EMERSON
“Hey, friend . . .” I gave the friend all the emphasis it deserved, an excessively syrupy edge, like hard candy gone sticky from being left in the sun too long.
I just happened to be coming out of my place at the same time Lucas was stabbing his key into his lock like the door had committed some grievous offense against him and deserved to be shanked. His suit jacket was draped over one arm, and the moment he heard my voice, his eyes shot my way.
“Hey . . . ,” he started, and I could tell from the stricken look on his face he was about to launch into Apology 2.0. But he stopped when he got a look at me—a good, hard look—and the words stuck somewhere in this throat. It was exactly the reaction I’d been going for, his jaw all but dangling open. “ . . . friend,” he finally worked free. The key in his lock was totally forgotten.
So here’s the deal: it turns out I bounce back quickly.
After getting my sugar fix with Lauren at Shake Shack, I’d spent the rest of the afternoon thinking, mostly about Lucas. Well, about Aster and Lucas. And about Lucas’s and my whole friendship predicament, and how Lauren had called me a quitter.
Me. Of all people.
I’d never given up on anything in my life, not when it mattered to me. Not even when the coaches of the Blue Tiger peewee division tried to say I couldn’t play football with the boys.
I didn’t want to join the cheer squad with the other girls in my class. I came from a family that lived and breathed and bled football. And my parents, being who they were, had gone to the mat for me, backing me up as they fought the coaches’ decision to ban me.
That season, my cleats had been the pinkest and sparkliest ones on the field. And when the coach saw how fast I was, and that I worked just as hard—harder even—than most of the boys, he started me at cornerback.
Quitting wasn’t in my DNA. And that sort-of fiancée of Lucas’s—I didn’t like her. In fact, it might be petty of me, but she brought out the worst in me. That same dog-eat-dog streak I’d learned on the field, when all I’d wanted was to win.
Besides, Lucas’s friendship proposal was total bullshit.
I might only have a month left, but I couldn’t just bury my head in the sand and pretend the past eight weeks hadn’t meant anything. I wasn’t buying the fact that Lucas had only been sowing his oats because he and his sort-of fiancée were on a break for the summer.
I’d seen the way his face lit up whenever I walked into the room. I knew the way he curled around me in bed, protecting me. Cherishing me.
I saw it now, in the glazed expression as his eyes moved lower, taking in the low cut of my dress. And that’s exactly what I’d been counting on.
I was still competitive and I still wanted to win. The only difference was I’d traded my sparkly cleats for stilettos.
Score one for me.
This was no accident, me running into Lucas while I was dressed the way I was. I’d been watching for him. Waiting for just the right moment to make my appearance.
“Going out?” The top button of his shirt was already undone, but he reached up to run his finger along the inside of his collar anyway.
“Yep.” I turned back to my own door, sliding the deadbolt in place. We’d see how long he called me friend. “Now that Lauren’s gone, it gets lonely all by myself. So since you and I aren’t . . . you know . . .” I looked over my shoulder and gave him my best buddy-oh-pal shrug. “I thought I’d head over to The Dunes. See if I can find someone new to . . . you know with.”
He licked his lips, a man suddenly in desperate need of water. “We could still . . .” His mouth moved for a second before he finally worked the words out. “You know . . . ?”
As if I hadn’t seen that coming. Of course he still wanted to “you know.” We had that in common. But part of this whole winning thing meant Lucas needed to admit we were more than just friends. I needed him to tell me that even though we might not have a future, that there was something between us even he couldn’t deny.
Most importantly, I needed to hear definitively that he and Aster were no longer an issue. None of that wishy-washy crap he’d given me.
“Huh-uh. No way,” I insisted, pretending to go along with his friendship proposal. “If we’re gonna make a go of this friends thing, which I think we can, we gotta do it right. Strictly platonic.” I beamed at him as hopefully as I could manage. “You’re welcome to tag along, though. I can always use a good wingman.”
It would have been comical to see him weighing my offer, except I wanted him to tell me to shove it. There was no way he wanted to come along and watch me pick up on other guys. I wanted him to go all caveman on me, grab me up, and tell me he wasn’t letting me go anywhere, not like this. Not by myself.
I wanted him to admit we were more than friends. That he wanted to spend my last weeks here buried in the sheets with me. Buried in me.
Instead, I watched him war with himself, and I saw the moment he lost. He scowled and pulled his key from the lock, exhaling as if I’d just knocked the wind out of him. “Sure,” he said, surrendering and looking like a wounded soldier. “I guess. Just give me five seconds to change, then I’ll be . . . ,” he gritted his teeth, “ . . . your wingman.”
It was official. Lucas was the world’s lousiest wingman.
I’d never make new “friends” with Lucas shooting death glares at every last guy who tried to get within five feet of us. If my goal really had been to hook up with someone, I would have been seriously ticked. But as it was, what I really wanted was to get in Lucas’s head and under his skin.
And that part was working, too. Lucas grew pricklier and more brooding as the night went on. I watched as he pounded beer after beer after beer, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why—he intended to drink his troubles away. Maybe in hopes of drinking me away.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
I started to feel bad for this situation, for him, and I realized I might have made a mistake, bringing him here. The old me never would have cared that I was trying to bend a guy to my will. But Lucas had made me soft. Somehow he’d managed to crack my impenetrable shield.
I wanted to be heartless, but I wasn’t, not completely. I watched as his million-dollar smile dissolved into a dark, brooding scowl. My conscience pricked as his mood grew fouler. Yet there was another part of me that couldn’t help thinking it was sort of sexy, the way his intense brown eyes were trying to burn holes right through me, as if he was trying to kill me where I sat.
If only he’d cry uncle, then this stalemate could come to an end. A really satisfying end.
But it wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. Instead of admitting I was only messing with him, I rubbed salt in the wound, pointing out potential dates for myself by saying things like, “Ooh, what about that guy? He’s got a nice smile.” Or, “I like his ass.” Or the one I almost couldn’t manage to say without laughing, “That guy’s a good dancer—you know what that means?”
Poor Lucas. He did his best not to lose it. He muttered and raked his hands through his black hair, until ultimately, he ordered another beer and drained it, glaring the entire time.
I wanted to reach over and hug him. To kiss away the perma-crease beginning to form between his brows.
I wanted to climb on his lap and whisper filthy things in his ear.
Surrender! I silently screamed.
While Lucas cursed under his breath. I waved down a tall blond guy who’d been giving me the come-hither stare ever since I’d walked into the bar. The gesture was all the encouragement Blond Dude needed to make his move. Twin dimples carved their way down his cheeks, and if this were any other time I might’ve considered him a serious prospect. He gave his buddies the high sign, letting them know he’d gotten the go-ahead—hot chick, five o’clock.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Lucas slurred from over the top of the bottle he seemed to be clutching for support.
“What?” I pseudo-gasped. I managed to maintain an expression of pure cluelessness.
“Wave him off. I’m warning you, Em.”
He was past bluffing, and even though this was what I thought I’d wanted—for him to caveman up—there was something in his voice that rubbed me wrong. Something about the way he said it—the same way the coaches had told me at first that girls don’t play football. That tone shifted something in me.
This little game I’d been playing with Lucas became real, as if he’d thrown down the gauntlet. Suddenly, I was no longer bluffing.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You can’t talk to me like that. You sound like one of my brothers.”
But the alcohol must have blurred Lucas’s sense of self-preservation because he sat up straighter when he insisted, “Good. Then maybe you’ll take some brotherly advice, and tell this douchefuck to walk away, before I tell him for you.”
I sat up straighter too, no longer paying any attention to the guy who was heading directly toward us. “Douchefuck? That’s not even a thing. And since when do you have the right to tell me anything?”
“All I’m saying is, is if that guy makes it all the way to this table, I’m going to knock his teeth straight through the back of his throat.”
Blond Dude was there then, and he’d heard Lucas’s threat.
“Whoa. Hey.” He put his hands up. “Sounds like I’m interrupting something.”
I jumped up and wrapped my hands around Blond Dude’s biceps, which was far less impressive than Lucas’s, almost disappointingly so. It made it that much harder to keep up my end of the act. “Not at all. He was just giving me some brotherly advice.”
His gaze wavered from Lucas to me, probably sizing up our differences. Me, fair and blonde, while Lucas was all dark and brooding. “That dude’s your brother?”
An image of Lucas with his face buried between my thighs popped into my head, immediately sending a rush of heat flooding through me. God, why did Aster have to show up and ruin everything? “Brother? Gross. No, we’re just friends.”
Lucas’s fist tightened around his bottle. “Walk away, man.” It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it. His voice was low and menacing. Even I knew he was way past fucking around.
Blond Dude heard it too, and decided not to chance it. “Maybe another time,” he told me, shedding my hold on him as he lifted his hands in surrender. I didn’t get a second chance to convince him, he hightailed it out of there, leaving me to deal with Lucas on my own.
“Great. Thanks a lot. That one had potential.” He didn’t. After seeing him up close I’d already picked him apart. Too scrawny. Too pale. Too not-Lucas.
“I did you a favor.”
“Really? So now what, I get to go home and spend some time with my vibrator?”
Lucas shifted on his chair and his expression morphed. “Jesus, Emerson. Don’t say shit like that. You know what that does to me.” He wore a pained expression and I knew just the mention of getting myself off was making him hard. “You’re killing me.”
I made a face at him, but it was exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I wanted him to go home tonight, thinking about me, and only me. I wanted him to jerk off with my name on his lips.
“Fine.” I grabbed my beer. “Maybe I should find another table. Clearly, this whole friendship thing isn’t working out.”
“Em, no. Wait. I’m sorry. I can do this. I swear I can.” He gave me a pathetic smile, like it was taking every ounce of self-control he could muster to hold it together. He looked wounded, like a puppy dog.
A really horny, really sad puppy dog.