“But mostly, there’s no way in hell I’d ever want to mess up our friendship. I feel like it’s more than friendship with us, it’s like . . . I don’t know, maybe we knew each other in a different life?” She leans forward as she says this last part, and I feel instant guilt for being petty.
Of course she’s right. What we have is a bond that isn’t worth ruining, even if love is the one thing that’s missing between us. Even if it means I have to swallow down my feelings forever, I won’t lose her. I saw what it did to Willow when Landon disappeared, and I can’t imagine going through life without August.
“So tell me about this dick Brad or Derek or whatever the hell jock name this one has,” I say only half-jokingly as she playfully slaps me. Do I want to hear about the guys she’s dating? Abso-fucking-lutely not, but I’m her friend and I want to be part of her life in whatever capacity I can, so I’ll suck it up and listen to her talk about how amazing this douche is until he breaks her heart and I’m left picking up the pieces while she cries on my shoulder.
1
August
Present Day
“Sometimes I still can’t believe Landon and Willow are actually getting married—like for real getting married. Just crazy, ya know? I’m so happy for them.” I steady myself on my barstool as I gesture a little too wildly with my glass, the beer sloshing a bit over the side and getting on the bar.
“Right? I’m so happy for them. It’s about damn time after this 15-year-long saga between them,” Jade says, clinking her glass to mine.
“Are we carpooling to the bachelorette party in a few weeks? We should just all drive in Celeste’s giant-ass SUV. Have a girls’ road trip!” We both say the last part in unison and grasp each other’s hands like we just came up with the cure for period cravings.
“You ladies doing okay? Maybe a glass of water . . . or four?” Memphis, Jade’s husband, asks as he drapes his arms around our shoulders.
“Like you’re in any better shape,” I smirk, smelling the tequila shots on his breath. He gives me his cheesiest grin before planting a loud, wet kiss on Jade’s mouth, causing her to squeal.
It draws a little attention from the rest of our friends currently playing pool in the far corner of The Lariat bar where we like to hang out. I spot Remi sitting on a stool in the corner, waiting his turn. He’s holding a beer in one hand, his pool stick propped against his thigh as he chats with some random blonde with a teeny waist and giant tits. I roll my eyes at the cliché: of course she’s the one he’s talking to. He’s got a type.
I can’t help but look down at my own boobs. They’re a full C, perky, and pretty damn amazing if I say so myself, but they’re not pornstar boobs.
I watch as Remi laughs—a real, genuine laugh—and it makes a little knot form in my stomach. I push it down like I always do. There’s zero reason to get jealous over Remi. I’ve told myself a million times not to let my mind wander down that road, because it’d only end in destruction.
“Caught ya lookin’,” Jade nudges my elbow, snapping my attention back to her.
“Huh? Oh please, I was just laughing to myself at the pathetic little scene playing out over there. I mean, how has he not run out of big-boobed blondes to bang in this town?”
“It’s a tourist town, sweetie. They’re always passing through. Maybe that’s a role-play you guys could do. You show up to his house with a blonde wig and one of those Victoria’s Secret bombshell bras that adds, like, two cup sizes.” She barely gets through her comment before she’s laughing herself right off her stool and onto the floor.
“Serves you right!” I say as she continues laughing in a crumpled pile on the floor.
I know she’s only joking and doesn’t think for a minute I’d actually do it, but hey, that might not be a bad idea. Could really take away from the awkwardness of showing up to his house for a booty call. Ever since our one night 15 years ago, I’ve wanted more. I’ve always wanted more with Remi. I want it all.
His baby blue eyes catch mine. The bottle blonde has walked away and he’s gripping a pool stick, his tongue darting out to lick beer foam off his lip. I feel a wetness building between my thighs and I clench them together, willing it to stop, but it doesn’t help.
His arm flexes as he tightens his grip on the stick, the tattoo on his right bicep moving ever so slightly beneath the tight sleeve of his black T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the dark blonde stubble on his jaw is begging to scratch my inner thighs.
In moments like this, I’d give anything to know what’s going through his head. Is he just lost in thought? Is he undressing me with his eyes the way I am him? It feels like every time we have these moments, my need for him gets stronger and I’m slowly losing my ability to deny myself. If we were alone right now, I’d rip his shirt off and drag my tongue over his chiseled chest. The most excruciating reality of my situation is that I know what’s underneath those ripped black jeans. I’ve felt his thick, hard cock pulsing inside me. I wish I would’ve taken him in my mouth that night, but we were both so frenzied that we barely got each other’s clothes off before he was inside me.
He breaks our gaze, but only briefly to place his beer on his stool and his stick against the wall before looking back at me and heading for the door of the bar. Without hesitation, I stand and follow him.
I step out into the crisp March air, glancing around, but I don’t see him until I look to my right and he’s sitting on the bed of his truck. He’s pulled the back portion down flat.
“Needed some air?” I ask as I walk over to him, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans to seem casual.
“Something like that.” He pats the space next to him and I jump up to take a seat. It’s quiet between us, with just the sounds of a few grasshoppers and crickets singing their evening songs.
I’m about to say something to break the tension when Remi slides off the edge of the truck and turns to face me. He steps between my thighs, spreading them with his body before sliding his arm behind me and pulling me toward him. In one instant, my body is flush against his, and his other hand is gripping the back of my neck and tilting my head back so he can claim my mouth.
It’s quick and heated. The way his tongue presses against my own sends a shot of electricity down my body—right to my core. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t say anything. He just takes my mouth, kissing me like I’ve never been kissed before.
I grab his shirt with both fists, pulling him closer to me even though it’s not possible. I want to feel him. I want him inside me. I can taste the beer on his tongue as it massages against mine. I can feel his manhood throbbing against my own pulsing center and it’s killing me. I’m about to beg him to take me home when the bar door opens, the light and laughter from inside spilling out, causing me to pull back.
As soon as I do, I regret it. His eyes go from heat and passion to regret almost instantly as he steps back and runs both hands through his hair—something he does when he’s frustrated.
I want to reach out and pull him toward me again. I want to tell him that these stolen moments between us are what keep me going. Of course I want him physically, but it’s more than that. It’s deeper. I want to hold his heart, to know that I’m the only woman who holds the key to it. But I don’t know how to express that to him. I don’t know how to open myself and let him in without the fear of ruining it.