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What guy in his right mind walks away from that?
I knew she didn’t mean it the way most girls would mean it. I also knew that look wasn’t meant for me. I knew it was the alcohol and rejection talking, but if I’d had one more scotch on the rocks…
If we hadn’t known each other almost our whole lives…
If she hadn’t just downed a bottle of wine like it was water…
If she wasn’t my best friend…
* * *
An hour and a half later, we were sprawled out on her sofa watchingP.S. I Love Youfor the hundredth time…this week. At least it wasn’tTwilight. If I had to watch that hormonal teenage bullshit one more time, I would have to trade in my man card for a box of tampons. The shit I did for this woman.
I was on my back with Kennedy between my legs, her back against my chest, the way we always watched TV. Thankfully, I’d mastered the art of not getting a hard-on when she was on top of me like this. Not an easy feat, I promise you that. Also thankfully, she’d changed out of the dress into a pair of bright pink yoga pants and a gray Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Not that the yoga pants were any less sexy, but they weren’t bare skin, so there was that.
Her phone pinged on the coffee table, and she popped up to grab it.
Her face lit up at whatever was on the screen. “Princeton is in your neighborhood.” She read the text out loud in a deep, robotic voice. Like Siri. If Siri were a two-hundred-forty-pound dude.
A drunk Kennedy meant a hungry Kennedy. Scratch that. An awake Kennedy meant a hungry Kennedy. I’d never seen anyone eat so much and stay so tiny. Where the hell did it go?
The doorbell rang during the scene where Harry Connick Jr. and Hilary Swank were having lunch, and he realized she only wanted him as a friend. The scene where he told her he wanted to find a woman and ruin her for all of mankind, that he wanted to be someone’sJerryand fuck me if I didn’t feel that shit down to my soul.
“I’ll get it,” I said. Anything to give me a five-minute break from the unrealistic expectations Gerard Butler set for all of mankind.
I opened the door, grabbed the pizza, and handed Princeton a five-dollar tip, even though I was sure Kennedy already added it when she paid online because there was never a time when Kennedy didn’t tip. Even that time at Waffle House when the waitress slammed our plates on the table so hard that the bacon fell off onto the tabletop. So, she picked it up and ate it. The waitress ate our fucking bacon. And Kennedy still tipped her, because that was who she was—a saint in a sinner’s body.
My phone vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans. The notification popped up:Kaitlyn sent an image.
Fuck.
Talk about shitty timing. I glanced across the room at Kennedy who was still thoroughly engrossed in her movie as though she hadn’t memorized every scene, every facial expression, every line. I set the pizza box on the bar and opened the text.
Holy fucking shit.
She was naked, doing the splits in front of a mirror, giving me a bird’s eye view of everything her mama gave her. I’d gone out with this girl one time. On a group date. Two weeks ago. I thought perhaps the fact that I never asked her on a second date would clue her in, yet here we were…
The fuck was I supposed to say to that?
I opened the box and grabbed a slice of meat lovers pizza while I contemplated my next move.
The wrong thing would hurt her feelings. The right thing would make her think I wanted more. I went with the safe, vague, open-ended thing.
Me: Damn girl. Are you trying to get me hard in public?
A white lie to save my ass. If she thought I was in public, maybe she wouldn’t send any more pics.Please, God, don’t let her send any more pics.
I’d barely finished my silent prayer when my entire fucking world spun out of control, starting with a feminine voice in my ear.
“Who’s the flavor of the week?” Kennedy reached around and grabbed my phone.
I didn’t even hear her walk up. Just like a fucking cat. She stared at the screen then tilted her head to the side and scrunched her nose.
Then it happened.
Her delicate little hand reached over and grabbed my dick through my jeans. A subtle cup of the balls, a single stroke along my crotch, and I. Was. Done.
I couldn’t move. The bar was in front of me. She was behind me. I dropped the pizza back in the box, cheese side down. That slice would be good for no one now. It was ruined. Kind of like my dick. Kind of like me.
