by Elle Wright
I stood. “That you’re hurting. I hate to see you like this.” I inched closer and grabbed his hand. “I know I can’t fix your mother, but I can be here to listen.”
He rested his forehead on mine. Unsure what to do, I brushed the tears from his face, wrapped my arms around his waist, and hugged him. And he let me. We stayed like that for a moment.
When he pulled back, he offered me a small smile. “About tonight…”
I placed my finger over his lips. “Tonight is for you. The fundraisers and the galas can wait for another day.”
He swallowed visibly, nodding. “Thanks.”
Hours later, we were seated outside on my deck, drinking a glass of Merlot. Over the course of the day, he hadn’t said much. I’d ordered pizza, which we ate while streaming the latest Marvel movie.
Watching the brilliant sunset against the beautiful Michigan sky was one of my favorite things to do. I loved the outdoors, the breeze against my skin, the sound of the wind rustling the trees, and even the rain. I felt most at peace when I was gardening or running through my favorite park.
“What is it like to have parents who were there for you, who accept you, who love you unconditionally?” he asked.
I tore my gaze from the evening sky and turned to him. I sensed he’d been struggling with what to talk about, and I was glad he’d said anything other than Thanos was a punk or I’ll take a slice of the bacon pizza. “It’s my greatest blessing,” I answered. “I wouldn’t be me without their influence and their love.”
He stared at a point behind me. “I know this sounds crazy, but I used to wish my mom would go away. I thought if she left, I could go live with my aunt full-time—or my dad.”
“Is that the aunt you were having brunch with?”
“Yeah. Aunt Dot.”
“Where was your father?”
He let out a humorless chuckle. “Dead. Both of them.”
Confused, I frowned. “Wait…”
“A couple of weeks ago, my mother told me the man I’d called Dad was not really my father.”
Wow, that’s fucked up. “Oh.”
“Go ahead and say it,” he commanded softly.
“Say what?”
“The first thing that came to mind when I told you that. That’s fucked up?”
I blinked. It was uncanny how well he knew me but didn’t really know me. I scratched the back of my neck. “Yeah, it is.”
“She said it after I poured out one of her bottles of liquor.”
“Is that why you were at the bar that day?”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“And why you didn’t take your shot?” It made perfect sense to me that Preston had never finished his drink that night.
“I don’t want to be like her,” he admitted, “using liquor to numb my pain.”
While my parents weren’t big drinkers, their families were. Family reunions would often devolve into a fist fight or an argument because someone drank too much. It was one of the reasons we didn’t spend time with our extended family. “I don’t know your mother, but from the little bit you’ve shared, I don’t think you’re anything like her.”
“You don’t know that. Today, I went there to talk. But things went left. I got so angry. When she started hitting me, I couldn’t control my rage. I punched a hole in the wall.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned how he’d gotten the bruise on his jaw. “You didn’t hit her. Show yourself some grace. You’ve been dealt a blow, Preston. Your world has been turned upside down. It’s okay to not be okay.”
He set his glass down on the ground. “I’m not.”
“I get it. Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Did your mother tell you who your real father is?”
His eyes closed and he let out a slow breath. “No, but my aunt told me who it could be. And when I confronted my mother about it today, that’s when things took a turn.”
“You mentioned that both of your fathers are dead. So, the man who could be your father died too?”
“A few years ago. Apparently, he was a monster. A criminal, an adulterer, a liar…” His jaw tightened. “What does that make me?”
“It makes you Preston Hayes Jr. I know I said I wouldn’t be who I was without my parents, but you’re who you are in spite of your parents. What they’ve done or didn’t do doesn’t define you.”
He stared at me. “You have that much faith in me?”
“Not really,” I joked. “Just kidding.”
“His name was Parker Wells Sr.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Do you know him?”
“I know his kids.”
He sat up. “Really? How do you know them?”
I explained the connection. Blake’s good friend, Ryleigh, had married Martin Sullivan, who owned a business with Carter Marshall, who was married to Brooklyn Wells. I’d actually hung out with them a couple of times and had even visited Wellspring. “It’s a small world.”
“It is. Will you do me a favor?” Preston asked if I could contact Brooklyn. He wanted to meet with her and her brothers.
I agreed to call her first thing in the morning. “I’ll let you know when I hear back from her.”
He relaxed against the chaise again. “Thanks for this,” he murmured.
I looked over at him and smiled. “No need to thank me.”
“No, really. You didn’t have to open your home to me, let me cry on your shoulder, or agree to help me.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I might be unengaged sometimes, but I’m not rude.”
He laughed. “I guess not.”
“Don’t get too comfortable, though, because I might not like you next week.”
Preston snickered. “I guess I should be grateful, huh? Does this mean we’re friends now?”
“I…” My mouth fell open. “What? Why would you say that?”
He eyed me skeptically. “Don’t think I don’t know you like to call me your sorta friend.”
Shit. I feigned innocence, placing a hand to my chest. “Me? Who told you that?”
“No comment.”
I made a mental note to kick Coop the next time I saw him. “Okay, you got me. I don’t make friends easily,” I confessed.
“No, really?” The sexy smirk on his lips let me know he was being sarcastic.
I tossed a throw pillow at him. “Seriously. It’s no small feat that I let you in.”
“Your house?” he asked.
I felt a blush work its way up my neck. I’d let him into my body too. But I wasn’t about to open that door again. “Of course.”
“You still didn’t have to help me.”
“I did. Besides, you’re my fake boyfriend.” The word fake left a bad taste in my mouth. This thing between us felt too big for fake, but there wasn’t another category for it.
“Is that what I am?”
I lifted a brow. “Is this a trick question?”
He smiled then. A real, full smile. And my stomach flipped. “No.”
Finishing the rest of my wine, I stood. “I should probably clean up.”
He followed me inside. “Heaven forbid you don’t throw out the two paper plates from dinner.”
“Oh! You got jokes. Does this mean I can stop being nice to you?”
Preston broke down the empty pizza boxes while I wiped the table down. “Now that you mention it, I actually prefer you to be nice-nasty.”
I cracked up. “Nice and nasty?”
His smile faded and his gaze fell to my lips. “Or nice and naughty.”
No matter what, do not kiss him.
Preston inched closer. The air around us changed, and my lighthearted mood faded to horny as hell under his hooded stare. “Dallas,” he whispered. “I don’t think you realize what tonight meant to me.”
One night. One fuck. And I’d already had that, so this should be a non-issue. But damn, he smelled so good. The heat from his body made me want to lean into him, to wrap
my arms—and my legs—around him.
“I know the fundraiser was important to you,” he continued, “and I appreciate that you didn’t hesitate to skip the event for me.”
How about two nights, two fucks? I blew out a shaky breath. “I told you to stop thanking me. It’s not necessary.”
He brushed his hands up my arms, over my shoulders and neck, to my face. Every touch of his fingers ignited something inside me. I was helpless, lost in my desire for him. “You’re so beautiful.” He circled my nose with his. “So damn sexy.”
I shuddered as his words washed over me. The ability to reason with myself flew out the window. When he’d come to me, I’d wanted to ease his pain. Now I wanted something else. Him. Naked. Now. “Please,” I gasped when he tugged me closer, and my body crashed against his.
“Please what?”
I stepped on the tips of my toes and kissed him. Because…I wanted his lips on mine. And his body. I broke the kiss, cupping his chin in my palm. “Take my clothes off,” I breathed. “And yours too.”
Before I could tell him where I wanted him to take me, he wrapped one strong arm around my waist and set me on the countertop. His lips were everywhere—on my mouth, on my cheeks, on my ears, on my neck—as he pulled my shirt up and off. My pants were next, then my panties.
He rubbed his nose over my ear, then whispered, “Be very sure, Dallas.”
My heart pounded in my chest. The question wasn’t hard to answer, but my reply would definitely change the dynamic at play. I could stop this, and maybe our tentative friendship would remain intact. Or I could keep going and have a delicious orgasm.
“Dallas?” His hand slipped between my legs and his fingers brushed my clit.
Damn. My body burned with need, screaming its answer loud and clear before I whispered, “I’m sure.”
Preston tugged his shirt off and dropped his pants. Seconds later, he was inside me. We made slow love, different from the first time. It was torture, really. Because I knew it couldn’t last. It was so easy to lose myself in him, in us. It felt like we were destined to do this, meant to spend more nights like this. I let out a hoarse cry when I came, gasping for breath as my orgasm pulsed through me. Preston followed me over, moaning my name.
A moment later, he bit down on my shoulder gently and stood. Immediately, I missed his warmth and wanted to pull him back. So I did. I grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward, wrapping my legs around him.
He placed a sweet kiss to my lips. “Ask me to stay?”
The doorbell went off, startling me. “Shit,” I muttered, sliding off the counter. “Who the fuck is that?”
Preston pulled on his jeans while I rushed to the other side of the kitchen island to grab my clothes. I scrambled to get dressed and hurried to the door. I peered through the peephole and rested my forehead against the door. Glancing back at him, I gave him a once-over to make sure he was fully dressed. He was. Then, I opened the door.
Demi shouted, “I’m here!” before she hugged me. “Why are you sweating?” She surveyed me. “And why are your pants on backward?”
I looked down at my pants. “Um…”
She brushed past me. “I figured I’d surprise you, because you need my… Oh, damn.” My best friend looked at me, then Preston. “I probably should’ve called first.”
He greeted Demi and walked toward me. “I’d better go.”
In the background, Demi pointed at Preston and started twerking. I rolled my eyes at her and faced him. “Okay.”
Leaning closer, he whispered, “Just so you know, we’re not finished here.”
I didn’t comment on that. Instead, I patted his shoulder. “Okay. Drive safe.”
He smirked. “Yeah, okay.”
I watched him jog to his car. A moment later, I closed the door. Three, two, one…
“This is just business,” Demi teased, mocking my stance from the beginning of this ruse.
I groaned. “Shut up.” I stalked over to the kitchen and poured us both healthy glasses of wine. I handed her the glass. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“I thought I’d come early to help my friend figure out her shit.” Demi’s eyes flickered with amusement as she sipped her Merlot. “But after what I just witnessed, I’m thinking you don’t need me.”
I padded over to the couch and plopped down. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Shiiiittt, we’re definitely talking about this.” She grabbed the bag of Chicago Mix popcorn on my counter and joined me on the sofa. “I need to know how you went from business to fucking.” She froze. “I hope I’m not sitting in the wet spot.”
I cracked up. “You’re a damn fool.”
She arched a brow. “Am I?”
I eyed her over the rim of my glass. “The wet spot is probably on the counter,” I mumbled. Note to self: Sanitize that countertop before bed.
Demi stood up and did the running man. “Alright, nah. That’s what I’m talking about.” She fell back on the cushion. “Ooh.” She blew out a breath. “That’s not as easy as it once was.”
“Girl, it was never easy.”
She munched on the popcorn. “What is happening between you and Hottie Hayes?”
“Nothing. It was just a slip-up.”
“Oh, so you just slipped on his dick?” She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under the blanket I kept on my sofa. “You’re so full of shit.”
“What? I had a lapse in judgment. I get one per year.”
“Ah, so you’re still full of shit.” She took another sip. “It’s okay, girlfriend. Good sex is always appropriate.”
“I can’t stand you.”
“You love me.”
Demi was right. I loved the hell out of her. We’d met during an Introduction to Fencing class right before my eleventh birthday and had bonded. While I’d enjoyed the sport, and had even competed, Demi had hated it. But we stayed friends, even after she’d quit and taken up swimming instead.
Earlier, I’d told Preston I didn’t make friends easily. I meant that. When I met Demi, though, she’d offered me a level of acceptance that rivaled my own siblings. She understood me and had never tried to change me. I felt comfortable opening up to her, sharing things about myself that I couldn’t tell anyone else. And vice versa. She was more than my friend. She was my sister, ranking right up there with Paityn, Blake, and Bliss.
We spent the next half an hour catching up from the last time we’d talked—which was earlier in the day. But it always seemed like so much life happened between our daily conversations.
“Okay, sis.” Demi folded her arms. “You’ve managed to avoid this, but dammit, I want to know. It’s not like you to backtrack, but you did with Preston. Does this mean you like him?”
“Today I did,” I said matter-of-factly. “You’ve seen him. He’s hot.”
“Girl, yes he is.” Demi reached over and gave me a high-five. “That ass.”
“And those lips.” Just thinking about his mouth made me want to kick Demi out and call him back over. “But he’s just a friend.”
“So, friends who fuck is a thing. We both have been there, done that. Yet, I’m sensing that isn’t the case with him.”
The fact that my best friend knew me so well was not shocking. Annoying, but not shocking. I wouldn’t categorize what had happened between Preston and I as a simple friends-with-benefits arrangement. At the same time, I was hesitant to call it something more. “Well, it’s not…” I let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t actually know what it is. But it won’t happen again.”
“I don’t doubt that you believe that. I’m just not sure I do.”
I shrugged. “Well, watch me work. I know how to have sex and keep it moving.”
“Not always,” she countered.
I finished my glass of wine. “That isn’t what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Babe, you know I think you’re a rock star.”
“But…?”
I gaped, hitting her with a pillow. “Will you stop staying that? I am not.”
“Okay, maybe not full of shit. But you’re definitely running.”
“I told you, I’m not.”
“Zeke died.”
“Don’t talk about him.” I stood, marching back into the kitchen and topping off my glass again. I gathered myself for a moment. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Zeke. It had been five years since the accident that had claimed his life and I still felt the pain as if it were yesterday.
Demi walked over to me. “Fine, I won’t say anything else—after I say this.”
I met her gaze. “What?”
“You’ve been closing yourself off ever since he died. It’s almost like you’re punishing yourself for something you had no control over.”
My vision blurred and my chest tightened. And my heart… The mere mention of his name always seemed to elicit this reaction, this searing ache in my chest, the overwhelming despair, and the crushing guilt. Ezekiel Reid. Our relationship had burned hot and heavy for years in secret, then had crashed and burned because I wasn’t ready. I’d broken up with him the day he’d died in a car accident, and I’d regretted my actions every day since that fateful night. Because I had loved him, but I’d been too busy and too scared to do it publicly.
“I’m done with this conversation.” I left her standing there and returned to my position on the sofa. “Enough about me, why are you staying so long?” She’d told me earlier she planned to stay in town for a couple of weeks.
Demi looked like she wanted to say more, but as always, she respected my wishes. “I’m actually thinking of moving back,” she announced. A little over a year ago, Demi had made the decision to move her practice to the west coast. I always knew the decision was more about getting away from here than wanting to be in California. But I’d supported her anyway.
“Why?” I asked.
She picked at her fingernail. “It’s hard, being away from family.” She scratched her temple. “From y’all, really.”
Demi had grown up in the Metro Detroit suburb of Romulus, which was approximately twenty miles from Ann Arbor. Her parents had divorced when she was eight years old, after years of bitterness, abuse, and lies.
