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Dude, like I don’t know.
I’ve got a hundred memories of the woman sleeping on the other side of this wall. A thousand. Sweet, feisty, patient, furious, and everything in between. Every single one stirs this physical response, when mentally?
That’s a hard Hell, no.
Been there. Done that.
Do not recommend.
Now Big Ben just needs to get with the program. And since he’s particularly bullheaded this morning… I pull out the big guns, flipping through the mental index of shit-you-can’t-unsee until I land on the memory of my post-op nut.
Desperate times. Drastic measures.
Blah, blah, blah.
And as he draws back in horror, all How could I??! I grumble, “You did this.”
Whatever it takes. Because hanging out with Lara again is good. No way am I going to fuck it up. Not when we both know which lines not to cross if we want this friendship to stick. I know I do.
* * *
Ben
These charity gigs are part of playing for the Slayers. Bowie and I take them in stride. But tonight, not so much.
No idea what crawled up Bowie’s ass, but he’s been off all evening.
Yeah, he’s pulling it together for what always feels like a thousand handshake photos with the donors at tonight’s charity shindig, but every time I lean over to tell him a joke or catch his eye to silently commune over whatever ridiculous thing some douche is saying, the guy gets all twitchy and looks away.
My man is tense.
He’s the emotional type. Carries that shit in his shoulders and needs to unload it.
A year ago, we’d go home and shoot the shit, watching sports highlights. I’d nag. Eventually, he’d open up. And miraculously, shoulders unburdened.
Now that he’s living with Piper, no idea how the poor guy unwinds.
After a few hours of chatting up donors, dodging the advances of a particularly persistent woman who tried to corner me outside the bathroom, and bringing in bank for a good cause, it’s time to clock out. I thank the coordinator for putting everything together and meet Bowie at the side exit.
Not our first rodeo. Going out the front makes it way too easy for some of the hardcore fans to follow us.
Inside his car, I pull out my phone to text Lara we’re on our way back.
Big Ben is still trying to butt his head into places he doesn’t belong, but he’ll get the picture any time now.
“Hey, man, I know it’s late, but come get a drink with me?”
It is late. But even though my body is dying to get horizontal and my brain is curious to hear how Lara’s pitch on this hotel project went, it’s been a minute since Bowie and I chilled on our own.
“What you thinking?”
We used to hang out at this club— it was our default place —but after some serious BS with the manager and my sister, it’s off the island for good.
He’s quiet long enough that I turn to make sure he’s okay.
And my man looks… Not quite right. My gut tenses, and I hear the blood rushing past my ears.
Holy shit.
