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But this is so fucking messy. Despite what she says, it’s hard to imagine that she’s finally outgrown Javier. And even if she has, Julia’s still so far off limits she might as well be on another fucking planet. Images of her in my bed are quickly replaced with the destruction of my friendship with Lukas, the collateral damage fracturing out through our families. It’s more than a little complicated.
I open my mouth to press her on it but Tuna leaps up onto the coffee table, distracting us. She stares me dead in the eyes and nudges my half-full beer bottle toward the edge of the table.
“Tuna, no,” Julia says firmly, sitting up. Tuna’s unnerving gaze shifts to Julia and just as I reach out to pick up the bottle, she full-on swipes it off the edge. I scramble for the bottle and Julia jumps up to get a towel. Tuna watches the commotion, eyeing us with zero fucks to give.
Julia returns carrying two hand towels, tossing one of them at my face and we both drop to our knees, trying to soak up the beer.
“You didn’t have any smaller towels?” I ask, holding up the beer-soaked terry cloth. It’s barely larger than the span of my hand.
“Doing laundry is overrated,” she grins at me. “I forgot to put the towels in the dryer so this is about it.”
We wring the towels out in the sink, rinsing them and going back for a second round. Once we get it cleaned up as best we can, Julia takes the damp towel from my hand. She gives me a crooked smile and her lips part like she wants to say something but then she presses them shut again.
“I’m beat. I’ll see you in the morning, Mateo.”
“Night, Jules.” I watch her turn and disappear. The sound of a door shutting echoes down the hallway a second later. I scrub a hand over my face, standing and grabbing my duffle bag. Thank God I have sweatpants to sleep in. I’m not sure how well Jules would take it if I crashed on her couch in my boxers. I get changed and toss the pillows on the couch before laying down. The edging on the velvet cushions digs into my spine and I shift around trying to get comfortable.
“Christ,” I mutter. This thing certainly wasn’t made for overnight guests. It’s not as bad as the cheap ass beds in basic training, but it’s close. I roll around, trying to relax. All I can smell is Julia. Her soft citrus scent hangs in the air and it’s making me insane. Rolling to my stomach, I bury my face in the pillow, trying to smother the scent out of my nostrils, but it’s worse. I sit up and hold the pillow to my face, breathing it in.
It’s the Goddamn pillow. Did she pull this straight off her bed? I groan, picturing her laying her head on it. Hair fanned out around her. And then the image shifts, her head pressing back into the pillow as her back arches, lips parted in a gasp.
“Fuck.” I toss both pillows across the room in an attempt to squash the temptation to jack off in Julia’s house. I throw my arm behind my head and clench every muscle in my body, consciously relaxing one group at a time. I breathe through my mouth, forcing each one to go slower as I imagine floating in a canoe on a quiet lake. I have to repeat the exercise six fucking times before I finally drift off.
It only feels like a couple minutes when I’m ripped out of sleep. Something buzzes nearby. The windows are still dark, but the light of my phone glares up at me from the coffee table. The last pieces of my dream fade as I wake up fully and Julia evaporates in a fuzzy haze.
A San Francisco number lights up the screen.
“Hello?”
“Mateo?”
“Yeah, who’s this?” I ask, sitting up straight in the dark.
“Oh, hey, man. I’m Dillon Anders, I’m John’s comm guy.”
“What time is it?” I pull my phone away from my face to look at the screen, but I can still hear his voice.
“Approximately zero four twelve Pacific.”
I scrub my hand over my face. Right. Early as fuck.
“John gave me a name to run for you earlier. Grimaldi, Richard, civilian physician.”
“Yes…”
“He said to call you if anything came up and something just popped. There was a hit and run in Napa, California filed by local P.D. Witness got a license plate that came back registered to Grimaldi.”
“Jesus. Was anyone injured?”
“Minor injuries. Witnesses said the driver was, and I quote, ‘Road raging like a dick.’”
“Nice,” I mutter. “DUI?”
“No mention, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Thanks, Dillon.”
“No sweat, brother. I’ll let you know if anything else pings.”
