Friends Don't Fall in Love(54)
And five years later, he keeps finding me.
I shove off in a rocking motion from heel to toe and make a grab for the top of the rocky ledge. Before gravity drags me under, I swing a leg up and over in one motion while curling my biceps. I’m too close and clumsier than I used to be, though, and scrape my collarbone and breastbone as I pull up, leaving a piece of me behind on the sharp rock.
I make it to my knees and stifle my groan, holding a hand to my chest to soothe the sting, but also to relish the pain. It feels familiar and real and possibly like the start of something better.
* * *
(EIGHT YEARS EARLIER)
It’s one of those rare nights when the stars align and Drake and I are in the same town at the same time. His most recent tour wrapped over the weekend, and I leave for mine in three days. It’s not enough time to travel anywhere and get away from it all, but it’s enough time to hole up inside his small apartment for some nostalgic songwriting and long-overdue lovemaking.
If he was here, anyway.
I check my watch again, holding back a sigh, and Huck grunts over his notebook, making a note in his chicken scratch before sticking his pencil over his ear with a sly smirk. “Relax, Lorelai. I can practically hear your repressed hormones from over here. You know Powers always needs to debrief the minute we get home from a tour.”
“For hours?” I scoff. “It’s been at least four, and anyway, you’re here. Doesn’t he need to debrief you, too?”
Huck lifts a shoulder, strumming once, a loud discordant sound, on his guitar. “Nope. Just the talent.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off. You know you’re as much the talent as he is. He knows it, too.”
Huck raises a single dark eyebrow.
“Even if he won’t admit it out loud.”
The other brow goes up. Another loud strum.
“Even upon threat of death.”
He snorts.
My phone buzzes with a text alert and it’s embarrassing how quickly I reach for it.
DRAKE: Don’t wait up, baby. Need to schmooze some bigwigs from the label. Promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.
Fucking hell. I haven’t ridden a dick in months. Even phone sex has lost its appeal, and I’m supposed to leave for another four weeks.
This was the dream, Lorelai. Always. You are living the dream. Right now. The sacrifice to your vag is worth it.
“Thank you for your service,” I mutter under my breath to my poor neglected vag before typing a response.
LORELAI: You better. You have a lot of ground to cover and only two days to do it.
He gives my text a thumbs-up and I throw my phone down with a growl.
“I’ll give you a thumbs-up.”
I scramble to my feet, brushing my hands down my jean-clad thighs. “I need a drink. What do y’all have around here?”
Huck tilts his head to the side. “Pretty sure there’s beer.” I frown and he laughs. “Too good for beer these days. Okay, I think there’s some tequila we got from some fancy exec type. It’s for sipping, though. Which is why we ain’t opened it … ever.”
I find the bottle in question and spin around, waving it at him.
“Get drunk with me, Huckleberry, and let’s write something good.”
* * *
An hour later, we’re sauced and the bottle is three-quarters empty. Turns out, Huck and I suck at sipping.
But we’re not half-bad lyricists.
Our knees are practically touching as we sit cross-legged across from each other, our guitars cradled in our laps. Huck’s working through a bridge of one of those merry “this is my hometown dive bar” kind of country songs everyone loves and Drake is known for. I’m trying to power through the third stanza of an emotional ballad about my parents’ divorce. It’s not my usual fare, but this is my second album and I’m hopeful I’ll get a little more rein to write something with some emotional heft.
We work perfectly together, swinging back and forth between his song and mine, flipping the switch flawlessly. It’s always been like this with Huck. I said magic and I wasn’t exaggerating. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced with someone else. His creativity is the other half to mine.
Or something like that. Tequila always makes me feel … more.
So does Huck.
“Hmm?” he says, looking up from his notebook.
“Hmm?”
He grins, and it’s a loose, happy-filled kind of thing. Like I said, more. “You said ‘so does Huck.’ What do I do?”
I sink back, startled. “Oh. I forgot already. I think the tequila is getting to me.”
He lifts his own tumbler and takes a long sip and I’m drawn to the way his tongue reaches out to lick his lips as he puts down his glass.
“I was actually just thinking that this is my favorite,” I tell him half honestly.
“The sipping tequila?”
“Ha. No. You were right about that. It’d be better in a margarita with some salt around the rim.” I push my hair behind my ear, feeling flush, but also brave and more than a little fond of the man in front of me. “I mean writing with you. Sitting around getting drunk and writing songs. It’s magical, you know?”
Huck’s head dips to the side and his blue eyes crinkle in the corners as he takes me in. He nods slowly. “Yeah, it is.”