Chapter Ten

TUCKER

Emma: I really don’t think making pizza classifies as making dinner. We need to choose something that challenges us.

Tucker: Pizza is challenging when made drunk. Pick up lots of booze; it will be a fun game.

Emma: We are not cooking drunk, you’re just asking to set your house on fire, and then where would that put us? Looking at Playboys together under a bridge while sharing a sleeping bag for shelter.

Tucker: That doesn’t sound exciting to you?

Emma: Not even in the slightest.

Tucker: Fine, no pizza. How about goulash? That’s simple and doesn’t require having to be drunk.

Emma: Can we have garlic bread with it?

Tucker: I would be pissed if you came home without it.

Emma: Will you judge me if I eat half of the loaf?

Tucker: Will you judge me if I lick the sauce jar clean?

Emma: I think we just established a judgment-free zone. Can you attest to this?

Tucker: Attested.

Emma: Good. We shall convene at six. Bring your cooking pants.

I pocket my phone and direct my attention back at the plans in front of me. Thankfully we were able to get the basic structures of the homes we’ve been working on completed before the cold weather rolled in. Now into the thick of things, we’re making sure plumbing and electrics are carefully installed. It’s tedious work, but luckily we have a system, and once plumbing and electrics are completed, then we can start hammering away on floors, walls, moldings, and all the fun aesthetic stuff homeowners like to fawn over.

A strong arm claps me on the back and I turn to see Racer and Smalls walk up behind me. “Drywall is up on the second floor.” Racer runs his hand through his hair, spiking up the mussed-up strands.

“Patched and primed?” I ask.

“Patched. Not primed yet. We ran out of primer.”

“Carlos didn’t order more?”

Racer shakes his head and turns to Smalls. “You don’t have any extra from the Waverly house, do you?”

Smalls removes a cloth from the back of his pocket and wipes down his face. “No, we used every last drop.”

Grunting to myself, I shoot a text to Carlos to get his ass on the primer. How the hell does a construction company run out of primer? I like having more responsibilities with my job and I’m not going to lie, I like the paycheck, but it does mean I have to deal with idiots, Carlos being one of them. I swear, being a manager of sorts is more handholding than anything. It’s like I’m the parent of a bunch of grown-ass boys who should know how to do their jobs.

Once I finish texting Carlos, I say, “We should have some soon. We better actually, or I might have to tie Carlos up on the banister by his nuts.” I toss the pencil I’ve been scribbling with all day on the table in front of me and stretch my neck from side to side. “How the fuck do we run out of primer?”

Smalls and Racer exchange looks.

“He’s not in a good mood,” Smalls says, ignoring my question.

“He was in a good mood until he found out about the primer. You have to admit, if this happened two days ago, he would be tossing cinder blocks at innocent workers.”

“Cinder block-tosser for sure,” Smalls confirms with a nod of his head.

Irritated with their little conversation, I say, “What the hell are you two talking about?”

“Oh, come on, when was the last time we had a Little Debbie date? I haven’t suckled on her sugary teet in so damn long because you’ve been in a bitchy mood.” Racer pokes my shoulder.

“Yeah, you’ve been a real bitch,” Smalls tacks on.

Staring between my two friends, I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m the bitch? When you two are crying over not sitting around like a couple of gossiping hens after work and partaking in lard-filled treats?”

They sit there for a second and think over my words. Racer looks up at me and with a straight face says, “They’re not all lard-filled. Cosmic Brownies, Nutty Bars, PB Crunch Bars, and Fig Bars are lard free and just as tasty.” Racer hops off the table and presses his hand against my arm. “Seriously, dude, do you need to talk to us? Vent a little? What can we do to help?”

Smalls grabs my other shoulder and adds, “What can we do to bring back our Little Debbie dates?”

Christ. I run my hand over my face and step back from the two large men closing in on my space. “I’ve just been . . . “ What have I been? Stressed? Not really. Upset? Not so much. Irritated? Maybe a little. “I’ve been irritated with things.”

“What things?” Racer presses. “Your mom?”

“What? No. Why would you ask about her?”

Racer shrugs timidly. “She’s one of your hot-button issues. Didn’t know if she was the cause.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t remember the last time I talked to her. This has nothing to do with my mom.” My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reach for it, hoping it’s Carlos telling me when he will have primer back on the job site.

“Then who is this about?”

I open the text message and my irritation grows.

Emma: Soooo . . . are you opposed to having Logan over for dinner as well? We have some studying to do and I kind of invited him. I hope you’re not mad.

Fucking Logan. That kid. I inwardly roll my eyes. After the rocky few days I’ve had with Emma, I was hoping to have this night with her to repair our friendship. I still feel on edge around her and a night of joking around, making a meal together, could have helped bandage some of the awkwardness between us. But now . . .

Logan.

Jesus.

“Uh, I’m going to guess your bitchy pants is due to . . .” Racer leans over and looks at my phone, “Emma. Am I right?”

“Who’s Emma?” Smalls leans over as well, trying to catch a glimpse of my phone. I swear they’re like two nosey little sisters I can’t shed.

“Emma is his roommate; I told you about her. The hot nurse we have yet to meet.” Turning to me, Racer asks, “When are we going to meet her?”

Knowing they’re not going to give up this conversation, I capitulate. “I got in it the other night with Emma. We were having a good time, looking at a Playboy—”

“That’s hot,” Racer says.

“And I don’t even know how it came up, but we started talking about Sadie.”

In sync, both Racer and Smalls cringe and say, “Damn.”

“Yeah, it didn’t go over well, I ended up snapping at her and ending the night abruptly. I then proceeded to evade talking to her for a week, hating every second of it, but I was so damn mad at what she said. And being the not so mentally healthy individual I am, I clearly had no idea how to fix the situation once I went silent on her.”

“I’m afraid to hear, but what did she say?” Smalls asks.

I look around the house and notice everyone is focused on their work. “She said I wasn’t the right man for Sadie, that we weren’t meant to end up together. Honestly, I don’t think anyone should have an opinion on the matter beside Sadie and myself. It pissed me off that she so easily made such a shitty statement.”

Racer and Smalls both exchange glances with each other. It almost seems like they’re trying to gain the courage to say something, but I stop them before they ruin our friendship.

“I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.” I let out a long breath and grab the back of my neck.

“Fair enough.” Racer shifts in place, his hands slipping in his pockets. “Since your attitude has brightened slightly, I’m going to guess you worked things out?”

“Yeah, for the most part. We both apologized. She cried a lot. And then we fell asleep . . .” She fell asleep quickly. I, on the other hand, soaked in the night with her pressed against me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the feel of a woman in my arms again, but what I really enjoyed was the feeling of not being alone. There is something to be said about human connection. There was nothing sexual about our night together; it was strictly platonic . . . just two friends—consenting adults—engaged in some solid spooning. Nothing wrong with that.

“Why did you trail off like that?” Smalls asks. “Did you fuck her?”

“No. Jesus, man. We just slept. I don’t see Emma like that. She’s a friend, that’s it.” Except when she’s trying out poses from Playboy, showing off all her best attributes. Shit, I can still see that perfect little ass of hers up in the air.

“All right, so things are good now with you two, right?” Racer asks. “So why is your brow creased from looking at a text from her?”

I sigh. Dinner with Emma and Logan. Seems like torture. “Because, we were supposed to have a dinner thing tonight and she’s bringing her friend I don’t like.”

“Her friend?” Smalls wiggles his eyebrows. “A fuck buddy?”

I smack his arm. “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s not always about sex.” Logan better not be her fuck buddy. She is so much better than him. Granted, I don’t know him all that well, but he’s a tool. “They’re just friends.”

“She seems to have a lot of ‘friends’.” Racer uses air quotes and it takes all the strength in my body not to pummel him to the ground. These idiots are not helping at all. Usually I welcome their company but for some reason, talking about Emma with them is not sitting well.

I look down at my watch. “Time for you dickheads to get back to work.” I snag my clipboard from the table and make my way to the stairs. I’m going to check out their drywall job, maybe fuck it up a bit so they have to redo it. That’s the kind of mood I’m in.

“You’re so sensitive these days,” Racer says as he chases after me, Smalls closing in behind him. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were developing feelings for this chick.”

That makes me stop my ascent. Spinning on my heels, I look down at Racer and Smalls who have shit-eating grins on their faces. Christ.

“I don’t have feelings for Emma. I’m just protective, I always have been. She’s a good girl and deserves the best, especially after having to put up with all the bullshit our group of friends put her through.”

“And her friend she’s bringing to dinner doesn’t meet your standards?”

“No,” I answer flatly and make my way up the rest of the stairs.

Who knows? Logan could be the greatest fucking guy on the planet but I’m not feeling his vibe. There’s something there, I just don’t know what it is. Call it a friend’s intuition. Call it male intuition.

Once on the second floor, I examine the drywall job. I know I don’t have to, their craftsmanship is impeccable, but I feel like paying back the favor and pushing their buttons, like they’re pushing mine.

“Shit patching,” I mutter and pretend to write something down on my clipboard.

“The fuck it is.” Smalls walks up to the wall and starts running his hand over it. Racer stands to the side, reading my bullshit.

With his arms crossed over his chest, he says, “So you don’t want to be alone with Emma and her friend. Fair enough, invite us over for dinner to be a buffer.”

“Oh, I like dinner,” Smalls chimes in.

That actually isn’t such a bad idea.

“All right, you can come to dinner.” They both fist-pump but I hold up my hand. “On a few conditions; you dickheads bring your own booze.”

“Easy,” Racer remarks.

“And there will be zero tolerance of you hitting on Emma. She’s off limits.”

“Well, fuck.” Racer lets out a long huff of air. “There goes my hot-nurse fantasy. I was looking to fake an injury tonight.”

I point my pen at Racer. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

When I walk away, I hear Racer and Smalls high-five and then say, “We finally get to see where he lives.”

Shit. I’m going to need more folding chairs.

***

“Ohhhh, Tucker. I love what you’ve done with the place,” Racer coos in womanly voice, holding a pack of beer to his chest, acting like an idiot.

“Just get the fuck inside.” I grab his shirt and yank him in the door. Smalls follows in behind him. “You two are late.”

“Smalls forgot to put deodorant on. We had to stop at Price Chopper so princess could smell like a ship sailing into bay.”

Smalls moves past me and says, “It’s actually Swagger Red Zone scent.” He lifts his arm in my face and asks, “Want to take a sniff?”

Scrambling with his arm, I push him away and say, “Christ, no. Just get in the fucking house.”

I shut the door behind us and turn to see Smalls and Racer both taking in the empty space. “Wow, man. Going for the minimalist look?” He turns to me and gives me a thumbs up. “Nailing it.”

I push past both of them and turn around so my voice doesn’t carry through the empty house. “They’re in Emma’s room right now doing a little bit of studying. Don’t be assholes, don’t hit on Emma, and for the love of Christ, don’t take off your pants at any point in time.”

“We’re not fucking untrained dogs about to pull out our wild whizzers and piss all over your walls,” Racer protests.

“Speak for yourself.” Smalls starts to unbuckle his pants. “I haven’t had a good piss on a wall in a long time and these plain Janes are calling my name.”

Giving him the death glare, I whack his hands away from unzipping his jeans. “I’m not fucking kidding. Behave yourselves or else I’m putting you on dumpster duty for the next month.”

“Settle down.” Racer pats my shoulder, a fucking twinkle in his eyes I don’t appreciate. “We’re going to be on our best behavior. Now, are you going to give us the grand tour?”

Taking a deep breath, I concede, giving them the nickel tour, scratch that, I give them the penny tour. “Living room, dining room, kitchen is through that door, bathroom is right there along with Emma’s room; upstairs is my bedroom and the room off to the left is off limits.” Growing serious, my voice lower, I say, “Don’t ask to go in there. Got it?”

Either from the tone of my voice, or the look in my eyes, they both nod in understanding. We may give each other a hard time whenever we get the chance but when it matters, we understand one another.

Emma’s door opens and she filters out, bringing her girly scent with her. “I thought I heard voices.” Adorably she waves and holds her hand out to Racer. “Hi, I’m Emma.” Racer gives her a quick once-over before stepping forward to take her hand.

“Racer, nice to meet you, darling.” From his term of endearment, Racer winks at me. Fucker. He’s always been a big flirt.

Emma turns to Smalls and her eyes widen slightly from his intimidating size. “Emma, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Aaron, but everyone calls me Smalls.”

She takes his hand and then laughs. “Yeah, because that nickname really suits you.” Turning to me, she claps her hands and says, “Are we ready to make some goulash?” Shit, she is cute.

“Pasta is cooking as we speak. We just need to brown the meat and dump the sauce in.”

“Lovely. Logan is finishing up on a chapter and then he’ll be out here. Boys, why don’t you make yourself at home.” She gestures to the dining room table that I added a few chairs to and then grabs my hand and leads me to the kitchen.

Whispering under her breath, she leans close to me and says, “That Aaron guy is huge. Does he use his fist as a hammer at work?”

“Only on Fridays.” I wink and pull out the pan for the meat.

“Seriously he’s—”

“Do you have a bottle opener?” Smalls asks, making a motion with his hand. “The beer isn’t a twisty top.”

I pull the bottle opener magnet off the fridge and toss it at Smalls. “Beer shouldn’t have twisty tops, dude.”

“They’re easier,” he mumbles and walks out of the kitchen.

Face bright red, Emma buries her head in my back and says, “Oh my God, he almost heard me talking about him. How embarrassing.”

I chuckle and put the beef in the pan. “He wouldn’t have cared. Probably would have loved to hear how big you think he is.”

“Still, ahh, he’s huge.”

Pulling her from behind me, I put her in front of the stove with a wooden spoon and lean down to her ear. “If you keep talking about how big Smalls is, you’re going to give me a complex.”

I start toward the basement door when Emma asks, “Hey, where are you going?”

“To do some bench pressing, lift some weights, bulk up so I can keep up.”

Laughing, she pulls me back toward the stove. “Oh stop. You know you’re a beefcake.”

From behind her, I lean over her shoulder and help her stir the beef, loving how unexpectedly easy it feels with her again. It’s all Emma, though. I know I’m a stubborn shit. “Beefcake, huh? I’m going to have to put that on my résumé right next to DJ Hot Cock.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she mutters and shakes her head.

I step away and open the fridge. “Thirsty? I can offer you a beer or make you a drink.”

“Water is fine.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Water won’t do, Emma. Rule number one.”

“Man, you’re a stickler with these rules.”

“You bet your pretty little ass I am.” Her face immediately blushes sending a surge of pride to my chest. Odd, never thought causing Emma to so innocently blush would affect me, but I guess I was wrong. “Now what will it be? Beer or should I make you an Old Fashioned?”

Turning away from the meat, she considers her options. “Hmm, let’s go with the Old Fashioned.”

“That’s my girl. Two Old Fashioneds coming up.” Knowing I should be a good person even though I don’t want to, I ask, “Do you think Logan will want one as well?”

“Want what?” His voice trails into the kitchen, pulling my gaze to the doorway. He’s wearing jeans, a Binghamton University T-shirt, and for some unknown reason, just his presence in this moment with Emma annoys me.

Pushing my feelings aside, I say, “I’m making Emma an Old Fashioned. Want one? Or a beer?”

“Ah, no drinking for me. Just water. We still have some studying to do, right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Sounds like fucking rusty gears grinding coming from his mouth.

Answering for Emma, even though I know she should and can talk for herself, I say, “Emma is done studying for the night. She promised me one night a week free of studying, just relaxing, and that’s tonight.”

The look on Logan’s face doesn’t read happy or even pleased. He glances at Emma who is happily smiling and nodding.

“It’s rule number one.” She shrugs as if it’s common sense that Logan should know this and starts pushing the beef around in the pan again.

“Uh, okay. I guess I’ll take a beer then.”

I reach into the fridge and gently toss him a bottle of mine, knowing Racer is not keen on sharing with strangers. “Bottle opener is in the dining room with my buds. Dinner will be ready soon.” And with that, I dismiss him.

And what’s really weird? He leaves us.

Rule number three, Emma and I are supposed to cook a meal together once a week. This isn’t a threesome.

I finish making our drinks and give Emma hers. She takes a sip and quietly moans to herself as the liquid slips down her throat. Shit, she sounds so sweet.

“So good and a little strong. What are you trying to do, Tucker? Turn this into a drunken orgy?”

“Fuck, no. Way too much dick out there for that.”

She takes another sip from her glass and nods her head. “You’re right, it would be a bit of a sausage fest. Although, if I use every part of my body, I could make it work. Three holes and two hands. Hell, I could add one more guy to the mix.”

I spit out my drink, literally spit it out spraying the counter and the floor in the process. Whiskey drips from my chin as I look at my innocent, sweet friend. “What the ever-living fuck, Emma?”

Her laugh echoes through the kitchen. The sound is so pure to my ears, the crinkle in her eyes so beautiful, and the stretch of her smile, amusing.

“Oh my God, the look on your face.” She wipes joyful tears from under her eyes. “That was fantastic.”

Uh, so not fucking fantastic.

“Rule number seven, you’re not allowed to joke about orgies and all the holes you have.” I run my hand over my face with a towel. “Fuck.”

Still laughing, she says, “It seems like these rules are starting to become one-sided.”

I toss the towel at her, which she expertly catches. “My house, my rules, babe. Don’t forget, I’m still your landlord.”

“More like slumlord.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow at her. “Excuse me?”

Giggling to herself, she stirs the beef some more and then says, “I think we’re ready for the sauce.”

“I think your rent just went from one dollar to two after that slumlord comment.”

I hand her the opened jars of spaghetti sauce so she can pour them in the pan. “Pretty sure I can handle the increase, which is an absurd one-hundred percent upcharge in rent by the way.”

“Never said I was fair.”

I walk over to her, wrap my arm around her shoulders from behind, and kiss the top of her head. As she leans into my side, something about it feels so right. Easy. It feels as though we have been this affectionate for years. Weird.

“Hurry up with the sauce. I’m going to put in the garlic bread. I’m starving.”