“DON’T YOU DARE EAT THAT piece of steak, Jason!” The sound of Brit’s mom yelling travels outside their house as the doors to the SUV open. Voices collide. Noises clash. A mental picture of the kitchen in disarray flashes, with dishes flying and food splattered on the walls.
My parents roll their eyes; I grin as we walk to the door.
“Heyooo!” I call, walking through their living room, towards the kitchen, with Geer’s pan of brownies. I stop in the entryway and watch.
Jason and April Jackson are in an intense stare down in the middle of the kitchen. Light gray-speckled granite lines the counters with white cabinets hovering above; their kitchen makes a beautiful battlefield for a showdown. As the oven timer goes off, neither of the Jacksons blink an eye. Their laser-focus gazes are on each other.
“If Jason is sampling the steak, then I sure as hell want a piece too.” I walk further into the kitchen.
That breaks their stare down.
April turns her storm cloud colored eyes toward me, making me take an involuntary step back from the heat of her glare. Jason grins at me in victory as he bites into the piece of meat.
“Emery Lawson, why do you always take his side?” April asks as she points a big spoon at me.
I shrug as I make my way over to give her a hug. “He’s the one who gives me beer when y’all get drunk. He kind of solidified my unwavering support.”
“Get out of my kitchen before I whack you with my spoon!” she yells, not liking my answer.
Brit and I have been best friends since birth. Our dads grew up next to each other, practically brothers. Jason is an only child and my dad just has a younger sister. Even as my dad got famous, Jason was always right by his side. How they met our moms is a little hazy since neither of them remember either night.
Ah, young love. What a beautiful thing.
Our dads joke that Brit and I are like them when they were growing up, but worse. Which might be true. We do tend to get in a lot of trouble. Our wild fathers spawned even rowdier daughters.
Me more so than Brit, but she’s always along for the ride.
One time we started a marshmallow fight in my kitchen when we were having a sleepover and my parents woke up to find our kitchen decorated with sticky lumps of fluff and we blamed the mess on the dog.
I had no dog at the time.
My trusty ole partner in crime.
I find said partner in crime in her bedroom with her eyes glued to her laptop, her camera sitting beside it. She never goes anywhere without it and no matter where she is, or what she’s doing, the thing is always an arm’s length away from her.
I sneak up behind her, quietly, closing her computer screen as fast as I can.
“Hey!” she yells, yanking her fingers back to avoid getting them squished. “What if I was on the very cusp of finding the cure to cancer and now all my research is lost? Gone forever!”
“You don’t even like science, brah.”
She raises a brow. “I could like science, dude.”
“Okay, let me rephrase.” I roll my eyes. “You aren’t even good at science.”
“It’s hard, okay?” She pretends to pout.
“Remember that one time you tried to bribe our chemistry teacher with twenty bucks to give you extra credit so you wouldn’t get a D on your report card?”
“And how you convinced our biology teacher that you didn’t believe in science?”
I laugh, remembering how high-pitched his voice got as his face grew to the shade of a dark, red cherry. “We were awful.”
“You still are,” she points out.
I fold my hands over my heart. “You say the sweetest things to me, friend.”
Brit snorts and I walk to her bed, my mind replaying countless memories from high school. Some good and some that altered my life in ways I never could’ve imaged.
“Sometimes I miss it.”
Brit gives me a look, her face is pinched up in what can only be described as disgust. Her tone matches. “Really?”
“Well, not all of it. Just how easy life was when we were freshman and sophomores.”
She makes a new face this time, one that compresses into sympathy and my stomach curdles. “I’m fine. I swear. You know I am.”
Before she can say anything, or worse argue how unfine she might think I am, annoying chimes chirp from her phone. Brit unlocks it, reading the message. After typing out a quick reply, she locks her phone and faces me with a knowing grin.
The conversation from before is now forgotten.
When she doesn’t share, I raise a brow and cross my arms. “You going to tell me what made you so happy?”
“We’re going to a party!” She claps her hands before pumping them in the air. “First one of break.”
“Okay, when?”
“After we eat.”
I nod. “We need a DD,” I tell her, being responsible and what not, before asking, “Nose goes?”
My finger is already touching my nose while Brit has her hands in her lap. HA! I win!
She handles her loss with grace, by not acknowledging it, and glances down at her phone again.
“Are you going to charge that before we leave?” Knowing Brit, her battery is probably down to ten percent, but I need to be able to find her if we get split up.
She shrugs. Ignoring my question, she asks her own, “Aren’t you going to ask where?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “As long as they have alcohol, I’m good.”
“You’re so predictable, Em.” She rolls her eyes as she begins typing on her phone.
“Yeah, well, this is why we’re friends. You’re my sober sister!”
“Not tonight.” She looks up at me with a smirk before going back to her screen. I’m getting ready to ask who she’s texting when Geer walks into the room, phone in hand, a glare fixed on his sister.
Aaaand I have my answer.
“So, what? I just get nominated as the driver? What if I had plans?”
“You don’t have plans,” Brit and I say in unison. Brit adds, “We need you to drive us.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “We need you to be our sober sister. Or in your case, brother.”
“Gotcha.” Neutral tone. Geer is great at hiding emotions. He’s also great at being a big brother, and a pushover. If we need him and he has plans, he’ll cancel.
We’re lucky that he likes to hang around us. No matter what his friends said growing up, Geer’s protective and loyal to me and Brit. He’s never ashamed to be seen with his sister and her best friend.
He even offered to be my date to prom, but Brit and I decided to bail on that before it was even planned.
If Geer wasn’t always so broody, we’d call him the other sister in our squad, but he’d snarl at us.
Geer is a man’s man.
April’s voice calls from the kitchen, putting our party planning on pause.
“We’re leaving after dessert,” Brit tells her brother as she walks past him. “So I hope that’s what you’re wearing.”
I pat his chest when he doesn’t move from the doorway.
He’s only wearing basketball shorts.
Two hours into the party and a few beers later, I have to stifle a yawn.
It’s nearing close to midnight and I have to get up early. I would have already left, but I spied Brit talking to Dez Daimon, a guy she was borderline in love with in high school, and knew I couldn’t ask her to leave just yet.
Brit sees me watching them and I grimace, knowing what’s coming. I’m a protective best friend and an awful third wheel. I usually make sure no making out happens—one time even going as far as putting my hand between two sets of lips—but Brit seems to have forgotten that.
She waves me over and dread settles in.
I don’t know why she wants me there.
She finally has Dez all to herself.
Let me stay here, drinking my beer, while I teach myself how to sleep with my eyes open. I’m perfectly fine being alone by this wall. Especially if it means I don’t have to talk to Dez.
But now she is practically landing a plane, trying to get me to come over and join them. Her arms are above her head, flapping about.
With a sigh, I push off the wall.
Dez gives me a hug when I reach them and I’m trying not to make a face as I pull away.
We’re not friends.
We used to be, but not anymore.
My feet shift under me.
Dez is twenty-one, half-Hispanic, half-Irish, and built like a lean baseball player. His expressive hazel eyes shift to dark brown or amber depending on the clothes he’s donning. His body has a light dusting of freckles that almost match his complexion, but when he’s outside and his skin tans, the freckles are nearly invisible unless you’re close enough to spy them.
Dez ruffles my hair, which causes me to scrunch my face in annoyance again. Why does he keep touching me? “How’ve you been, girl?”
“Better than you.” I take in his appearance some more, noting a short beard. “What is going on with all that shit on your face?”
Brit hits my shoulder, but she’s trying to smother a grin.
“Doesn’t it make me look good?” Dez asks.
“It makes you look like you just hit puberty.” It’s patchy and needs to be filled in. Do they make a beard filler powder like they do for eyebrows? ’Cause dude needs some.
He still looks like the guy from high school, with his shorts hanging low on his hips and a guy tank on. He’s even wearing his old baseball hat he wore in high school backwards. Some of the rich purple color and the mascot have faded with time. Even his outfit is irritating me and reminds me of how he hasn’t changed.
Well, that’s not true. He’s back to acknowledging Brit and me.
Brit has a softer heart towards him than I do. She always sticks up for him whenever my dislike shows. For years we’ve been divided on our opinions of Desmond Daimon.
We all grew up together, super close family friends who did everything from the ages of birth to the summer before Brit and I started high school. When we got there, Dez acted like he didn’t know us, but I guess with him being a sophomore it was embarrassing to be seen with us freshmen.
At one point, he was almost my first kiss—until Brit threw a cumquat at us, hitting me in the eye. We were seven.
Now, he’s a stranger to me.
“Aw, Emery. Don’t be mean just ’cause you missed me.” He runs a hand along his patchy beard. “I’ve had this since August. I’m keeping it until they make me shave it.”
“Who makes you shave it?” Brit asks, drawing the attention back to her.
Yes! Talk him up, girl!
While I don’t care for the dude, my best friend will always like him. He was her first crush. And what a crush it was. Spanning years and time and going against all logic.
A part of me always thought they would eventually get together, but then he grew into his dick and abandoned us.
“I got accepted into the Fire Academy.”
“No way!” Brit’s face breaks out in a smile and she starts bouncing. She’s an excited bouncer. “Just like your dad.”
“And my grandpa,” Dez says, pride ringing in his words. “It’s kind of a family tradition.”
Speaking of his family, I love them. They are just a bunch of sweethearts and I still talk to his sister on the regular and go out to lunch with her when we’re free. I miss Dez being in my life the same way his sister is, but I hold grudges and high school is still too fresh to let go.
Especially for what he put Brit through.
I raise my beer, mentally cheering Brit on. There isn’t that much left in the bottle, so I drain the rest, letting the alcohol find a home in my belly. I wonder how long I have to stand here now that my contribution to this reunion is done.
“When do you start?”
“This upcoming semester, so I’m trying to soak up as much fun as I can.” His words are full of suggestiveness. The way he’s angling his body toward Brit, speaking to her, looking at her, I get the message. I am officially free to go as I fade into the background, forgotten. I move away, but stay close enough so that I can overhear a few more minutes of the conversation.
It’s the best friend way.
“I’m here until January, so we should definitely try to see each other before we both get busy,” Brit says. There’s something about the way that she says the words that have my brows pulling together. Something off.
She and Dez share a look before he nods, leaning down to whisper in her ear.
I watch them for a moment longer before leaving them alone. I walk toward the kitchen, sidestepping two guys in a serious lip lock.
I try to take a sip from my bottle, only to remember it’s empty.
Too busy looking inside the bottle, hoping some liquid will magically appear, I’m not paying attention to my surroundings and I stumble into something.
Something hard.
Moving my palms to push away, I freeze.
This doesn’t feel like a wall—it feels like a body.
Shitfuckshitfuck.
Stumbling back a few steps, I look into a set of leather brown eyes that are attached to the very face decorating the cover of this month’s issue of Rip Current.
Sebastian Cleaton.
He is staring at me too, but probably not in the same way.
My top feels tighter than it did moments ago. Wet and pressing against my stomach like a heavy, second layer of skin.
Glancing down, I have the answer why. Beer is running down the front.
He spilled his beer on me. The fabric gets more soaked by the second and the liquid begins to seep onto my skin.
“You’re not a blonde with tequila.” He looks down at me, a little taken aback.
“No! I’m just the girl you practically tackled to the ground!” I yell, partially because there is so much noise around us, but mostly from the fact that I’m starting to smell like a brewery. “And you made beer go down my shirt, damn it!”
“Whoa, Cherry Pie.” He holds up his hands in mock defense as a smile takes over his face. He isn’t taking this seriously! Internally, I stomp my foot like a child. “Let’s just take a sec—”
I look down at my outfit, at the red shirt I’m wearing.
“Did you just call me Cherry Pie?!” My voice suddenly sounds louder, even though the octave stayed the same.
Someone turned the music off and quiet quickly descends around us.
I inwardly groan.
Everyone in the kitchen and living room just heard me yell at the famous guy crashing the party.
Which—Why is he crashing the party? What is he even doing at a house party in our small town?
Or…
What if this isn’t real? How much does one need to drink in order to imagine a childhood crush in their presence?
“You’re right, Cherry Pie doesn’t work.” He regards me with a lot more clarity than I’m capable of at the moment. The world’s edges are blurry. “I’m thinking Firecracker works better.”
I step closer to him, finger raised to poke him in the chest.
An arm curves to fit the shape of my waist, pulling me backward. My glare darkens at my captor.
“All right, that’s enough.” Geer looks down at me with an unreadable expression. I try to break out of his grasp but he holds me tighter. “You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself.”
“I am not drunk.” My feet stumble slightly and I lean into him. “And you should know by now that I don’t get embarrassed easily.”
“That’s the problem,” he grumbles.
Thinking I’ve calmed or something, Geer naively loosens his grip enough for me to break free. Only I end up losing my balance and stumble into another body.
Bash’s body.
I slam into Bash’s body again.
He puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me as I mumble, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s unattractive when a lady curses?” His lips breathe across my ear. Turning my head, his face doesn’t move and we’re now sharing the same breath. If either of us shift our heads just a centimeter, our mouths would be encased in each other.
“It’s a good thing I’m not a lady.” If anyone has a problem with a girl cursing, they can go shove their opinions up their ass. There is no time for that.
Bash takes a step back, just enough so his eyes can wander the length of my body, honing in on my chest. When they finally settle back on my face, he’s wearing a shit-eating smirk. “Look like one to me.”
“You’re a pug.”
“A pug?”
“Yes! A mammal, often kept as pets, with curly tails. A pug.”
A laugh, so rich but rusty, like he hasn’t used it in a while, erupts out of Bash’s mouth as he looks down at me. His eyes lighten with amusement, crinkling in the corners.
When he laughs, he looks younger than his twenty-two years, putting him more around my age. It’s as if all the tension built around him gets a momentary lax, creating an opening so he’s able to enjoy life. “Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but the animal I think you’re looking for is a pig.”
“Hmm.” I tap my index finger against my chin. “I don’t think so. I mean why would I call you a pig when pugs are so much cuter?”
The ghost of the smile he had from when he was laughing grants me its presence again and this time it is a full-blown smile, but it’s broken. The corners aren’t as high and it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.
There’s something about it that makes him more real, human, and not just a picture I used to have as a background on my phone.
“So you think I’m as cute as a pug?”
“I think that you think that you’re as cute as a pug.” My words come out too fast to comprehend, even by me, and from the confused, pinched up expression on Bash’s face, I think I throw him off too.
If I were able to stomach the thought of being indoors all day, I’d have no problem being a lawyer. I can argue anything and win.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about anymore, Firecracker.” Bash glances around, finally realizing that we are drawing the attention of more people. Something passes over his face before he’s reaching for my hand. “C’mon.”
He begins leading me through the sea of bodies, pulling me after him. I glance over my shoulder at Geer, giving a quick head shake, warning him off.
Nothing is going to happen.
Probably a stupid thought for me to have, but if Bash wants to do anything that is going to land him in prison, he’s leading me to the wrong place. Instead of walking me up the stairs, we’re heading toward the back of the house, to the back porch. Some of the party has carried out to the backyard.
“Where are we going?”
He peaks over his shoulder. “Taking you somewhere you can keep yelling at me.”
“I’m all yelled out,” I admit. It’s past my bedtime and grandma-me needs sleep. “Now I’m just sleepy.” To prove my point, a yawn surfaces, stretching my jaw. Bash is still looking at me, yawning himself. “Copycat.”
He winks. We stop at a set of chairs in the corner of the wrap-around porch.
“So when you said somewhere for me to yell at you, you meant a stage for everyone to witness.”
“Well, someone has to testify if you turn violent.” He gently pushes me into one of the Adirondack chairs. I slap his arm before sitting completely. He grins. “See, the abuse has already started. I thought you loved me, Firecracker.”
“No, I said you’re a pug.” I gesture to his face. “All scrunched up and goofy looking. Fits you.”
“You think I’m goofy?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I don’t know you. All I really know is that my shirt is wet because of you. I smell like beer now.”
“Well we can’t have that now, can we?” He stands, reaching up, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Pulling it off.
Pretty sure my jaw detaches as I watch. His tan abs are right in my face and I’m taking in my fill.
God, his body.
Golden and ripped, but not like Geer—a body born from the gym. Bash’s body looks like a surfer’s. One born from putting less time in the gym and more in the water. Abs sculpting his body, each ridge looks as if it has been individually hand carved. Arms that have muscles showing without flexing.
His body should be the eighth deadly sin.
There’s also some ink on his chest, but it’s too dark to make out the design.
He pulls the shirt over my head. “Take off your shirt, then put your arms through the holes.”
“When I imagined a guy getting me naked, this isn’t what my mind came up with.” I shimmy under his shirt, wiggling around and trying keep my stomach covered while attempting to get out of my shirt. Bash watches, but not leering in a creepy, pervy way.
No, he’s looking like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. A fist pressing into his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I hate you so much right now.” I pull my shirt over my head, throwing it at him.
“Yeah?” He catches it without breaking eye contact. “Give me back my shirt then.”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan, pushing my arms through his shirt and sitting back in the chair. I bring my legs to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. “Too late. I’m all comfy. It’s mine now. If you get cold, you can put on that one.”
I nod to my shirt.
Bash gives me a look. One that clearly says he’s not even entertaining that idea. He holds up the red top. “This wouldn’t even fit one arm.”
I grin, pulling his shirt closer around me. Soft cotton warms my body. Winters down here are other states’ spring. It gets a little chilly sometimes and tonight it’s more cool than warm.
His shirt smells intoxicating, like laundry detergent and body wash mixed with something else. Something that is only describable as man. Masculinity. It’s a distracting scent that invades my senses. I try to ignore it. “Now you’re only stroking your ego. You’d be able to get it up to your shoulder. Easy.”
He raises a brow, challenging me. I watch as he slips a hand up the shirt and see the fabric fading from the force. He gets it to his bicep when I hear the material stretch. I jump up from the chair, pulling my shirt back.
With it securely cradled to my chest, I look at him. Giving him my best glare even though the alcohol and the need for sleep make it less intimidating. “You proved your point.”
“I think you proved some as well.” He brings his chair closer. His knees touch mine. The contact of warm skin seeps through my jeans and makes my breath hitch.
It’s a jolt, like the feeling of getting shocked by a shopping cart mixed with the forgotten touch of a man.
I look up at him, but Bash is staring at my lips.
My eyes dip to his, wondering what they would feel like, taste like against mine. Just for a second—or two—before looking at his eyes.
This time his eyes are on me. They’re smiling. Teasing. He totally caught me looking.
He knows where my thoughts strayed and he inches forward, one of his legs slipping between both of mine. His hands slide up my thighs, eliciting a shiver all over my body.
My breathing stops as his head comes closer to me, tilting ever so slightly. I close my eyes, moving my head towards him. Hoping to close the distance.
When his lips finally touch me, my eyes snap open.
What. The fuck. Was that?
Sebastian Cleaton just kissed my forehead.