Friends Don't Fall in Love(57)



And when you’re cruising on your motorcycle, her and your stomachs full of Nashville hot chicken and the “best slaw this side of the Smokies,” and your friend eagerly sticks her hand down your pants, practically causing you to crash said motorcycle into a tree before you safely park down a deserted dirt road, pull her onto your lap, roll on a conveniently packed condom, tug her panties to the side and plunge so deep inside of her that you’re pretty sure you’ll never stop seeing stars … well, motorcycle sex.

I’ll be honest, sitting here, still mostly dressed, clutching my beautiful, sexy, wrung-out friend against me, slowly smoothing my hands up and down her muscular thighs (because of course she really did wear her shortest skirt on our non-date) and listening to the sound of our heartbeats making a thudding return back to normal … I can’t say I’m not enjoying this. Immensely.

And in these moments, when we’re connected in this way—as close as two people can possibly be—it’s almost enough. She’s with me and I’m with her. That’s all that should matter. Anything else is over the top.

But then I press a kiss to the space where her long neck and shoulder touch and we reluctantly pull apart. The connection is broken and that’s all it was: a meeting of bodies. A temporary link. Shared air, and now that we’re apart and she’s adjusted her straps and I’ve zipped up my pants, the air is only air.





25

CRAIG




YOU AND TEQUILA

Thirty minutes later, the sun is starting to slip in the sky when I pull up to our place and cut the engine. Lorelai unfolds herself from the back of the bike and turns to where I haven’t moved yet. I tug off my helmet and hold it in front of me but stay on the bike.

“Nightcap?” She bites her lip.

“I better not.”

Lorelai’s eye flash with obvious hurt and I bite my tongue from saying what I really want, which is “I brought my toothbrush, how about you just give me a drawer?”

“Yeah. You’re right,” she says instead. “If anyone saw…”

“Christ, Lore. You know I don’t care about that.”

“You should,” she insists hotly. “I’m poison. Drake’s a—”

“Fucking idiot,” I snap, exasperated. “Don’t you finish that thought.”

She ignores the warning in my tone and shifts her weight, looking like she’s itching for a fight, which is crazy. Lorelai and I never fight.

“You’re the idiot. It’s like you don’t even care about your business, attaching yourself to me. I’m poison in this town, and you know it.”

What is happening?

I get off the bike and reach for her arm, tugging her to her steps and holding out my hand for the key. She narrows her eyes at me and slaps them in my palm.

Once I unlock the door, I lead her inside and shut it behind us. “What are you even talking about?”

“You! You’re constantly putting other people ahead of yourself. First Drake and then your clients and your family! Even me! I can’t let you do this anymore.”

At once, I feel light-headed. “Let me do what exactly? Record your music? Make your albums? Or is this about the sex?”

“I never said anything about the sex,” she huffs, and I want to strangle something. Instead, I walk her back until she’s against the door. I put my hands on either side of her, close, but not touching. I lean forward until her lips are centimeters from my own.

“Of course not. Because this.” I flex my hips against her, knowing I’m hard as a rock, despite the acrobatic motorcycle sex only a half hour ago. Her breath hitches and I do my best to look unaffected. “This is casual, right? Just fuck buddies. So if I’m understanding this right, you don’t think I should produce you, but I can fuck you whenever I want.” The words taste bitter and crass on my tongue. It’s not like that. For me, it’s never been like that, but maybe for her it has been?

“I’m saying your reputation will suffer by being seen with me.”

My voice strangles in my throat. It’s like she doesn’t even know me. “How many different ways do I have to tell you I don’t care?”

Lorelai’s fingers trace delicate patterns into my collarbone beneath my T-shirt. “You should care.”

I can’t help it. I’m fucking hurt. I knew this was casual to her and I went along with it, but I thought she at least knew where I stood in our friendship. I thought she knew I wasn’t like Drake. That I didn’t care about the same stupid shallow bullshit. That I love her.

I know I haven’t said it, but hell. It’s written all over my face and every fucking thing I do.

I step back and Lorelai’s hand remains extended between us. This time she’s grasping for air.

“I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I thought I could, but it turns out, I’m not built for casual.”

Her fine dark brows draw together. “I understand, but…”—she steps into my space and presses her body to mine—“that doesn’t mean this can’t…”

“You’re not hearing me. I’m talking about this.” I gesture between our bodies, my straining erection, her flushed skin. “I can’t do casual between us. I’ll still produce you. You’re incredible and it kills me that you don’t see what I see. Your potential. Your gift.” I release a harsh breath, putting another step between us, my heavy boots thudding in the silent house. “You better be at the studio bright and early tomorrow. But the sex. It has to stop.”

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