Just Friends With Benefits

by Schorr, Meredith

  Just Friends With Benefits

  I wondered if he knew what I hoped would happen. I was so nervous I incorrectly inserted the magnetic room key into the slot twice before Hille chuckled, took it from me and opened the door. I glanced at him shyly, feeling my face get red, and said, “Blame it on the tequila shot.”

  Hille just laughed again and said, “Whatever you say.”

  Even though we had basically been alone together all night, the dynamic changed as soon as we were enclosed within the four walls of my tiny hotel room and my hands were shaking. I told Hille to help himself to the mini bar and went into the bathroom to channel my inner cheerleader. I looked at myself in the mirror and, with the water running so Hille wouldn’t hear me, said, “Get a grip, Stephanie. You look damn good tonight and you know it. Craig Hille would have to be an absolute fool not to want to hook up with you. He wants you and you know it. Now go out there and get him!” With that, I left the bathroom and found Hille sitting on one of the guest chairs staring at his Blackberry.

  Trying not to laugh at his predictability, I said, “Lots of emails, Craig?”

  As he put the Blackberry back in his briefcase, he said, “Always, but nothing important or remotely interesting.”

  I sat down on the foot of the king-sized bed which faced where Hille was sitting and said, “I’m glad we did this, Craig.”

  “Me too, Steph. It was fun. Thanks again.”

  “Thank you!”

  There was a brief moment of awkward silence until I took a deep inhale and said, “Craig?”

  “Steph?”

  “This is kind of embarrassing.” And really fucking scary.

  Hille shifted his body in the chair. “What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, well, the thing is, I’m totally attracted to you right now.” I swallowed hard thinking even the teenagers on “Gossip Girl” were probably more seductive than me.

  Wings

  JUST FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

  by

  Meredith Schorr

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Contemporary Romance Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Camille Netherton

  Copy Edited by: Jeanne Smith

  Senior Editor: Anita York

  Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

  Cover Artist: Pat Evans

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  http://www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Meredith Schorr

  ISBN 978-1-59705-95-9:

  Published In the United States Of America

  September 2010

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  What They Are Saying About

  Just Friends With Benefits

  "Reading contemporary romance/chick-lit novel, Just Friends With Benefits is like peeking into 30-something Stephanie Cohen’s diary. We get to witness her love life and all the intimate details (read mistakes) and she makes plenty of them! All the twists keep the reader wondering to the very end who's "the one" and who's just friends. Debut author Meredith Schorr is a natural storyteller, able to make you laugh and cry right along with her carefully-drawn heroine. Like a good friend, I believed in

  Stephanie, and I loved Just Friends With Benefits." – Karyn Lyndon, author of For Richer or Repo and CurvyKathy31. www.karynlyndon.com

  Dedication

  To Marjorie: my sister and my best friend. I love you, Kid.

  Special thanks to: Alan, I wish I could bottle your faith in me and keep it in my pocket at all times. Mom, I love you. To the folks at Gotham Writer’s Workshop for your honest and thorough critiques. To all of my friends for feeding me beer on a regular basis. To Camille for making me dig deeper. And finally, a big thanks to a group of strangers in the Outer Banks of North Carolina who made me feel like family.

  Prologue

  November, 1996

  Craig had perfectly coiffed locks. Slickly combed and impeccably trimmed. I knew because every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, between 10:30 and 11:25, I sat behind him in ‘Introduction to Law and Criminal Justice’ and stared at the back of his head. While Professor Blum gave his lecture, I fought the urge to kiss the nape of Craig’s neck, where his brown hair came to a flawless straight line.

  At the end of every class, Craig would turn to me, his white teeth sparkling, and say, “Have a good one.” In that split second, I would imagine asking if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee or get to third base back in his room, but by the time I summoned the balls to choke out my standard, “Thanks, you too,” he was usually out of his chair and no longer in earshot.

  I knew Craig was a brother in Phi Alpha Omega since the back of his t-shirts always bore the letters “ΦAΩ”, and when my eyes weren’t focused on Craig’s immaculate hairdo, they were focused on his muscular torso. (I especially liked watching his shoulder blades ripple when he raised his arms over his head in a stretch.) When someone slipped a flyer under the door of my dorm room advertising a Phi Alpha Omega-sponsored happy hour at The Longpost Tavern, I dragged my roommate with me, figuring a few pitchers of Bud Light and a Mind Eraser shot might be just what I needed to garner the liquid courage to kick our relationship up a notch.

  On the big day, I wore faded blue wide-leg jeans with daisies on the rear pockets, a white v-neck t-shirt and black platform shoes. It was a rainy night and so to avoid the frizz, my hair was smoothed back into a long ponytail. I was wearing Clinique lipstick a shade darker than the color of bubble gum and purple eye shadow to bring out the hazel in my eyes. I applied my best poker face, showed my chalked i.d. to the burly male bouncer and, with my roommate Jana in tow, walked through the crowded bar where Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” was blaring. Even through the smoky haze, I immediately spotted Craig standing by the one of the tables built into the worn wall. He was laughing at his shorter friend, who was gesticulating like a mad man screaming about the end of the world.

  My heart pounding, I turned to my roommate Jana and gestured towards the bar. “I need a beer,” I said.

  “Me, too.” Pointing her finger in the direction of the bartender, the glare from her enormous mood ring practically blinding me, Jana said, “After you.”

  I led the way, looking behind me every couple of seconds to make sure I hadn’t lost Jana in the crowd.

  I heard her whisper to my back, “Is your man here?”

  I whispered back, “Yes. But I can’t talk to him yet. Too sober.”

  “Which one is he?”

  On a mission to down my first beer, I pushed my way to the front of the congested bar and flashed my $20 bill. I hoped the bartender would equate Andrew Jackson’s face with either a large drink order or a big tip, since pitchers were only $2.50 that night.

  The bartender was an older guy who was mostly bald on top but wore his otherwise long silver hair in a ponytail. I secretly named him Rufus after George Carlin’s character in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. I absently tugged on my own ponytail, noting our similar hairstyles.

  Rufus motioned towards me, “What can I get you?”

  “A pitcher of Bud Light and two glasses, please. Thanks,” I said.

/>   As I watched him soak a dirty pitcher in soap suds, rinse it with water and fill it with beer, I said, “Actually, can I also get two shots of tequila? Salt and lime, too?”

  Rufus nodded knowingly. “Gonna be that kind of night, huh?”

  Fearing it might take more than beer to afford me the altered sense of self-confidence required to utter a single word to Craig, I confided, “I hope so.”

  Jana, in the meantime, was poking me in the side. “Which one is he?”

  I whispered, “The tall guy in the flannel shirt.”

  After doing a 360 of the room, Jana blinked at me. “Not helpful.”

  I turned away from Rufus and pretended to scope out the entire bar. Among at least ten other tall guys wearing a flannel shirt, I spotted Craig. “Green flannel. Puppy dog eyes.” I quickly turned back towards Rufus, grabbed our shots and said, “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Jana said. “To Stephanie finally making the moves on her lust man!”

  When the luke-warm tequila hit the back of my throat, I shivered involuntarily and quickly sucked the juice from the lime. I chased the shot with a few hearty gulps of beer before asking Jana, “So, what do you think of him?”

  Shrugging, Jana said, “Not my type. Too clean cut for me, but cute in a geeky sort of way, I guess.”

  Jana was a Goth wanna-be. She dressed in all black and her makeup application consisted of thick black liquid eyeliner. Despite her attempt to look dark and brooding, her baby thin platinum blonde hair and big blue eyes made her look more like a tourist from one of the Scandinavian countries dressed up for Halloween. Jana preferred the local artsy lounges downtown to the fraternity college bars but was sick of hearing me analyze Craig’s intentions. When I’d insist it must mean something that Craig said goodbye to me and only me at the end of every class, she’d just roll her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she really cared whether or not I hooked up with Craig or if she just wanted me to shut up about it, but she agreed to come with me that night for moral support.

  While we drank our first pitcher, I half listened to Jana tell me about the fine, twenty-something teaching assistant in her Anthropology class and tried unsuccessfully not to check on Craig’s status every couple of minutes to make sure he was still in the same place and not making out with some chick.

  “Don’t keep staring at him like a deer in headlights, Stephanie! It’s so obvious,” Jana said, shaking her head. “Either make eye contact and smile or don’t look at him until you’re ready. Hurry up, by the way. I heard Joe’s going to Valentines tonight.”

  Willing myself not to look over at Craig again, I asked, “Who’s Joe?”

  “My hot TA! Have you been listening to me at all?”

  I kicked off the stray cocktail napkin which had attached itself to the back of my foot and muttered, “I can’t concentrate. Sorry. One more pitcher?”

  “You owe me one,” Jana said, before heading back to the bar.

  While Jana got Rufus’s attention, I observed Craig standing quietly to the side while his friend monopolized a conversation with two girls. I wondered who he was thinking about and wished it was me.

  I raised my hands to the sides of my head to make sure no stray hairs had escaped my ponytail. When Jana returned with our pitcher, I asked, “Do I look okay?”

  Jana, who was more experienced with men and couldn’t seem to relate to a college freshman who was still a virgin, snorted. “You’re far prettier than you give yourself credit for. And I’d kill for those raven locks,” she said. “Yes, you look great. Go for it.”

  My stomach dropped. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  As Jana refilled her beer glass and topped off mine, she said, “No. You’ll look cooler if you go over to him on your own.” Then she motioned towards Craig and gently pushed me in his direction.

  I momentarily missed high school when it was more than acceptable for my friends to accompany me everywhere, whether to the bathroom or to make a move on a new guy. I felt safety in numbers. I knew Jana would not be persuaded to tag along with me and since I was afraid Craig might actually favor Jana’s Kelly over my Brenda, I took a deep inhale and approached where he was standing. I took one last glance behind me and made eye contact with Jana. She mouthed “go for it” and flipped over a napkin on which she had drawn the Nike swoosh logo and the words “Just Do It.”

  As the space between me and the back of Craig’s green flannel shirt got smaller, I wasn’t positive I’d survive the encounter, but then I remembered the time my voice cracked while singing a solo at the Spring Concert in fifth grade. It was years before my classmates stopped calling me Peter Brady, yet I was able to live through the experience and even maintain relative popularity throughout junior high and high school. Worst case scenario, Craig would humiliate me in front of his friends, but I knew I’d live through that, too.

  I tapped him on the back and, when he turned around, said, “Hey. You’re in my Criminal Justice class, aren’t you?”

  His initial reaction was a blank stare and, feeling foolish, I pinched my arm hoping I was dreaming. But then he grinned. “Yeah, I am. I’m Craig.”

  I gave him a toothy smile, wishing I was cooler and said, “I’m Stephanie.”

  Craig extended his hand toward mine and I absently shook it while trying to think of what to say next.

  “Who do we have here, Hille?”

  I removed my hand from Craig’s and looked at his shorter friend and then back at Craig. I repeated, “Hille?”

  “No one calls me Craig,” he said. “Hille’s my last name.”

  “Who’s Craig?” joked the shorter friend.

  Hille looked from me to his friend and said, “Stephanie, this is Paul. Paul, this is Stephanie.”

  Torn between wishing he’d leave me alone to talk with Craig and relief for the facilitation of conversation, I said, “Hi, Paul.”

  His teeth as pearly white as Hille’s, only the bottom row slightly crooked, Paul smiled. “Hi, Stephanie. Haven’t seen you around these parts before.”

  I had been there for lunch once when my older brother Sam came to visit with his girlfriend Amy. Nonchalantly, I said, “I’ve been here a few times.”

  “You should come to our house parties. The more cute girls we have hanging around, the more guys who want to pledge us.” Chuckling, he said, “Not that we’d let the pledges actually speak to you. They’d be too busy manning the keg or cleaning the toilets.”

  “So, who are you here with?” Hille asked.

  “My roommate. She’s over there.” I pointed in the direction of where I had left Jana but her seat was now empty except for several rain-soaked umbrellas in varying colors and sizes. I looked back at Hille and Paul and said, “Well, she was over there.”

  “Maybe she went to the bathroom,” Hille suggested.

  “Or maybe she’s with one of the bartenders on the dirty mattress they keep downstairs with the kegs,” Paul said.

  A smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Hille said, “Ignore him. He’s a pig.”

  Hille’s scarlet lips were wet like he just bit into a juicy apple and I wanted nothing more than to ignore his friend Paul. But Paul kept talking and the more he talked, the quieter Hille became. I played along mostly because Paul was entirely responsible for keeping up the momentum of the dialogue and without him, I was afraid the conversation would implode, along with any hope of a relationship with Hille.

  “So, tell me Stephanie. Do you like live music?” Paul asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “Well, it depends on the band, I guess.”

  “Does it have to be a band? What about a solo artist?”

  I had no idea where this line of questioning was leading and wished Paul would get to his point. “Again, it depends on the artist.”

  “Well, how about this artist?” Paul put his beer down. Then he removed his Yankee baseball cap, ran his hands through his dirty blonde hair and started singing, “If it weren’t for Cotton-Eye Joe, I’d been married a long time ago. Where d
id you come from where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?”

  As he sang, he did a little jig and I looked over at Hille with my hands covering my mouth, unable to contain my laughter. Hille released a quick chuckle before shaking his head at Paul and taking another sip of his drink.