by C. A. Harms
Rules of Friendship
C.A Harms
Contents
Rules of Friendship
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Dawson
Reese
Bonus
Final Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by C.A Harms
Dawson
The rules of friendship should be pretty standard really. You should never, and I repeat, never fall in love with your best friend. That shit can quickly spiral into the disaster zone where you’re suddenly left with a raging hard-on and one hell of an awkward mess on your hands, literally.
Then the guilt hits. Guilt over the fact that you’ve just had dirty, and I do mean the filthy kind of dirty, thoughts of your said best friend while pleasing yourself. Trust me. It leaves a feeling in you that is hard to accept, only managing to trigger more thoughts of your best friend. In most cases, in these thoughts, she’s wearing something very skimpy and alluring that only starts the cycle all over again and repeats a few times or more like one hundred times.
Just friends. Yes it is a continuous phrase I have to repeat in my head. Day after day, night after night, especially when Reese walks around our apartment in these tiny, tight, pitiful excuse for shorts. You know what makes it even worse? She matches these micro shorts with a sports bra thing that she owns in various colors. Yes, I said sports bra, as in a next to fucking nothing, open and crisscrossed in the back, hugging-her-perfect-tits-to-perfection, sports bra.
I do believe that somewhere along the lines, those damned things were merely a creation to make guys like me miserable. Guys like me, as in he who stares at his best friend thinking all types of dirty thoughts when he shouldn’t be looking at all. Yes. That creep posing as a bestie is me. Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Dawson Layne, a/k/a perverted faulty friend.
I spend most of my time hiding my body’s reaction because, like I said, just friends.
I’ve known her since I was two. At one point in our lives we took baths together. What I wouldn’t give to take a bath together now. We played throughout our childhood, and have always been a side by side package deal. Where one was, the other would be, but it was never more than best friends.
Rescue missions set forth to save us when we found ourselves trapped in dates from hell, that was and is us. When we played hooky from school or work, we’d make up stories for the other, you know to make things more believable. She has always been the person I call on whenever I need a favor. She, in turn, has done the same.
Reese and I never had a problem being us—being friends—when we were together. There was no need to pretend. We were great being us and we accepted one another, faults and all. She’d always been like one of the guys, someone I’d confide in, and someone who would confide in me. There’s never been a problem with crossing over the line of friend zone territory. Until now. Now all I can see when I look at her are those full lips of hers. I can’t help but feel this uncontrollable rush when she looks at me for just a second too long.
Lately, seeing her, sharing a space with her . . . hell . . . breathing the same damn air as her, leaves me confused and half the time pissed off. It’s never bothered me before to hear her talk about guys; it was just a natural flow between us. Now, each time I hear her go on about a guy and her thoughts, it turns my stomach. The rolling, clenching, full-on stomach tension is in full effect.
Things have changed. We have changed. But do you want to know the worst part? She doesn’t fucking see it. It is the ugliest form of torture, and I am not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold my shit together. I’m hanging or more like tenting by the thread of my pants here. I’ve got to lock up these dirty thoughts and keep my eyes looking the other way before I cave and do something that will cost me my best friend. I’m so damn screwed.
Reese
“Rub my feet,” Dawson says, placing his feet in my lap. He is lounging on the couch, shirtless might I add, in only his boxers. I should tell him to get dressed but I don’t because hello great view. It would only trigger an inquisition as to why Dawson being only half dressed bothers me so much. The truth is that it just weakens my sense of control. Do you understand how hard it is for me not to tackle him and blur the lines of friendship? Simply excruciating.
“Rub your own feet.” I push at his legs, and they don’t budge.
“Defeats the purpose of relaxing,” he says, wiggling his toes in my lap, and I glare at him.
“They stink,” I retort, still refusing to rub his feet. Instead, I keep my hands at my sides, staring ahead at the television.
“My feet don’t stink,” Dawson replies, lifting one foot in the air. Before I can stop him, he places his foot behind my head, pinning me securely between his parted legs. Leave it to me, Ms. Oblivious, to turn and look directly at the space I shouldn’t. Quickly I close my eyes tight, willing them not to look, as he chuckles at my reaction.
Please, please take away the knowledge of him knowing I was checking out his . . . well . . . perfect package.
I open one eye, peeking at Dawson, who is grinning proudly. Damn it. He so caught me. My cheeks feel hot, and my palms begin sweating. He is the only person who can unnerve me so quickly.
His movements are quick as he pushes his leg behind me down further, securing behind my back. Suddenly, he pins me in a scissor hold, beaming with pride, knowing he now has me at his mercy.
“The purpose of this?” I ask, refusing to look at him directly in the eyes. Let’s face it, if my eyes meet his right now, he will see right through me without a doubt. I am also trying to concentrate on something other than what is running through my mind like delicious Dawson thoughts. Thoughts that have grown more persistent, images of Dawson hovering over me, panting and—
I shake my head, willing it to stop thinking dirty Dawson thoughts, and feel the heat rising in my neck once again. It feels like a raging inferno, suddenly making it harder to breathe evenly.
There are rules of being best friends with guys. One being, don’t ever picture them naked. Oh my god, if you do, and they are as good looking and fit as my best friend, let me warn you now. You are so screwed. And not in the pleasurable kind of way. I’m referring to being tortured, teased and taunted, the sexual frustration that BOB . . . you know . . . the battery operated boyfriend that has to satisfy even though it’s not the same as the real deal. A vibrator can solve the immediate issue, but when you lust after a guy, you shouldn’t the cycle begin’s all over again.
“The purpose of this is to hold you hostage until you agree to rub my feet.” I look over at Dawson and for a minute, wondering what in the hell he is talking about. That is until I remember asking him why he was holding me hostage. “Last night was crazy and l
ong and exhausting. We had more calls come in last night than we have all week combined. So those are reasons enough for you to give me a rub down.”
Seriously? Rub down? Did he have to say it like that? Because now I imagine him lying before me, my hands oily and fully prepared to rub him everywhere, my palms gliding over his body, exploring and—. Damn it! I shake my head to clear my dirty thoughts. Again. He has to think by now I have some weird tick that makes me shift my head at odd times and involuntarily.
Dawson works for fire and rescue in Los Angeles, and I won’t tell him this because he’ll let it go to his head, but he is a hero. Dawson defines hero. He has the biggest heart, and the dedication he has toward the safety of others only makes me love the man he is even more. Dawson puts on a good show because he has to hold on to that tough man persona, but on the inside, the guy is the sweetest ever. I am lucky enough to see the adorable side hidden behind the jerk he pretends to be.
Sometimes I wish he wasn’t the only man who’s ever made me feel safe. It would be so much easier to find Mr. Right. Dawson Layne can’t be Mr. Mine though. He’s my best friend, the guy I should never want to sleep with, or kiss and snuggle with on the couch. Those very things are off limits. He’s off limits. Just tell that to my body, particularly my heart that can’t stop beating for this man.
My phone rings from somewhere in the kitchen, and as I try to get up, he squeezes me tighter. “Dawson, let go.” He doesn’t even budge as I push at him. “Move.” He shakes his head, silently telling me no. “It’s Heather.”
“Why do girls do that?”
“Do what?” I ask in an annoyed tone.
“Label each person in their contact list by a specific ringtone?”
The ringing stops, and shortly after a beep follows, indicating she left a message.
“I don’t have everyone labeled, just those I care to talk to.” I cross my arms over my chest, still refusing to give in to his demands and rub his feet.
“What’s my ringtone?” I ignore his question but feel my stomach tense. “Because I know you wanna talk to me, so you gotta have something particular.” I can’t even remember what I have for his at the moment; it changes often based on how I feel about him at the time. “Why do you suddenly look panicked?”
“I don’t,” I say entirely too fast, so fast that he knows I am trying to fib my way through the situation immediately. “It’s just a regular tone because you aren’t on my preferred list.” I shrug, trying to play it off as if that were possible. This is the guy who knows me better than I know myself.
Dawson stretches his arms above his head, and it appears as if he is in search of something on the coffee table, only furthering my discomfort or should I say panic. I attempt to move again and find I am still pinned securely between his legs, even tighter than before.
“Let me just see for myself .” He brings his hands back over the arm of the couch, now holding his phone.
I lunge my body in the direction of his, and he moves his phone out to the side. “What’s the freak out for, Reese?” He opens his address book, and there my name appears listed at the top as his emergency contact. I bite the inside of my cheek and hold my breath as he hits send.
The seconds that pass feel like hours.
“What’s that saying?” Dawson asks, and I feel my stomach tighten to the point of pain. Maybe I can play this off. I mean . . . not everyone is a music analyst like myself. I love the songs with hidden meanings. They are my addiction.
“Rude Boy,” I say almost too quickly without looking away from him. His brows wrinkle in confusion as he leans his upper body toward the kitchen a little further, trying his best to understand the words. Words that if he pays too much attention to he may, in fact, get the meaning I don’t want him to follow. Words that will reveal too much.
“Rude,” he says and pauses, arching a brow, as he stares at me, “boy?”
Words of getting it up mingle with the tone. Being a captain and a rider, oh my hell could it get any worse? I have to think fast. “I also have one that I switch off and on that’s titled, ‘the asshole song.’” My voice shakes with nervous energy, and I hope he doesn’t notice. I’m just thankful that my phone is so far away it makes hearing the words almost impossible. I have to change that ringer and never put that or anything else sexual as a label to Dawson. Because that ringer and song are so far from friend zone.
But in my defense, I never thought he’d hear it. I mean, come on? How often is he standing next to me while calling me? Like never.
“The asshole song?” He narrows his eyes as he attempts to glare at me, which makes me laugh.
“You are such an asshole at times,” I declare with a playful shrug, still doing my best to detour him away from the Rhianna song I know he is still questioning.
“Like when?” He asks, finally lowering his phone and forgetting all about the song that is playing.
“Like when you worked long hours, and you found we were out of Lucky Charms.” He still seems extremely unimpressed. “Or when you grabbed my girly shampoo instead of your own in the shower and squeezed it onto your hair.” Still nothing. “How about last month when you took home that girl from the bar? After a quick blow job, you booted her out as if she were nothing more than a two-dollar whore.”
He flinches at that one and has the gall to look embarrassed. “I got the girl a cab.”
“As if that makes it any better.”
We share a silent standoff, and something unrecognizable passes over his face before he quickly releases the hold he’s had on me and climbs off the couch. “You act like I’m some dickish whore who mistreats women or something.”
I hurry after him, worrying that I’ve offended him in my desperate attempt to hide the fact that I have a sexually referenced song as an indicator of my best friend’s calls. Not that the song doesn’t fit my best friend who is definitely sexy. Built to perfection, light brown hair and the most gorgeous brown eyes, a walking dream. It was a dumb choice after a night of drinking with Heather. I’d decided then that it fit my mood, but I now suddenly regret that choice. I was drunk and horny, and it was Dawson who starred in a fantasy I couldn’t seem to control. Who am I kidding? Truth: He’s been the star in many of my fantasies lately. It was and is so wrong. I know this, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering: What if? What it would feel like for him to touch me, taste me, to—
“Rude boy is about a guy and girl getting it on.” I skid to a stop at the end of the counter and look up to find Dawson with his eyes glued to his phone in disbelief. “It says here, that she’s talking about the guy being able to get hard and she’s challenging him to get her off because she isn’t gonna fake it.”
My face has to be fifty shades of red because I feel like it is on fire.
“What?” I tilt my head to the side and do my best to play a dumb, oblivious girl at that moment. I fake surprise, shock maybe, or that is what I’m hoping he will buy and then drop it because holy awkward.
“Sex, Reese,” he repeats as he turns his phone around for me to read it. “All the lyrics are a sexual rendezvous between the girl and that rude boy.” Again I have nothing. Nothing but a fireball-looking face of mortification. No means to help myself dig out of this hole. “Did you know that?”
“No.” I lie, hoping he’ll believe me as I wrinkle up my nose, faking disgust. “I thought it was Rhianna making fun of some guy. To be honest, I saw that title and thought that it was just that: a rude boy. The wording alone describes you to a T; I guess I ignored the rest of the wording.”
He doesn’t seem convinced as he observes me. I just made things a little more complicated between the two of us.
Dawson
“Secure her neck,” I hold on to the woman we’d found at the bottom of the stairs as we enter the building. Brad carefully places the neck brace beneath her shoulders and gently repositions it before strapping it securely. Brad is a rookie, only five days on the job. He is still nervous and wet behind the ears, but in a
ll honesty, he has a knack for the job. I can already see it in him that he’s fast to respond, ready to secure the area without a second thought.
“Assess the obvious injuries,” I say aloud more for him than me as a reminder of the next step. I can do this job in my sleep, though I remember being new and nervous once, so helping him feels right.
“Head wounds above the left brow and across left cheek. Obvious signs of a break to her left wrist and possibly her right ankle.” Just then, Larsen steps up to our side with Kevin and places the body board next to the woman.
“The call came through about an hour ago, and the woman was frantic,” Kevin states, kneeling at my side. “There’s no fire, D, just a man that thinks it’s okay to abuse a woman.”
My stomach tenses at the idea of what this poor girl has endured.
“This is more of a rescue mission,” he adds. Part of working for LA Fire and Rescue means that not only are we responsible for fires and securing buildings during a terrifying time, but we sometimes are needed to act as EMTs too. Our current situation is one of these times.
I love my job—the adrenaline rush, the protecting and rescuing—as it’s the best type of feeling I’ve ever felt. But these types of calls, they are always hard. I can’t even imagine hitting a woman. Hell, I feel terrible enough whenever Reese and I argue, though most times she is the instigator. That girl can hold her own for sure and has no qualms of standing up for whatever she believes in or is passionate about at that moment. Reese is fiery in most senses except one, her mother’s death was her weakness and the sadness of her father.
