Avery
I’m glad Mason’s band showed up. When Ben opened that door, it probably stopped me from doing something really stupid. I’m sure I’m going to fail the “lit” paper I worked on Sunday afternoon, because I can’t remember a single thing I wrote. My head was too busy being stuck on Mason, and what he did for Max. And I don’t have time to be stuck on anything other than what it takes to start and finish my day.
Claire called me during her shift to warn me that the entire band was there. They started drinking at Dusty’s earlier this afternoon—all of them. She said they weren’t too rowdy, but that one of them offered her $100 to sleep with her. I laughed—that sounds like Ben. He’s the only one of the group other than Mason that I know.
Ben went to our high school. He was a bit of an outsider at first—played in the school band and was always into theater, but usually kept to himself. He was a great drummer, though—and that’s why he and Mason hit it off. Ben was the first member of Mason’s band, and our senior year, he used to play with him at Dusty’s. When he started hanging out with Mason, he started going to more parties and dating more girls—his social status sort of shot through the roof.
He was always the first one to laugh when Mason called me Birdie. What’s sad is before that, Ben and I were kind of friends.
Max starts school tomorrow. We had his final one-on-one session today with Jenny, and she spent most of our two hours together reassuring me that Max is ready. I don’t know, though. I don’t think Max will ever be ready. But I guess I have to try, right? I have to let him try.
I took tomorrow off. I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus. I let my English professor know, too, and she gave me an advance of the assignment so I don’t have to go to class—not that I’ll be able to gather my thoughts enough for that, either. Great, that’s two failed assignments I can count on.
I can hear Mason’s laugh before I even open the door. It’s the loudest and most obnoxious he’s sounded since he’s been back in town, and my entire chest constricts in anticipation of having to talk to this version of him. I swing the door open and move quickly through the restaurant; I’m almost behind the bar without being noticed when I hear Ben’s voice.
“Heyyyyyy, there she is. You’re right—it is Birdie! Hey, Birdie!” He’s hammered, and it’s barely four o’clock. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but I won’t let him get to me either, so instead, I raise my right hand and flip him the middle finger while I walk the rest of the way through the door.
“Dammmmmmn,” I hear the other guys teasing him while the door shuts, and I’m glad I made a dent. I just hope I didn’t provoke them to give me more shit. I’m strong—and I’ve worked hard to get strong. But even I have my limits. And if they all pile on, they’ll break me.
“Where’s Max?” Claire asks when she joins me at the back lockers.
“I just let him stay home. Dad’s with him; he’s coming in later, so I figured you could just meet Max there. Is that okay?” I hate how much I rely on Claire. She always says she doesn’t mind. But my life has become her life—and she didn’t really sign up for all of this.
“Of course. I’ll pick up something to eat for your pop on my way there. Max need anything?” she asks, but I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t register her words. “Avery? You in there?”
“Oh, uh…yeah. Sorry…” I shake my head, and strip my shirt to put my Dusty’s one on. “I’m just so stressed. It’s school tomorrow—Max’s first day.”
“That’s right,” she says, sitting down on the bench next to me, pulling her shoes off, and replacing them with flip-flops. “It’ll be good, Avery. You knew this was coming. And Max…he’s ready. He’s been so good for me in the evenings.”
“Yeah, but no offense, Claire. I’m not worried about how he is at night. It’s the four hours in the beginning of the day in a classroom full of other five-year-olds that scares the shit out of me. What if he has a meltdown? What if he doesn’t make any friends? What if…” I can’t help the crack in my emotions when I think about this, and I have to pause to wipe my eyes on the inside of my shirt. “What if he can’t do this, Claire? Where do we go from that?”
My friend slides over to me and pulls me in with her slender arm, tugging me close. “Then we figure that out…if that’s what happens,” she says, and I start to protest, but she’s quick to hold up her hand. “Ah ah ah. I said if. Don’t be so quick to discount that boy of yours. He’s mighty capable—and you should know that.”
I smile at her when she says that. I smile because I can tell she believes Max is capable, too. She’s right—I’m his advocate, his fighter and his hero. And if anyone believes Max can do this, it’s me. And if I have to burn Rome just to get him through kindergarten, than that’s what the hell I’m going to do.
“You’re good at this, you know. This best friend gig?” I say, swatting at her with my apron while she stands. She just laughs and runs her fingers through her hair a few times before grabbing her bag and purse.
“I’ll read with him tonight. And we’ll get to bed early, just so he’s rested. But, hey…listen,” she says, peeking out the kitchen door at the cackling group of four sitting near the pool tables. “If you need to call me…you know, just to get through that? I’ll be up, okay?”
Pursing my lips into a tight smile, I just give her a nod. Yeah. That. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through that. But if my son can head bravely into a classroom full of kids he doesn’t know tomorrow, then the least I can do is survive a six-hour shift with a bunch of drunk, washed-up musicians.
I follow Claire out and wave goodbye while I start to set up glasses with Cole. I’m glad he’s here. He’s been bouncing and bartending for my dad for the last three years, and I’m glad my dad has someone he can count on. Cole moved here with his brother, and they share a small house on the far north end of town. They’re into horses. They even do riding lessons during the week. I’ve always wanted to set Cole up with Claire—I know she’d be up for it. But, he’s just sort of this mystery. I might just try though…once Max gets school settled, and I can start to focus again.
“Sorry about that,” Mason’s voice startles me, and I end up dropping the glass I’m drying.
“Job opening!” I hear one of the guys from his band shout. I just roll my eyes at it and bend down to start cleaning it up.
“Shit, now I’m double sorry,” Mason says, his body now right next to me, helping me pick up the shards that have scattered along the floor.
“It’s okay. It’s my fault. Butter fingers,” I say, not sure why I’m making excuses. I should have said yes, it is your fault. You and those thugs you call friends.
“Hey, I told them to knock it off with the Birdie stuff,” Mason says as we stand. I sweep my glass pieces into his open hand and he turns to toss them into the trash.
“Why’d you even bring it up,” I sigh.
“Don’t worry. They won’t call you that again. Ben’s grown up a lot—and they got my point when I told them not to,” he says.
“Oh yeah, and what point is that?” I ask, going back to drying the stack of glasses in front of me.
“That I’ll kick their ass out in this parking lot if they start shit with you. That point,” Mason says, reaching over and popping a pretzel in his mouth before heading back to his seat, giving me one last grin.
He defended me. And damn it, I like that he defended me. I can feel Cole’s stare, but I ignore him, and keep working on the glasses until I run out and need to load in more.
“Cole, can you bring in another rack? Last thing I want to do is drop more,” I say. Cole chuckles and smirks at me before heading to the back, slinging his towel over his shoulder. He’s back with more in seconds.
“So, just curious,” he says while he drops the new bin in front of me, and I immediately go to work drying and loading. “Are you helping me because you wanted to help out? Or…are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding,” I answer fast, my tongue pinched between my teeth while I concentrate on a spot on one of the glasses.
“Uh huh. Sure,” he says, laughing softly while he walks back to the other end of the bar.
All right. I’m hiding. But no one needs to know that other than me. And so far, it’s working out for me. The bar is filling up, and I’ll be busy with customers soon. Barb just got here, and I know she’ll want to wait on her son and his friends, so I can keep to myself. It’s my survival plan.
The first hour flies by. It’s open mic night, so the acts are starting to arrive. I always like open mic—it’s the best and the worst of karaoke. And sometimes, the bad acts are worth more than a dozen great ones. There’s a guy with a violin who took up the corner booth, and I can’t wait to hear his story.
Barb’s been handling Mason’s friends, and true to his word, no one has uttered a single Birdie since he told them to stop. I must be cashing in some karma, because my tips have been over-the-top tonight, too. The last table left me thirty bucks!
I take my break in the back for a few minutes, and pull out my phone to check on Claire and Max. It’s barely seven, so I know he’s still awake. She usually sends me a quick note when he goes to bed, but she hasn’t yet.
Super busy tonight. Say goodnight to Max for me. I probably won’t see your text until late.
I wait a few seconds, and Claire quickly responds.
Good. Hope the tippers are generous, LOL! I got a marriage proposal from an old man today. Can you beat that?
One day, Claire is going to say yes to one of the old ranchers who hit on her. She always jokes, but I think she’s thought about it before. I want my friend to find love—probably more than I want to find it myself.
No, you got me there. But Ben did call me Birdie!
I roll my eyes remembering his voice. I think the nickname bothers me more now than it did back then—probably because I’ve had years to really think about it, and build it up in my head.
He’s an ass.
How’s Mason?
I stare at her text for a full minute, because I don’t know how to answer that. Mason has been taking up a lot of my mental space. What he did for Max at the barber was so unexpected. I don’t know why my son is so taken with him, but I guess apples don’t fall far from their trees. I just can’t help but feel like the other shoe is going to drop soon, so I keep him at an arm’s-length. I’m willing to be friendly. But I won’t call him friend.
Oh, you know…he’s Mason. He’s not as drunk as the other guys, so that’s good, I guess.
I wait for her to write back, but she doesn’t. I know it’s almost time to start prepping Max for bed. I hate that I don’t get to tuck him in most nights. But Claire always reminds me that I’m only missing the routine. Max has never been an affectionate kid. He’ll hug me, when forced. Sometimes, when I’m holding his arms down after an anger episode, I imagine that I’m holding him and rocking him to sleep. It’s similar—I’m calming him. But he doesn’t seek my touch out—ever. I used to cry over it, but I buried those feelings when I realized there were some things that Max’s autism was never going to let us overcome. He loves me. He just doesn’t say it with words or embraces. And that’s okay.
The crowd is pretty steady over the next three hours. That’s how open mic night usually goes. The first few acts aren’t much to brag about, but the later the evening gets, the more likely it is someone good will go on. That’s how Dad tries out potential spotlights. If they can win over the open-mic-night crowd, he’ll usually offer them a weekend.
There’s a girl with a guitar closing tonight, and she’s pretty good. I can tell my dad thinks so too, because he’s been hanging around the edge of the stage. He’ll offer her a weekend, and I’ll love watching her face light up. Every single person that plays the Dusty’s stage has a dream. Even when they say they don’t when they step up there, they’ve got one by the time they step down.
This girl is a dreamer. She’s young, maybe about nineteen or twenty. She’s good, too. Even Mason and his friends are listening. I haven’t been to their table all night, so I take a deep breath and head over to help clear some of the glasses. I don’t want to look like I’m avoiding them.
“Hey, stranger,” Mason says, his feet propped up on the edge of the table. He’s a little buzzed—I can tell. He’s playing with his phone, not really looking at me, but the sloppy smirk on his face shows he’s aware I’m here. He’s wearing an old pair of Converse, black jeans that fit tight to his legs and gather at his shoes, and a V-neck white T-shirt. Even though he smells mostly of beer, I also pick up his cologne underneath—rich and woodsy. I like it. I like it more than I should.
I also like his haircut. I’ve noticed it a few times tonight. It’s short around his neck, like it used to be. There’s still a wave in the top, and it flops a little in his face, but not quite as much as it did before the cut.
He’s watching me over his phone. I can see his eyes move to me every so often, and I just smile and continue on with my work. His attention scares the hell out of me, because I know how quickly it can latch on to someone else. But for now, I give myself this little moment. Right now, slightly drunk, Mason Street finds me pretty enough to flirt with, and damn it, I am.
“Do you ever just stop?” Mason asks, pushing his phone back into his pocket and dropping his feet to the ground. He leans forward on his elbows, looking at me across the table. His arms flex slightly, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his bicep and the tattoo.
“What’s with the tiger?” I ask, changing the subject entirely.
“He was a makeup tattoo. Covering up something stupid I got when I was drunk once in Vegas. You didn’t answer my question.” He moves over a seat, so he’s closer to me, and I shift my tray to my other hip, just to add a barrier. He notices, and his lip curls up on the side in a devious grin.
“I know. I’m avoiding it,” I say back. He’s not going to charm me—this girl can dish it, and take it.
He sits back in his chair, and folds his arms now, propping a foot back up along the side of the table. He’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, and I’m just waiting for him to come back with a second round. I keep loading up my tray, and when it’s full, I turn to leave. I’m almost free when Mason catches up to me and walks me to the bar.
“I probably should have asked that differently,” he says, pulling the tray from my hands and putting the dirties in the bin before handing it back to me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Avery. Not a girl in her twenties, anyways. You just go and go and go. And I was just thinking, you never take time to just stop—and to just be.”
I’m sure the face I’m making back at him isn’t flattering, but really…that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can I just be?
“You know what kind of girl does that?” I say, moving in a little closer just so Mason knows he doesn’t intimidate me. “A vapid one, without a kid, and who is planning a beach-house getaway with her girlfriends. That girl is a fairytale, Mason. Make-believe. Us real women? We have responsibilities—and we put other people first. Because it’s the right thing to do. So no—no, I don’t just ever…stop. Too much depends on me going.”
I can actually feel my hands shaking I’m so flustered by this conversation. All I want to do is smash my tray in his face and race off to the locker area to lie down and breathe. But I can’t.
I can’t, because somewhere in the midst of my rant, Mason grabbed my hand with his, and now all I can freaking focus on is the feeling of his thumb lightly grazing my fingers and how much it makes me want to burst into tears.
“One drink, right before close. That’s all I’m asking,” Mason says, his eyes boring into mine like lasers. “I’m not saying pick up and go backpacking across Europe. I’m just asking you to take a break, for once in your life. Have a beer with the guys and me while Ray closes up. We’ll shoot some pool, or throw some darts. Twenty minutes, and then you can go back to living for everyone else.”
Mason’s hand is still on mine, and my brain is tangled from the many emotions being mixed like a blender inside my chest. Whatever the cause, I nod yes slowly, and slide my hand from his.
“So, yeah? After the show tonight—we’ll hang out? Just for one drink?” Mason’s walking backward, and he’s looking at me like he used to in my dreams. This entire week has been surreal, and I’m capping it off with a far-fetched fantasy. My smile is cautious, but it’s genuine. I’ve taken a leap—and there’s the possibility that I’ll go home to Claire tonight, and cry for an hour. Or, maybe I won’t cry. Maybe I won’t cry at all, but rather...
And I hate that feeling almost more than any other—I recognize it, it’s hope. Goddamned Mason Street has given me hope. He better not crush it.
Mason
I’m not that drunk. I’m pretty sure Avery thinks I’m as blitzed as Ben or the other guys. But I’m not even close. I had three or four beers, which for me is nothing. I’m in full control of this. I’ve watched that girl avoid me all night—and I know she was avoiding me. My mom’s not very good at secrets, and she asked me outright why Avery was so bent on her handling us boys tonight. I told her that Avery didn’t get along with Ben, but I know it’s also because she doesn’t want to be around me. Not after I watched her cry, and almost kissed away her tears.
The lights are coming on, and the jukebox music is the only thing left in the bar. Josh and Matt are nearly passed out at the table. I’m going to have to call them a cab to take them back to their apartment. Ben’s handling his liquor pretty well, but he’s busy flirting with the last girl who performed. I told him she didn’t look like his kind of girl—she was pretty innocent looking, more of a girlfriend kind of girl—but he didn’t care. He never does.
I was glad to see the boys. It’s been a couple of weeks since we all split, trying to make sense of the label dumping us. Matt and Josh drove around the country for a few days—they’re both originally from Indiana, so they spent some time with their families. Ben had planned on coming home with me, but he got hooked up with some girl in Texas and well….
I can see Avery moving back and forth, from the kitchen to the bar, and back again. She’s busying herself, helping out others on purpose, just to avoid spending time with me. I catch Cole’s attention while she’s in the kitchen.
“Hey, man,” I say, nodding toward the door. “She’s avoiding me. I just wanna talk. Help a brother out?”
Cole smiles big, and just gives me a nod, letting me know he gets what I’m asking. Cole’s a good-looking dude, and I feel okay admitting that. I wondered at first if he and Avery ever had a thing, but it’s clear they haven’t. And I don’t get the sense that there’s really any interest either way. When Avery comes back out, Cole stops her before she starts loading up more dishes for the back.
“Ave, if you do all my work, then I won’t have a job. So…how about you let me finish this up?” he asks. She turns to look at me immediately, and then back at Cole, biting on the inside of her cheek. She knows I put him up to this, she’s just deciding whether or not she wants to play along.
“All right, you sure?” she says, drying her hands on the bar towel.
“I’m sure, Ave. I’m sure,” Cole says, almost like he’s giving her permission. I see her shoulders rise and fall with her deep breath, and when she turns to me, she looks like she’s in line for the world’s scariest roller coaster.
“One drink. That’s it,” I say, walking closer to her and crossing my heart with my right hand.
“Fine, but I get to pick the drink,” she says, moving away from me and behind the bar. When she comes back with two Cokes, I just about lose it.
“Ha! Seriously, this is your idea of a big night out. Damn, girl…I’ve gotta teach you a few things,” I say, lifting the straw and inspecting it. “Is that…a bendy straw?”
“It sure is,” she says, bending hers and taking a big sip. Shit, her drink is already a third of the way gone.
“Alrighty then. Well…how about we shoot some darts,” I ask, trying to come up with anything that will slow her ass down.
“Sure. Whatever,” she says, brushing me with her shoulder when she passes. She’s trying so hard to keep this front up. It’s really cute, but it’s frustrating as hell.
I follow her to the billiards room and open up one of the cabinets, pulling out the metal darts. Ray never went electronic with anything. He always said it ruined the authenticity, and I tend to agree. These darts are the same ones I learned to throw when I was nine years old. They’re still crazy sharp, though. I take a small sip of my Coke and laugh under my breath. I should have known Avery would have found a way around this—a loophole!
“So, what are we playing, first one to zero from three hundred?” I ask, thinking that this game could go on for at least 30 minutes.
“I can’t be here that long, Mason. Let’s do two hundred,” she already looks put out, and it’s killing me. I don’t know how I’m going to make this girl turn a corner with me, but damn it, something’s got to get inside her head.
“Two hundred…okay. But…we’re playing to zero exactly,” I say, knowing that throwing a little strategy in—and making both of us end our score at exactly zero—might just buy me a few extra minutes.
Avery’s eyes are squinted, and she’s studying me. I hate that every time we interact she puts our entire exchange through a litmus test. I can see her physically questioning my every motive. It’s my fault she’s like this with me. And I’m starting to wonder if it’s my fault that she’s like this with her entire goddamned life.
“Fine, we’ll play your way. I’m shooting first. Give me the gold,” she’s got a little fire in her voice. Suddenly, Avery’s got a competitive spirit going on. This…I can use!
“You can be gold. But—” I hold the darts back before I give them to her. She flips her hair around and stops her feet right in their tracks.
“No more buts. Just throw the damn darts when I’m done, Mason,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh at her version of bossy. No doubt, Avery is a strong woman—and I know from experience that she can get her point across when she needs to. But now she’s just being difficult to be mean, to get back at me. And while I should pretend it’s working, I just can’t hold my laughter in.
Her hands are on her hips now, and she’s forcing her lips tight. I know she’s about to bail on the entire night. I manage to hold my breath long enough to compose myself, and hold my hands up to signify a truce.
“We need to have something to play for. That’s all,” I say, and she immediately gives me a sideways glance, her suspicion spiking again.
“Fine, if I beat you, you do all my dishes—here and at home—for the next week,” she’s proud of herself with this one, and the smirk on her face shows me she thinks I’ll back off, not wanting to do any hard work. She should know better, though—I’ve never been afraid of hard work, especially at the bar.
I nod my head in agreement, and step closer to her, reaching out my hand to shake on it. When she slides her soft fingers into mine, it’s the most amazing feeling in the world. Other than those few seconds when my fingers were on her face, the only other time Avery touched me was when she slapped me across the cheekbone. I like this touch a whole lot more.
She’s about to let go of our shake when I hold her grasp firmly, and step in even closer. I’ve got one shot at this.
“And if I win,” I say, my lips unable to contain the shit-eating grin on my face as I move closer to her ear. She’s frozen, and I can see her neck speckled with goosebumps, but she’s not moving away either. I lick my lips slightly, just to see what that does, and when I hear her breath escape, I know I’ve got her. “If I win, I get to kiss you. Like I was supposed to a decade ago.”
Her face is flushed when I pull away, her lips parted, and her eyes almost afraid—but her hand is still in mine, so I give it one more shake just to seal the deal. I turn away, and I can feel her still standing there, watching me. I wanted to kiss her right then, her neck is so soft and she smells so good. For the last five years, I’ve done nothing but have one-night stands and flings with girls who smell like smoke and tequila. Avery—she smells like heaven.
“Go on, princess. You wanted to go first,” I say, wishing like hell that I kept up with this game. I used to be good—even hustled a few of the locals when I was in high school. But it’s been years since I’ve thrown a dart.
Avery takes a drink of her soda, and I notice her hands are still shaking slightly when she tries to line up her shot. She’s nervous, and I hope like hell she throws this game so I can feel how soft her lips are. She shuts her eyes for a brief second, and when she opens them again, her hands are steadier. Her eyes are focused on the board, her elbow bent in front of her, when she releases.
Eighteen. Okay, so this is not going to be a walk in the park. Her next throw is only a four, and her last one is a ten, so I feel like I might have some room to breathe.
“Show me what you’ve got,” she says as she walks by with a little swagger in her step. She’s putting up a good act, but I notice the small quiver in her voice when she speaks.
I grab my darts from the table, and take a big gulp of my Coke, wiping my mouth across my sleeve like I would if I were drinking the hard stuff. It makes her laugh, so I got what I wanted.
“All right…let me show you how this is done,” I say, holding her gaze long enough for her to blink and look away. I’m smiling while I line up my shot, and I move my arm back just enough to give the dart some sticking power, and then release.
Two.
Avery is laughing so hard she has to actually cover her mouth. It’s one of those laugh-so-hard-no-noise-comes-out kind of laughs. Honestly, I love seeing her face like this. I don’t think I’ve seen her smile like this once since I’ve been back, and it’s almost worth losing…almost.
As pretty as her lips are when they’re smiling, I can’t imagine how they look inches away from my own…begging. Begging. Like I could ever get Avery to beg me for anything. But just the thought…
I have to shake my head to focus; I’m getting so worked up. Avery’s too busy fussing with the feathers on her darts to notice, which is good, because I’m pretty sure what I’m thinking about right now—the way I’m reacting to her—she would notice!
After a few deep breaths, I refocus, and line my second shot up. This one’s better—seventeen. One more big number, and I’ll be in the lead. I’ve got Avery’s attention now, too—and this time, there is no laughter. Instead, her bottom lip is completely tucked under her top teeth, and her knee is bouncing like a damned jackrabbit.
“You look nervous there. Might want to pull out your lip balm…you know, moisten those babies up. Just sayin’,” I tease, and she blushes instantly. She stands and turns her back to me, pretending to straighten her shirt and move the stool she was sitting on, but I know she’s really just trying to hide her face. I’m getting to her—and I’ve never wanted to win a round of darts more in my life.
Fourteen.
“That’s on the line,” she says immediately. She’s protesting—it’s funny.
“Let’s inspect it. Don’t you dare touch it until I get there,” I say, walking up behind her. It’s clearly a fourteen—the dart isn’t even touching any of the line. I see it, and Avery sees it. She sees it so well, she’s no longer breathing, but just standing there, staring at it, her eyes wide and her hands rolling her own darts in her fingertips.
“Well?” I say, knowing I’m right, but wanting to snap her out of this damn trance she’s in.
“Fine. Fourteen,” she says, turning around with a huff.
Okay, she actually seems legitimately pissed at me now. She throws three more low numbers, and the look on her face is so stressed, it’s actually painful to watch. We go on for five more rounds, and honestly only because I have to hit a five to close it out.
When I hit it, I almost want to lie, and say it’s on the line, just to give her a chance. I’ve gone from being willing to cheat—to win the chance to kiss Avery—to wanting to throw the damn match myself. It’s not that my feelings are hurt by her reaction to kissing me…well, maybe they’re hurt a little. But it’s more than that. I feel like I’m taking advantage of her or something, like I’m forcing her to do something she finds disgusting. I know that’s not the truth, but it just doesn’t feel right. There’s no delaying it, though, and the regret that spills through my veins when she turns to look at me—her face so fucking disappointed—just about kills me.
I didn’t even really get to talk to her, which is what I really wanted in the first place.
“Well, you won. Let’s get this over with,” she says, finishing the last drink from her glass, and slamming it hard on the table before wiping her lips dry with the back of her hand. She’s standing there, her arms limp at her sides, and her eyes closed, like she’s playing a boring game of hide-and-seek. This…this…is nothing like I pictured it.
I walk closer to her, and I hold my breath so she can’t sense how close I am. I’m about to call the whole thing off, give her an out, when her bottom lip comes loose, letting out the tiniest of breaths, and I see her shiver. I take note of her hands, which are no longer limp, but balled into tight fists.
I just need to know—just some sign that my hunch is right. I move even closer, and I can see her muscles tighten at my nearness. There are inches between our feet, and one sway of my body, or hers, and we’d be touching. I stare long and hard at her neck—that long, milky neck. Her hair falls over both shoulders. It’s long and wavy from the hair tie she was wearing earlier tonight. I reach up gently, and sweep the waves falling over her left shoulder behind her ear, and Avery’s eyes close even harder.
She’s not telling me to stop. And I know she would if she wanted to—Avery doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. So I push my luck a little more, and move my lips close to her shoulder first, then her neck. I blow lightly, and every tiny hair on her neck obeys. She sucks in one more short breath, and the sound of it makes me smile.
I spare a glance over her shoulder just to confirm we’re alone, and we are. No one is interested in us—we’re off in our own universe. Matt and Josh are snoring at the table, and I’m pretty sure Ben left with that girl from earlier.
“So you and I…we made a bet,” I whisper in her ear. “You remember the terms?”
Avery nods yes slowly, her lips still barely parted, and her breaths becoming quicker, no doubt to match her pulse. What I’m about to do is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. But I have to do it.
“We said if you lost, you had to let me kiss you, right?” I say, my thumb slowly stroking the skin along her neck, slipping barely under the collar of her shirt until I touch the strap of her bra. My touch makes her quiver again, and I almost change my mind.
“I won, didn’t I, Avery?” I say her name, because I want her to hear me call her by it—not Birdie. When she goes home tonight, I want her to think of something entirely new, a new beginning. And I don’t want any of those old memories tainting it.
Avery nods lightly, her tongue sweeping over the center of her lips and driving me fucking mad! I breathe in slowly, and will myself to go on.
“I’m going to kiss you then,” I say, moving both of my hands to either side of her face, cradling it until my fingers are woven deep within her hair, and she’s completely under my control. My thumb glides slowly across her lips, stopping at the center, and pausing for just a second, almost begging her to let it inside, to taste it. I move my lips closer now, too, and I turn my head, just enough so she can feel it—anticipate my touch.
I let my nose graze against hers and then along her cheek, while I slowly turn her head to the side so I can press my lips to her ear once again. I inhale her scent, and this time, I memorize it—just in case this was it, my only moment. Then I speak against her ear, my lips touching her just enough to ignite an unbelievable desire to bite her gently.
“But I’m not going to kiss you now,” I say, my eyes closed while I hope like hell this is the right move. “I get to kiss you, but I didn’t say when. And right now, you’re not ready. Don’t think this means I don’t want to kiss you. Because I do—I want to kiss you so goddamned hard that you can barely breathe. And one day—one day really fucking soon—I’m going to. But not tonight. Instead, tonight, I’m just going to thank my lot in life for the fact that I grew up in a bar, learning how to throw darts.”
When I let her go, she keeps her eyes closed for another second or two before opening them, and I’m convinced I made the right choice when I see the disappointment on her face. That’s what I want—I want her to want me to kiss her again. I could kick myself for taking it for granted the first time, and I’ll never make that mistake again.
Her eyes are trained on mine the moment she opens them; I just push my hands in my pockets, shrug my shoulders, and give her the sincerest smile I’ve got. Then, I watch her spin around and walk away, pushing hard against the kitchen door, and vanishing—probably leaving through the back just to avoid me.
And that’s okay. Because I know even though she didn’t confront me, I’m in her head. I’m deep in her head—and she’s going to have a hard time shaking this one.