“Are you avoiding me?” Desi’s voice rings out through the red hangar, prompting me to lift my head without thinking and rap it smartly on the underside of the Cessna’s wing.
“Shit.” I rub a hand over the top of my head.
“Now, I know I was poking pins in the Voodoo doll I have to punish you for avoiding me, but I didn’t think it would actually work.”
“Very funny,” I say as I roll my eyes, step away from the plane, and wipe my hands on a rag.
Desi stands with her hands on her hips, head angled to the side, and a scarf that looks like a rainbow threw up all over it wrapped around her neck. It’s ridiculous and bright and girly, but she pulls it off and makes it look uniquely fashionable.
“So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
She huffs, as if she’s trying to explain thermonuclear dynamics to a kindergartner, and takes a step forward. “Avoiding me. Not taking my calls. Not returning my calls. Pretending like Grant never called me two nights ago and told me not to show up at the bar because he was going to otherwise occupy your time. You know”—she shrugs—“that kind of avoiding me.”
“No.” I avert my eyes and finish wiping off the windshield of the plane with Windex to—yes—avoid her. “I’ve just been busy.”
Her laugh is rich and bounces off the concrete floor and echoes back to me. “Like bow-chick-a-wow-wow kind of busy?”
I level her with a glare. “You’re so childish.”
“And you refuse to admit you slept with Grant.” She’d be a really good interrogator. I don’t plan on telling her that.
“Who said I slept with Grant?” I feign innocence, trying to keep the act up for some reason.
“You did.”
“I did not.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If I haven’t spoken to you, then I obviously haven’t told you I slept with him.”
“Your silence speaks volumes.” She purses her lips as if victorious, and all I can do is attempt to follow her messed-up logic.
“Silence doesn’t speak.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. It can scream sometimes, and honey, yours is louder than a sonic boom.” I lower my hands from where I’ve moved on to the side windows and just shake my head. “Admit it. I need to hear it.”
Another glare. A repeated sigh. A confession that I’m not sure why I’m keeping so close to the vest when I usually share everything with her.
“Yes, I slept with Grant.”
“Woohoo!” She pumps her fists and jumps up and down as if I just completed an Ironman. “I knew it. He had sex all over his voice when he called me. It was so damn hot I almost had to get myself off.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you got laid. So . . .” She pats the makeshift bench of a two-by-six piece of wood sitting atop two spaced out sawhorses. “You better not leave out a damn bit of detail.”
“You really want a blow-by-blow?”
“Ohh, you naughty girl!” She screeches. “You blew him, too. I love it!”
“No—I—oh my God, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“So, you didn’t blow him?”
“Desi!”
“Yes, that just means there’s going to be another time to explore all other avenues you haven’t ventured down yet.”
“Slow down, Turbo,” I say as I put some of my supplies back on the cleaning cart before taking a seat beside her. “It wasn’t like you’re thinking.”
“It wasn’t?” she asks, her smirk only growing wider. “Was it more swing from the chandeliers or more gasp for breath because your face is pushed into the mattress because he feels so good from behind?”
“Jesus,” I choke out but shouldn’t expect any less from her.
“Did you satisfy your curiosity then?”
“You know what they say about curiosity . . .”
“It killed the cat, yeah, yeah. But honey, by the grin on your face, I know your kitty meowed. A lot.”
“How about you stop or else you don’t get any details.”
Her face falls, and I know I’ve hurt her feelings when I didn’t mean to. I love the woman to death but subtlety is not her forte and overboard dramatics definitely are.
“Okay. I’ll shut my mouth so you can give me the 4-1-1.”
I laugh. We’ll see how long that lasts. “I don’t know,” I begin. “We had some drinks. We talked for a few hours. We were too tipsy to drive so we walked back to his house. On the way, we decided that if we got each other out of our systems, we might be able to stop this nonsense competition we seem to be in over who has to be in control. A one-time romp with no strings attached.”
“Get each other out of your systems?” She guffaws and just barely manages not to laugh at the idea. “Because that’s what normal childhood friends do when they reunite after twenty years.”
“Reunite? Is that what it’s called?”
“I am trying to be good here. What word should I use to describe it?”
“How about ‘fucked’?” She isn’t the only one who can deliver the shock value, and by the way she just choked on her next word, I’d say I was successful at it.
“Fucked. I can approve of that word.” She laughs. “But the question remains: Did it work? Did you get each other out of your systems?”
I stare at her as I try to figure out how to answer.
Of course it didn’t work. Being with him once only left me wanting more. Pride prevents me from acknowledging that every time my phone rings, I jump to see if it’s him, only to chastise myself that it doesn’t matter if it is.
One time. That’s all it can be.
My rule. Not his.
And I hate that the only time we’ve talked was when he called to apologize for his brothers showing up unannounced.
“So, the one-time thing,” she continues on, well aware that I haven’t responded to her last question. “Was this his rule or yours? My bet is on you.”
“You’d be correct. Don’t act so surprised.” I swat at her arm.
“I’m not surprised by the rule, I’m just surprised you fell for it.” She swats my arm right back and gives me a look that makes me think she’s privy to some type of knowledge that I’m clearly not.
“What does that mean?”
“You guys have been playing Control Wars for what? Two, three weeks?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Don’t you find it awfully convenient that, all of a sudden, he let you call the shots when he’s been vying for the top?”
“Are you saying he played me?” I hate that the coin she’s just put in the slot drops down and hits with a loud, ricocheting clank.
“You’re damn straight he did. Damn brilliantly, too.”
She laughs, and her face has an incredulous expression on it I don’t really feel like recognizing.
The smug bastard.
“Are you complaining about the outcome?” she asks after I sit quietly for a moment.
“Uh, no,” I finally say. How could I complain about the skill of his hands and lips and marvelous cock?
“No?”
“Absolutely not,” I assert.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to call him and chew him out?” And she’s right. I feel like doing just that even though there is no reason to because we both got what we wanted out of our little rendezvous, didn’t we?
“I’m not,” I concede.
“Good. You shouldn’t be mad because he one-upped you.”
“Are you trying to rub my nose in it?”
“Nope.” She blows a bubble with her gum and it pops with a smack. “I’m just thrilled that someone finally beat you at your own game.”
“I do believe that’s rubbing my nose in it.”
“Semantics.” She grins with a shrug. “So . . . was all this trouble worth it?” She lifts her eyebrows, and the blush on my cheeks and laugh on my lips tells her all she needs to know.
“Definitely worth it.”
“For a girl all about the orgasm, that says a lot.” There’s the sound of a plane’s prop starting in the distance, and she waits a moment to continue. “We always get sidetracked when it comes to Grant and talk about all the swooniness that is him . . . are you ever going to tell me why the two of you stopped being friends in the first place?”
“No reason.” I rise from my seat and head to the cart where I fiddle with things that don’t need to be fiddled with.
“C’mon. There has to be a reason.”
“I moved away.” It isn’t a lie. “It doesn’t matter. He and I would never work anyway.”
“I didn’t know you wanted it to.”
“I don’t. I mean—It wouldn’t—” I stop talking because I sound like a bumbling fool.
“Why wouldn’t it work?” she asks. All I want her to do is drop it, which I know she won’t. She’s sunk her teeth into the point she’s trying to make and won’t let go until this conversation has played itself out.
“He’s a player, Des. I’m a player. There’s disaster written all over that,” I say as I turn to look at her.
“You two could play together.” I roll my eyes at her lame sense of humor. “But he chased you, Em. Players don’t chase.”
“Ha. They chase until they get what they want and then they’re done. Besides, he didn’t chase.”
“Keep thinking that, sister, and I’ll sell you some ocean front property in Arizona.” I level her with a side-eyed look. “Fine. I’ll be quiet. Tell me how you guys left things.”
“Other than saying it was a one-time thing, we really didn’t leave it any way.”
“There was no goodbye. No walk you to your car afterward? No, call me later?”
“No.” I shift my feet because she’s going to see right through this in a heartbeat. “He left for his shift at the break of dawn.”
She leans forward, eyes wide, and full attention on me. “You were sleeping? In his bed?”
Yep, I knew she’d call me on how I broke that rule in a heartbeat. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh, so it was more like he sexed you up so good you fell into a sex-blissed coma and then he left you—a woman he doesn’t really know—alone in his house when he went to work? Was that how it was?”
“You missed the part where he kissed me on the top of the head in the dark and told me to stay as long as I like.”
She makes a show of shaking her head in mock disgust of my breaking my own rules, but I know she’s secretly fist pumping beneath the surface. “Yeah, just minor details. Like sweet and endearing details.”
I can’t help the uncharacteristic smile on my lips or the warmth that spreads within me. I don’t do tender or intimate. Hell, I don’t do anything near the sort, but then again . . . this is Grant we’re talking about. There is some level of comfort with him that I’m not used to.
It’s only one night, Em.
“He obviously trusts you,” she muses.
“Well,” I laugh the word out, “it doesn’t go both ways.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Drop it, Des.”
She angles me a look that says she’s confused, and it matches how I feel inside.
It’s amazing that no matter how many strides I take forward—how normal my life is—a simple thing like the word “trust” can force my past to come back and slap me.
Grant doesn’t deserve it.
Then again, neither did I.