past the shock at his unexpected question. Cursing myself, I tip my head back. The cool liquid burns on the way down, and I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth in disgust at the taste it leaves behind.
"Maybe this isn't a good idea," he says. "You're just going to ask easy questions and I'm going pelt you with hard ones that you don't want to answer, and you're going to end up praying to the porcelain gods tonight."
I snap my mouth shut and furrow my brows, feigning insult. "First of all, I'm disappointed at your lack of trust in my ability to hold my alcohol. Second," I say, holding up my hand to stop his interruption, "I'm not just going to ask easy questions, and I'm not going to avoid answering all the hard ones. You caught me off-guard, that's all. This is about getting to know each other again, so no more arguing about question selection. We're starting over. What did you miss most about home while you were gone?"
"You." His answer is quick and the vulnerability on his face leaves me momentarily stunned. My heart flips and constricts in my chest at his raw honesty.
My first instinct is to catapult myself into his arms and never let go, but that might be a bit dramatic. "Good. I missed you too,” I respond instead. “See, we're making progress. This is going to be fun. Your turn."
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. "Okay. Hmm." He runs his hand across his chin and I follow his movements. "What's your favorite memory from our childhood?"
Where We Belong Page 11
