by Kira Graham
“You okay?” he asks when he strolls back over, the whole hands-in-the-pocket thing causing his shorts to stretch across his crotch and give me ideas.
Jesus! I don’t think he’s wearing any underwear, and instead of being disgusted, my mind keeps screaming, “Less to rip off!”
“Y-yeah! Yeah, uh—fine. I think I ate too much,” I lie, loving the overfull feeling that’s settled inside me, but filled with a breathless sense of butterflies in my belly that makes it churn.
“No such thing,” he says, chuckling when I put my hands on my belly and lean back against the wooden railing. “You do look a little skittish, though. You thinking of cutting out early on me, Cleo-mine? ’Cause I gotta tell ya, if you’re planning an eat-and-run, I won’t accept it. This friends thing is nicer than I anticipated, and I’d like at least another hour of conversation with you before I have to force you to hang out again.”
I blush at his words, guiltily, because I have the overwhelming urge to run so that I can escape this man. Before I do something stupid like cave and throw myself at him.
“Dramatic much?” I ask, my mouth twitching when he sighs and quirks his brow before shrugging and following my gaze down the beach, where we can see Chilli and Beach Boobs still messing around on the board.
The man really has absolutely no coordination, and I wonder again how perfectly put-together, OCD Rose is obsessed with him. Yeah, he’s gorgeous, and yes, he is funny and smart, if his Facebook page is anything to go by, but he’s a little too much even for me.
“Not dramatic. True. You’re not an easy woman to befriend, Cleo Sweet, and as much as I love a challenge, I usually only work this hard when I have a shot at eating—”
“Shut up!” I scream, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can say something gross.
It’s a huge mistake for so many reasons that I instantly want to take it back. I want Hart to be hateful so that when I look up and see his twinkling, mischief-filled eyes, I don’t feel my heart thud and skip a beat. Unfortunately, that’s what I see when I glare at him, and yes, my heart does do a little jig, along with my nipples, my vagina, and any other part of me that can be considered sexual.
“Mffhammmah,” he mumbles, making me shriek and rip my hand away when he licks my palm, the slide of his tongue as ticklish as it is hot.
It’s sick that I have the urge to lick my palm clean, and even sicker that instead of wiping it off like I should, I curl my fingers around the wet spot. God help me, there is something so wrong with me.
“Gross!” I yell, the lie making me flush while Hart laughs and wiggles his tongue at me. “What are you, five?”
“Nope! I’m all man, Cleo-mine. Just wanted you to experience my tongue skills. Ya know, seeing as how we’re just friends, and I won’t be using them anywhere else.”
Mourning! Can I go into mourning at the same time that I feel a dagger to my heart? In my head, I see him knifing me, and, like a dramatic loser, I even see my blood seeping out into the shape of a broken heart on my chest.
“You’re such a pig,” I moan to drown out the shrieking inside my head.
Hush, hussy! We can cry and eat our feelings later.
“Aw, come on, now. That’s like the third time you’ve called me that. Friends use nice words with each other, Cleo-mine,” he pouts, his lip poking out so far that I crack up and don’t stop laughing when he grabs my hand and pulls me down the boardwalk towards Chilli, the sand-eating surfer.
While we walk, he swings our hands back and forth, seeming happy to chatter about nothing important while I gripe and groan about how grossly sweaty our hands are getting. And the truth is, even without romance in the air—for him—this is the best date I’ve ever been on. Too bad I’m no better than one of his pals, I think, my own lip pushing itself out in a silent pout.
I’m cursing myself soundly, pouting so hard that soon I’ll have to start sidestepping my own proverbial lip, when I hear a masculine yell and look up to see Chilli taking off, leaving the big-boobed blonde in the dust and yelling out behind him.
For a second, I’m confused as hell—until I see an orange-bikinied whirl of legs, boobs, and screaming curses. Running. Behind Chilli. In hot pursuit.
It’s impossible to keep sulking at that, and I crack up just as Hart lets out a bark of laughter, followed by a sputtering observation that his brother seems to have found some grace after all.
Watching Rose scream and run after Chilli, and seeing him pump his arms and streak past us, his face panicked and filled with terror, I shove away the regret I feel about my plans and where that leaves any imaginary budding romance with Hart, and laugh so hard that I let loose the smallest silent fart, while Hart’s legs go weak and dump him onto the sand.
“Oh my God. I hope she catches him,” he wheezes, making me giggle and say a silent prayer for Chilli.
The truth? I hope she catches him, too. Someone has to make stupid decisions based on romance around here.
Chapter Seven
Cleo
“Shut up!”
“Swear to God. Chilli! Getcha ass in here and tell Cleo that I’m telling her the truth,” he yells, the deep timbre of his voice reaching through the phone to stroke my already frazzled nerves.
He thinks this is funny, and it is, which is why I’m fake-laughing and pretending I’m okay. Today, though, I am not. I got a final notice from the bank, threw away half my stock because it wasn’t good enough to sell after sitting on the shelves for months, and just got my period. It’s a trifecta of fuck yous, the terrible trio of bad news moments that I’ve been dealing with all day.
To top it all off, when I get my period, I get weepy, and that made things exceptionally awkward when I went in to see the bank manager, hat in hand, hoping for an extension. I didn’t get an extension. What happened instead was that I started crying hysterically—hormones are a bitch—and the manager, a portly, very nervous and sweaty man with a round face and thinning, curly black hair, got all twitchy.
His continued attempts to shove me out of his office made me cry harder, which pissed me off, and then, before I knew what was happening, I was being lifted between two security guards, my legs pinwheeling as they carried me out of the bank, crying and cursing so much that I felt actual shame.
I cried more at the shop while I threw away hours’ worth of love and labor, and then I cried even more because Mom called and told me she’s throwing a dinner party that she expects me to attend. Why, Jesus? Why don’t you love me?
“It happened, Cleo,” Chilli yells, his voice a little muffled but so filled with amusement that I want to smile.
But I can’t. Today sucked, and to make matters worse, I have to either go to Dad with my begging papers and tell him that I can’t do things on my own, or sell my recipes to a large chocolate concern that has repeatedly asked for the sole rights to the chocolates I make. Technically, I can’t really call Jekyll’s a big concern, but here in Georgia, they’re well-known. A few months back, some blonde Barbie walked in and bought a few samples, and then the company sent an email asking me if I’d be interested in selling them a few recipes for their specialty line.
I refused, which was probably a bad idea and very poor business decision on my part, but come on, I came up with all the combos and recipes on my own, and each of them was a labor of love. I wanted the success of my candies to be mine, not some big company’s where they mass-produce everything and sell it for less because they use cheap ingredients and bastardize what I consider art!
I can still make that deal, even now, and as the hours tick by, day by day, and as the reality of my failure sinks in after the day I’ve had, I have to admit that I’m seriously considering it. It just sticks in my damn craw that the company responsible for making my business go bust is going to get something out of it, I think, watching my tears plop into the bowl of raw cookie dough that I’ve been eating since I got home.
I’m on the couch in sweats because even though it’s barely two in the afternoon,
I was just too done to go back to work. There’s no point, I think morosely, listening to the Hart brothers laugh and banter about Hart’s day.
“Let me get this straight, then,” I sigh, smacking my lips in disgust when a dollop of dough falls onto my chest and I don’t feel like wiping it off. “You went on a date with some blonde bimbo with tits big enough to qualify as airbags, and you didn’t sleep with her?” I ask, disgusted that I want to believe him, and even more sickened that my heart is rejoicing.
Fuck you, menstrual cycle. Just F you! You’re turning me into a lunatic like ole Annie in that Misery movie. This infatuation I have for Hart—and yes, I am finally owning up to it: I am infatuated—is so bad that I practically hang on his every word when we talk to each other or hang out. It’s been two weeks now, and instead of getting a grip and telling him to buzz off, I like him more. Want him more.
“Nope!”
“Not only did you not sleep with her, you also offered to pay for her to talk to someone about her low self-esteem?” I ask again, because I’m still so shocked that I haven’t let it all fully sink in.
Hart went on a date last night, and no, that is not why I spent an hour crying while watching The Great British Bake Off and screaming because they couldn’t make a simple puff pastry, so suck it! Anyway, he went on a date, and while my day was shitty, I was still prepared for some three-hour-long porno conversation about just how much play he got. I’ve accepted—dagger to the heart—that Adonis Hart is my friend. We’re just friends, and he sees me as the frumpy, slightly odd gal pal that he hangs out with when he has free time.
So, okay, he seems to have a lot of free time, and we spend almost every night either talking on the phone or hanging out. Whatever! I was prepared for heartbreak and a three-hour shower session, during which I’d tell myself that I wasn’t crying; it was just the steam and water getting to my eyes. I still don’t know how to explain the sounds, but cut me a break.
Now, as it turns out, I want to do a happy jig—and I would, too, if I weren’t so depressed I should be watching Girl, Interrupted for medical advice.
“Yeah. You should have seen and heard this chick, Cleo-mine. She was practically crying out for a shoulder to cry on…”
“Is that why she threw her wine in your face, slapped you, and then told you to grow a dick?” someone yells amid a round of masculine laughter that makes my lips twitch.
“She’s in denial,” Hart grumbles, making me giggle for the first time since he called. “Ahhh! She’s warming up. Christ, I thought I was going to have to describe the nipples I could see through her dress before you perked up. What’s up, Sweet? What’s got you so glum?” he asks softly, tenderly.
Dammit.
“Nothing,” I sigh.
It’s not that I don’t trust Hart and don’t want to tell him my troubles; it’s just that I reeeeeally don’t want to tell him my troubles. Notice the exaggerated text and italicization, people. Get real. Why would I want to confess to some millionaire mogul that I couldn’t even keep a tiny little candy store afloat, and that I basically offered sexual favors to a man who probably hasn’t ever had sex with anything besides his own hand? Yeah, not happening. He’d probably bust in with all this advice and point out everything I did wrong, and while he’d be right, I just don’t need that right now. I know I’ve messed up. I don’t need pity or criticism from him.
“Come on, Cleo-mine. I can hear that something’s wrong, and the very fact that you’re home at two on a Wednesday afternoon tells me even more. While you refuse to tell me what job you do, I know you love it. So come on, babe, spill it. Who pissed in your cereal? Tell your buddy Hart, and I’ll go snap his legs. Unless they’re female. Then I’ll just call and leave a strongly worded message. Or tell Ma. She’s small and old, but she’s got moves,” he assures me, making me giggle at the picture he’s painting.
While I haven’t met Athena Hart yet, I have seen photos, and she’s smaller than I am. And Mom. Major achievement when you consider that Mom is like five feet and nothing but hair.
“Don’t tell your mom, doofus. I just had a bad day, nothing epic or worth talking about. Besides, you’re so used to talking that I wouldn’t want to ruin your track record now. Tell me how you felt walking out of the restaurant,” I urge, my lips twitching at the thought of the great Adonis Hart slinking out, covered in wine and feeling offended.
I bet that was a first for the man.
“Great! I got to avoid seeing her tits, something I was immensely grateful about because one nipple looked like it may have been alive and seemed to be moving under there. Besides, Cleo-mine, I told you that I was set up by Ares,” he whines, as if hurt that I refuse to believe him.
“Oh, please. I bet Barbie and her live boobies were exactly your type,” I scoff, smacking my tongue because the dough’s making me sick to my stomach, but for some sick and illogical reason, I can’t stop eating it.
“Nuh-uh. You told me to be less superficial, and I took your advice.”
“If that’s true, then I’d argue that not dating at all isn’t taking my advice,” I point out, secretly jazzed that he’s not dating. Willingly.
“It is when I’ve decided not to shortchange myself. There’s someone I have my eye on. I just need some time to figure out how to get what I want.”
That probably means sex, I think glumly, hating him a little. He probably wants to have sex with some woman who has too much respect for herself to just give it up on the first date. She’s probably making him work for it. Good for her. Even if I hate the bitch a little.
“Simple, Hart. Be…well, don’t be yourself if you wanna get laid, but be the best version of yourself that you can be.”
“I have been!” he mutters, cursing when another round of male chortles reaches my ears.
God, his brothers are so mean to him sometimes. Except Chilli. He’s mean to Hart, but I don’t have the heart to be mean to or about him because he’s dealing with enough stress thanks to Rose’s meltdown on the beach. I don’t know what’s worse for those two freaks, Rose losing her temper because he was touching Beach Boobs, or Rose crying and going cold war on the guy. Apparently, he’s gotten so used to her brand of “love” that he’s got the blues because she’s not texting him anymore. Or answering his texts. Or accepting the gifts he keeps sending her.
God help me, I don’t get it.
“Huh. Then your best version must not be what she’s into. Maybe she likes chains and whips and stuff. I hate to break this to you, friend, but you look pretty straight-laced,” I drawl, loving his theatrical gasp and the chuckles that abound from his side of the line.
“Am not. I just have standards, and to me, if I can’t get a chick off using my hands, mouth, or dick, then it doesn’t count,” he grumbles, sounding so boyishly annoyed that I give in to my amusement and giggle.
See, this is why I talk to him, and why I ignore my common sense when it demands that I cut off all ties and run for the hills. Adonis Hart has turned out to be a good friend, and no, I’m not saying it sarcastically. I really mean it. He’s provided a good ear and a great shoulder, and he distracts me from my shitty life. Even now, sitting in my room, in what I refer to as my apartment because it’s big enough to be considered one anyway, I realize that my life sucks. In a matter of weeks, I’ll be jobless, penniless, and living off my folks again, but instead of scream-crying like I want to, I’m laughing on the phone with Hart while he plays the oafish man-whore.
“Face it, Adonis; you’re set in your ways. One purposely failed date isn’t going to rebrand you. And honestly, why should you rebrand?” I ask, completely ignoring the fact that I told him he should just days ago.
What? I can change my mind. I want him to be superficial and not see other women as his true love. If he’s single, then I won’t have to worry about going to his wedding someday. God!
“Uh, is this a trick question, Cleo-mine?” he asks, sounding a little confused, as well he should be.
“Nope. You wer
e totally right, Hart. You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be, and if this woman doesn’t want you just the way you are, then I say screw her. There’re always Asian hookers and porn.”
I maaaay be a little drunk, and if I have to confess the reason, it’s that I’m still eating the stomach-turning dough, which I eventually spiced up with half a bottle of Kentucky’s finest. It’s not cooked, so ingesting it this way is just as potent as drinking it, and day-um, I’m really starting to feel the effects. And to like the dough again.
“Uh, Cleo? Honey, are you all right?” he asks slowly, making me snort because it’s one of the first times I’ve heard Hart sound hesitant and unsure.
“’M fine! Great, really, if you count my life imploding as a good thing. I’m a freaking overachiever, Hart. I overachieved so much that I cried at the bank, they kicked me out and banned me from getting within a hundred yards of the manager, and then I got my period out on the sidewalk while I was wearing white pants,” I slur, forgetting that he’s not the only one listening in on this conversation.
Not that I should. The Hart brothers are regulars when he and I speak on the phone, and I’ve added Zeus to my chats because that man may be eerily silent, but he rips it up via text. But I am drunk, so instead of stopping to think for a moment, I just keep talking, spewing out all the ugly misery I’ve been feeling lately.
“And two nights ago? When I went on that date with the insurance salesman? Pete? Paul? Oh, who cares? You know what guys always do to me when we have dinner? Lesh me tell—ahem, let me tell ya. They order me a salad, like I’m some kind of huge, grotesque beast who needs handling and dietary assistance. And I just sat there and ate it while he guzzled down a plate of chicken Parmesan. You know how I feel about Parmesan, Hart,” I whine, sniffing out a curse when my door opens and Alex and Sin stroll in, already grinning when they see the booze, dough, and—okay, I added chocolate syrup, too. In my defense, I was on a diet two nights ago. I ate the damn salad. That counts.
