Licks by Kelly Siskind (5)

3:30 p.m., 32 ½ Hours…

August

My fingers slipped on the guitar strings, a ridiculous fumble on the world’s easiest song. I hadn’t strummed “Horse with No Name” in an eternity. The simple tune came with too many memories. Here, in this house, I couldn’t fight the pull.

I could practically feel Gwen wiggling between my legs as she’d struggle through the basic chords, no clue to the torture she doled out. I’d have to harness my fantasies back then, focus on my hippie aunt’s unshaven legs or run soccer plays in mind to keep the action behind my zipper in check.

Hearing my name from her lips now zoomed me back to that time, those days, and my fascination with her. How Finch would wind me up or a lost soccer match would get me down, and Gwen would nag me until I was nestled beside her on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls, a show I’d never admit to liking. I’d toss popcorn at her face. She’d stick her stinky socks in my face.

And the world had been right.

Even now, all this chaos between us, somehow I was more right. I wasn’t staring out a train window as foreign towns slipped past, melancholy lyrics teasing my fingertips. I wasn’t dating a woman for a month or two only to lose interest, lose the connection, the attraction. Around Gwen, I felt grounded, yet alive. Still slightly resentful when it came to her, but I liked it—that fiery spark.

Until she said, “Will you help me find my father?”

A sour note plunked from the guitar, mimicking the dread churning my gut. My lungs pinched. How had I let things go this far?

Gwen prattled over my guilt-ridden silence. “I know I’m the last person you’d like to help. Trust me, I get it. But I found a journal hidden in my mother’s bible, from when I was conceived, and something tells me it’ll lead to my dad. If you say no, I’ll totally understand, but don’t you think it’s odd? This case showing up before my birthday? After my mom died? With you, the same day?” Her eyes were wide, filled with hope.

I prayed my face didn’t show the unease lurching inside me. Right now. Tell her now. Except I wanted more time with her, more of that turbulent grounding she inspired. An oxymoron maybe, but there was no other way to describe the storminess she stirred, all wild and unpredictable. Around her I smiled one minute, bit out cutting remarks the next, the space between filled with unease and a burning lust to show her what she’d ruined. What she’d stolen from both of us.

I wanted to fuck her, raw and rough.

It was a painful ache. It should also never happen, not with our history, but I couldn’t shake the need to be around her, to learn her. The second I admitted why I’d come, she’d disappear from my life for good.

That pinching in my lungs worsened.

She kept talking over herself. “You know what? Forget I asked. It was selfish.” She popped her left knee and fiddled with the bible in her hand. “You’re busy and touring and probably have a thousand things to do, and I’m asking too much. I’m just glad you stayed. It’s appreciated, and while you’re here, I can at least give you this.”

She placed the bible down and rustled through an open box while I stayed silent. I clutched the guitar with one hand, spun my pick around the fingers of my other. Over. Over. Under. Under. The smooth edges flew in a familiar pattern.

Gwen faced me, her neck and cheeks flushed. “I found a few mementos the past month, stuff I couldn’t toss.” She moved closer, by my knees, and held out a felt circle.

No matter my raging turmoil, I couldn’t fight my laugh. “You still have that thing?”

“And our old class pictures, which I won’t let you see.”

“But you rocked those braces.”

“It’s more the frilly blouses my mother made me wear. They’ve all been burned.”

I eased the guitar to the floor and smiled at the badge Gwen had made for me. In the middle, stitched with wonky black thread, it read:

She’d made them, one for each of us, when our neighbor’s garden gnome had gone missing. Our sleuthing had never turned up the ugly statue, but she’d pull out our badges when we’d hunt down clues about her father. Those hours had often revolved around Gwen riffling through her mother’s purse, finding stray business cards, then trolling the internet for leads, sure her father’s name would turn up. We’d stalk men she’d find and show them photos of Gwen’s mom.

All futile searches, but I’d loved the softness of the felt PI badge in my pocket. A connection to Gwen.

She stepped between my knees and placed the badge over my stuttering heart. “It was stupid to keep it, but…” She shrugged, flattening her palm on my chest. Her chest expanded as fully as mine, more color flushing her olive skin.

I spun the guitar pick around my fingers, faster, faster. My thoughts skittered as quickly. And bam, the Zap was back. An electric surge.

I wanted to latch my hands around her hips and tug her to me. Slip my hands down the front of her pants and stroke her silky heat, feel everything I’d been denied. Slam my cock into her, hard, fast, dirty. I also wanted to press my forehead into her abdomen and whisper how much I’d missed her.

Surprisingly, I didn’t want to tell her off. Not anymore.

Especially since the anger I’d nursed hadn’t been directed solely at her.

As twins at the same school, Finch and I had occasionally lusted after the same girls. He’d even fooled around with Kayla before we’d hooked up. I’d made sure he was cool with me asking her out before anything happened, but he knew how I’d felt about Gwen. I’d told him, grumpy and often, how worried I’d been to make a move on her and screw things up, lose her friendship.

Not just for me, but more for her.

I was all Gwen had. If I’d ruined that, she’d have been left with nothing.

I’d nearly pulled out my hair when I’d heard about her dating that Jared douche. I’d been miserable about it, and Finch knew. He’d even promised to look out for her after she’d cut me off, because I’d been worried about her. He’d agreed to my request. Not without asking for a favor in return. A doozy of a favor. I’d held up my end of our bargain.

Turns out “looking out for Gwen” translated to Finch as “banging her.”

There was intent with that. Premeditation. Especially after what I’d done for him. It had ignited our growing tension, stress Gwen never knew about. I’d assumed Gwen had been screwing with me, too. That they’d gone out of their way to hurt me. Nine years later, she confessed her actions had been a result of her messed up childhood, her past warping her choices.

And here she was, hand pressed to my aching chest, affection in her eyes.

As though my limbs had a mind of their own, I anchored my hand over hers, flattening our palms. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

So tightly clasped against me, I felt her hand flinch. I damn well flinched: I hadn’t planned to blurt the question that had dogged me since knocking on her door.

She bit her lip and shook her head. “Not for a while.”

I exhaled heavily.

Her fingers dug deeper into my chest, her thumb sinking between my pecs, and my cock thickened. “Do you?” she asked, almost breathless. “A girlfriend, I mean. Women must throw themselves at you.” She winced slightly, as though a headache had set in.

“No one important,” I said. No one worth writing songs about, good or bad.

“Oh.”

Oh, was right.

Oh, we’re both single.

Oh, we’re both still attracted to each other.

Oh, I might finally be able to work out my Gwen addiction in a rough session between the sheets.

Except my remorse resurfaced, the stupid decisions that had brought me here tamping the urge.

Trembling slightly, she pulled her hand back, and that silly PI patch clung to my shirt, an echo of our past. Heat echoed from her touch. A reverberation I’d felt for nine years. This connection was probably why I’d never had a real relationship. I could blame it on my music and traveling all I liked, but every woman who’d moved through my life had been a bridge, a transition that filled song gaps. Gwen was the refrain and chorus, the addictive hook that wormed into your mind.

A habit I was struggling to break.

Staying seated, I slowed my breaths and plucked the badge off my jersey. I tucked it into the waistband of my shorts.

She watched my every move, crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Rachel, who you met, wanted me to meet them for drinks in”—she glanced at the microwave clock, her hips still in grabbing distance—“a couple hours. I’d like to go home and read the journal a bit beforehand, but you could come, if you want. To the bar. Since you know Owen and Jimmy.”

“You want me to meet your friends?”

“They’re your friends, too.” She huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Because, you know, today isn’t strange enough, we also have the same friends. Which I totally don’t get. How’d I never meet them?”

I thought back to those years, my hours split between playing guitar, school, soccer, and Gwen time. “We hung out after practice, nights when you were studying.” Always cracking the books, struggling with her grades.

“The soccer guys,” she mumbled, as though to herself. Then louder, “That’s what you’d say: ‘I’m going out with the soccer guys.’”

Guys who’d turned into men that Gwen now knew. We shared baffled looks.

It really was one hell of a coincidence. Fate, that sneaky little devil, toying with our lives—the way her betrayal had launched my music career, and her mother had launched me back into Gwen’s life. Like both of us single now, launched together.

I still hadn’t answered her about searching for her father, hadn’t said yes or no or admitted my screw-up. There was also this unrelenting thing between us that went beyond fierce attraction and residual resentment, that maybe, maybe she’d always be the one for me. There’d been no one since Gwen. No one meaningful.

Here, with her, there was meaning in every breath and pause.

That left me existing in no man’s land, wondering if those weighted beats meant Gwen and I still had a chance at…something, yet I was withholding vital information from her.

Unsure how to proceed, I nodded. “I need to shower and change at my hotel, but I can meet you there.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“I’m coming with you.” I hated that we’d been reduced to this—once inseparable, now questioning a simple outing with friends.

“Will you keep repeating everything I say?” she asked.

“Only if you keep stating the obvious.”

She flicked my shoulder, and I squeezed the sensitive spot above her knee. She squealed, a sound I’d always loved. Happy Gwen. Giddy Gwen. She went to pinch my nipple, her go-to move, but I batted her hand away. I grabbed her waist and tugged her onto my lap, her back flush against my chest. Nowhere for her hands to roam. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”

She quit squirming. “You’re getting faster.”

And harder. She probably felt it, my erection free to roam in my workout shorts. Minimal contact was all it took. Like I was a teen again, my body always quick to respond to her. Needing to regain control, I eased her off my lap, but gripped her waist too long. Felt each of her lean muscles through her thin tank top. “You’ve been working out.”

“CrossFit,” she murmured while she stepped back and faced me, adjusting her camo pants. “But I’m considering taking up pole vaulting.” Her eyes focused on my groin.

The pole in question twitched, and my mind was back to ricocheting, too much stimulus—good and bad—to focus on one thing. I could handle this, though. Subtle flirting while we figured out what the hell to do with each other. While I figured out my next move. “I’d think you were already a skilled vaulter.”

“The poles I’ve used tend to buckle under pressure.”

“Then I guess you need a steadier pole. Something longer and firmer?”

I imagined her cupping the length of me, stroking me until I roared. Fantasies I should curb.

She touched her collarbone, ran her fingers toward the dip at her throat. “I need a pole that can go the distance. The kind that can support my weight.”

Her tone wavered from coy to uncertain. Trepidation that probably had little to do with me. The burden of her mother’s lost luggage must be affecting her. Unclaimed baggage, filled with years of neglect. I cocked my head, hoping the motion would organize my jumbling thoughts. Sex. Want. Guilt. Ire. The need to take Gwen in my arms and whisper soothing words.

Our eyes locked again and the air snapped, the way an extended note vibrated and hummed.

Abruptly, she hugged her waist. “Is your number the same? Should I text you where to meet?”

“My number hasn’t changed.”

Gwen suddenly had. She was on the move, snatching up the bible and journal. She stacked them in the open box that had held my PI badge. Her shoulder-length hair dipped forward, a wavy curtain covering her face.

To avoid looking at me? To avoid this intensity binding us, whether we wanted it to, or not?

Not surprising with the day’s craziness. I needed to stop thinking with my body, too. My bruised and battered heart. A shower would do me good. A cold one. An ice bath, maybe. Something to remind me why I’d avoided Gwen all this time, her ability to unbalance me powerful, the details I hadn’t shared enough to end this reunion for good.

If I could nurse the anger I’d harbored the past nine years, it would help me confess about her father and move on. Stop pretending the two of us could water these fledgling feelings, grow something good out of them.

Watching her gather and pack a tiny box that represented her few good childhood memories silenced that notion. She’d endured so much growing up, too much the past month, me and this lost luggage adding to her stress. The grudge I’d harbored seemed childish now. We’d been kids back then. Stupid. Led by our fears, unsure who we were and who we should be.

Today, I was a lonely musician who missed his best friend. Today, I was a man struggling to tame his desire for his first and only love.

Gwen

I couldn’t gather my paltry box fast enough. If I could eject myself from this overheating kitchen, that had shrunk with August in it, I’d strap myself in and brace for impact. One second I was ready to grab his pole and test how high it could make me jump, the next I couldn’t stop remembering the rabbit hole I’d fallen into after my WTF.

Losing August back then had been a sledgehammer to my heart. For two years I’d wallowed, barely going out. Self-imposed isolation. Until I’d met Rachel and Ainsley. The girls had reminded me there was life after a shattered heart, but the extent to which I’d suffered wasn’t something one forgot.

I was twenty-seven now, not nineteen, but the San Francisco fault line had nothing on my shoddy foundation.

One moment on August’s aroused lap, and the cracks under my feet showed.

I shuffled across the white linoleum floor, glancing at him as he returned my guitar to its case. His strong back stretched his jersey, his shoulder blades shifting with each move. My Badass PI partner.

Of our investigative duo, he’d been the clever one, quick to decipher leads and solve problems as we’d hunt down clues. I was the sneaky one who’d sweet talked “suspects” and “informants,” donning my meager acting skills.

Anything to spend more time with August.

He hadn’t agreed to investigate with me today, only to join my friends for a drink. The possibility of combing the city with him sounded too good to be true, grinding on his pole sounded even better, but we’d spent the last nine years ignoring each other, angry and hurt. Me ashamed and pissed at myself. August furious with me. Not the kind of history suited to unearthing parental information that could trigger my own personal earthquake.

That didn’t lessen my internal tug-of-war: I wanted him with me for this daunting scavenger hunt. I wanted him playing me songs, flirting with me, possibly thrusting his pole inside me. An electrifying and petrifying prospect.

Which meant I needed to focus on one sure thing: August and I were friends. We had been, at least. A relationship I wanted back. A fling might calm the fire one look from him stirred, but he could never be a one-night stand, and we’d never be more, certainly not today, with this journal and the challenging hours ahead of me.

Finding my father was priority one.

August trailed me from the kitchen. He wasn’t even close, but I could barely breathe through the feverish grip on my lungs.

“So, we’ll meet in a couple hours?” he asked.

Hopefully long enough to get these hot flashes under control. “Five thirty. I’ll text you.”

He opened the front door and reached toward me. “Give that to me.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?” My heart? My soul? He owned both already.

“The box. So you can lock up.”

Right. The box I was holding. So I could lock up.

Even his simple gesture had me picking apart his intentions. The action also had me all thumbs.

What should have been a simple handoff of a small box went haywire when his hand brushed my arm. I squeaked and fell into him. The box tumbled to the ground, his arm came around my waist, and my hand grazed his pole.

He grunted, short and harsh. I should have moved my hand. A normal person who needed to be only platonic with her ex-best friend while she chased down leads on her ghosted father should have moved her hand. I did move my hand, but it was more of a needy slide.

Air hissed through his teeth. “Do that again, Gwen, and I’ll toss you over my shoulder, take you up to your childhood bedroom, and live out the dirty fantasies that kept me up for most of high school.”

Good Lord.

I jumped back and smacked my shoulder into the doorframe. My lungs had practically incinerated, burned up with my unquenched desire. Still, I managed to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was breathing hard, too, and he smirked.

He wasn’t a smirker. He was a hate-song writer. I couldn’t get my head around it all. “What are we doing?”

“Honestly?”

“No, August. I’d like you to lie to me so I can continue acting like a moron. I don’t even know why you came by or why you’re in town.” Most of his family lived in Chicago now. He didn’t have a house here.

His lips tipped into a frown. “I’m not really sure anymore.”

“Why you’re in town, or what we’re doing?”

He dragged a hand through his dark hair. The strands were shorter than they used to be, but they still had a slight curl, that one lick up top defying gravity. I itched to smooth it down. Touching him wasn’t smart, and I was a smart girl. A together girl. A girl who needed to focus.

“I came home to take care of some personal business,” he said cryptically. “As for us, I’d like to hang out this afternoon. We’ll take it from there.”

A loony laugh escaped me. “We’ll take it from there?”

“Now who’s repeating who?”

“You do know how weird this is, right? You and me hanging out and…” I glanced at his crotch, the loose fabric tented slightly. For a second, I wondered if that personal business had to do specifically with me, but the possibility was laughable. His brother lived here. He likely had music contacts in the area, too. Still, he’d shown up at my mother’s door, looking for me.

He shrugged an unaffected shoulder, like our flirting didn’t mock the laws of nature. “I’ve decided to stop analyzing it.”

He bent to gather the few things that had tumbled from my box, and I froze. It was one thing to give him his Badass PI badge, but each memento littering the walkway—the only keepsakes I’d saved from my childhood—were all linked to the man bent over them. Every last one.

My first Wonder Woman comic—his gift when I’d won my track meet.

The Die Hard DVD he’d sent over when I’d been holed up with mono.

Every homemade birthday card he’d slipped into my locker.

He righted the box and returned the escaped items, but paused on each one. My throat closed. They were damning, hard proof I’d never gotten over him. The longer he lingered, the hotter my neck burned. Mortification over my obvious obsession with him winded me, along with hope he’d understand how important he’d been in my life.

Seeing as we’d never unleashed our monolithic sexual tension, his flirting made sense. A quick fuck could offer him closure, even though it would ruin me. This evidence wasn’t simple flirting. This was proof of a deep emotional scar, years of missing him nurtured and splayed on flagstone.

I expected him to stand, make some excuse about a forgotten appointment or meeting. Flee the scene of the crime. Instead he placed my mother’s journal over our memories and stood, facing me. “I have a picture of you on my laptop, from our trip to the zoo, with you making faces at the chimpanzees. I’ve switched computers over the years, had plenty of opportunity to delete it. I never could.”

He smiled a sad smile, his gaze traveling over my face and landing on my lips. He licked his, a slow slide of his tongue. Then he turned and jogged to his car.

My heart jogged in time.