If John had laid money on being cornered at the hotel every chance one of his three friends got, he would have cleaned house. It wasn’t as bad as he expected, they really were great friends who had a lot of life experience to offer, no matter their ages.
Erika, in particular, had much to offer on stubbornness and thinking you know what is best for someone else. She had held back from Walker because of their age difference, and then when she finally had her chance, she didn’t tell him what he needed to know. She shut down the minute he raised his voice and made threats without knowing the truth. Then she ran away to lick her wounds, leaving him to believe the worst, and thinking she knew what he wanted. After sharing her colossal mistakes and crying for hours about how she handled the situation with Walker, Erika begged him not to make the same mistakes and then fell asleep in his room. John covered her and made his way to the couch. He would’ve just taken her room, but he was not about to root around in her bag for her room key. Hotel sofas were shorter than most and John wasn’t, so his back had yet to recover.
The second night, it was Tori’s turn. Her wisdom leaned more toward looking people in the eyes and asking blunt questions and listening, really listening to the answers. No matter how much evidence there may be to the contrary, you assume nothing. Tori also knew about loving someone through their pain and your own.
People in pain will say and do things that hurt others. Tori’s advice was to understand that they will do those things not to hurt the other person but to hurt themselves. “Withstand the storm and fight for the person you love, not to possess them, but to set them free. That is when you can break through the past.” Those words struck John in a deep, dark place—a place where his bad history lived.
That night, he made his way to Michael’s room, since Tori also cried herself to sleep in his. Michael took John’s key and went to sleep with his wife. John was left alone in their room and decided to sleep on the couch yet again. With the sounds pouring through the walls last night, and again this morning, there was no way he was sleeping in the bed.
Having apparently shared everything they wanted to, the ladies left him alone on the third night, so John found himself at the bar sipping a single malt and contemplating the advice his friends had imparted to him. He was still torn at the level of relationship he wanted, but hell, that was fine, right? Most people start as strangers and the relationship just develops. It wasn’t a requirement to go in with an end result in mind.
Their friendship was strong, why couldn’t they just date and see where it goes from there? As soon as the question formed, there was a tug on his heart. Not a gentle sweet tug either, more like an anchor being tossed overboard and not quite reaching the bottom and jerking at the end of its chain. He knew Augusta’s feelings for him ran deep. The need to have an end game in mind was created by that knowledge.
Just as an aww, fuck it, formed in his head, he felt a slap on his back. He turned and Michael dropped to the stool next to him. John motioned the bartender to fill his glass and bring one for Michael.
“So, old man, drowning your troubles in cheap whiskey?”
“Bite your tongue, youngin’, this is eighteen-year-old Macallan.” It took one sip and Michael’s appreciation was apparent.
“Damn, old man, that’s nice. You must be rolling in it to afford to drink this all the time,” Michael quipped as he returned the glass to his lips.
“Ha, I can barely afford to drink it on occasion, only when I really need to think. I drink an eight or sixteen-year-old Lagavulin at home. Smokier, bolder, and a hell of a lot more my price range.”
Michael finished his drink and motioned for the bartender to leave the bottle. Tipping the amber liquid into both their glasses, Michael spoke, “So, I take it the Boob Brigade ripped you a new one?”
“Surprisingly, no. They shared experiences and advice and fell asleep. No questions. No judgement. No severing of male anatomy.” Michael damn near choked on his Scotch.
“Seriously? Either they are losing their touch or they know all they need to know about you and have already given you a full pass to take a run at Gus. Enjoy it, my friend, it’s a rare occurrence when those two don’t rake you over the coals before letting you near their friends.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that over the last year or so. Rabid pit bulls in high heels, but in the best way. They are both amazing women; Walker and you are lucky men.”
“I’ll drink to that.” The clink of glass followed by tinkling ice and satisfied sighs were the only sounds for a while as John and Michael simply sat enjoying a good Scotch. After reflecting on what he had and what he’d lost, and what he might never experience, John broke the silence.
“I’ve got a boat load of baggage and a lot of internal shit to get over, but I’m willing to try. There hasn’t been another woman who makes me want to try for a long time, but Augusta is special. Even if it’s not the fairy tale ending you keep bragging about, I will be a better man for having taken a chance.” Emptying the last of the bottle between the two glasses, John made the decision to tell Augusta what his roadblocks were and see where it could go. He wasn’t looking for forever, but he was officially open to it if it happened.
“So, here’s to choosing possibilities over regrets. Regrets may still happen, but they are better than the what-if kind,” John toasted.
Michael added, “And to the women who made us say fuck-the-what-ifs.”
“Here, here.” The other two patrons at the long bar raised their glasses. John had forgotten it wasn’t just Michael and him. Their bond had only grown over the last months, and John felt at ease with him, so much so that before the night was over, John explained the truth about his son. It was clear Michael had a better understanding of why getting close to Augusta while she was carrying another’s child was so difficult for a man who had been through so much.
As John fell asleep that night, Michael’s words played on a loop in his head. “Shit man, that’s heavy, but remember this was a choice, not a deception. And when you look at her, see Gus, and only Gus. No one else, no echoes of the past, no lies, no pain. Just Gus.” That was the part John needed to burn into his brain. Then he added, “And when you get her naked, think of it as a preview for when she is knocked up with your old ass’ offspring, a glimpse into your future. I, for one, have two grand riding on when you two get together, so don’t let me down. I’ve quit my main source of income to pursue the band thing full-time, so I could use the dough until Superficial Sinner becomes a household name.”
As miffed as John was that his family by choice bet on his love life, he expected it. They ran betting pools on everything from when people would get together to when they have children. In a way, he found hope in the fact that the betting wasn’t a matter of if, but when he and Augusta got together. Of course, he had participated in their betting pools for other members, so he shouldn’t be surprised.
What did surprise him was the thought of a very pregnant Augusta was turning him on. He kept picturing her lying on a bed with maroon sheets, writhing in ecstasy as he licked and nibbled her sensitive flesh. Remembering how she had come apart in his arms had him gripping his dick with purpose. With each replay of the mewling noises she made, his strokes increased. Breathing, rapid. Hand, pumping.
It had been a long time since he needed to touch himself for relief, but as the pictures in his mind got clearer, more vivid, he was stroking his cock like he was sixteen. His moans filled the room, but it was hers that filled his ears. He reached for his suitcase with his free hand. Damn it. He slowed his masturbation just long enough to walk to the chair and retrieve the still-folded T-shirt, then he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“Augusta.” Her name on his lips and her scent invading his body was enough. Three more pumps of his harder than granite cock, and he blew his load. A top ten orgasm, and he was alone, sniffing a damn T-shirt, beating it like a teenager, and calling the name of a woman he wasn’t sure he could love as she deserved.
Pathetic.