Rough Road (4 page)

He frowns at me. “So this was just a hookup for you?”

Ouch. Not often I get slut-shamed by my own date. Not date. Hookup. Still, I make my voice soft and conciliatory, because I
do
like him, and he needs to understand that it isn’t personal. “I don’t expect a relationship when I have sex with someone I just met. Especially not kinky sex. A lot of people like us get what we need outside of monogamous relationships. You know this, right?”

He nods. “Yeah, I felt last night . . . it was special. I felt really connected.”

“I’m not going to tell you it was ordinary, everyday kinky fuckin’. But it wasn’t the start of a relationship. Don’t get attached.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, but his posture is stiff. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to that. May I use your shower?”

I nod, a lump in my throat, wanting to take back my words. But they were the truth. He shouldn’t get attached. This is for
him
, not for me. He can find some sweet young thing like himself, get married, adopt kids. His generation has opportunities I still feel like I’m peering at through a locked window.

When he finishes in the shower, he comes and sits on the bed, fully clothed.

“Thanks for last night, S-Class.” He leans over me and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Call me if you ever want to do it again. No strings.”

I close my eyes for a long moment while I try to figure out what to say, and when I open them, he’s gone. I sigh and pick up my phone to dial Ben.

“Hey, Ed.”
Davis.
“How are you?”

“Why are you answering Ben’s phone at six in the morning? Oh, Bedhead, tell me he hasn’t converted you into one of
them
.”

“No, no, I’m still in the snooze alarm club, but I have an early flight this morning. He’s in the shower, want me to tell him you called?”

“Where are you going? Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“My former business partner is receiving an award. I promised I’d go be his plus one at this banquet.”

His . . . yeah, that raises some protective hackles. “His plus one, Bedhead? Is your former business partner gay?”

“No. But his wife is hugely pregnant and on bed rest. It’s a thing—preeclampsia or something. I’m the
backup
plus one.”

“Breeding is just not natural.” I wrinkle my nose. “Fine, tell him I called, tell him I’m all banged up from the accident and won’t be there to help with his month-close books, but he can email them to me. He should get with Jerry about some package deals for gear with the sale of wake boats—our gear sales have slowed down. And he can bring me pizza from Portofino’s after work. Plain cheese.”

“I’ll let him know. You okay? Ben got the impression it wasn’t serious?”

“Yeah, I am. Only sore all over. And I picked up a very energetic twenty-four-year-old sadist to take advantage of my bruised and battered self, so I am taking the boss man prerogative of working from home.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. A twenty-four-year-old sad—?”

“Bye, Davis, talk soon!”

I hang up.

I like Davis Fox with his freckles, his dimples, and his daddy’s work ethic. I love that the guy loves my best friend. But I don’t want to talk about Wish with him until I’ve told Ben. Because Ben and I loved each other first, and we don’t let each other find out important shit secondhand.

And why the fuck was I filing a hookup under “important shit”?

When Ben shows up with the pizza, he lets himself in. I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, but my body is so achy, I don’t bother getting up.

“Hey, you.” He sticks his head in my bedroom door. “You okay?”

I drink in the sight of him. Ben’s handsome in that hard-bodied, brawny way so many athletes are. He tends to fill a space with his presence and then steal your heart with a bashful little-boy smile and a few choice crude words. When we were young, and I had a huge crush on him, that smile was devastating. Now it’s really fucking welcome.

“Darling.” I throw the back of my hand against my forehead. “Be a dear and bring me some Advil, okay?”

“They didn’t give you anything stronger?” He’s offended, bless his heart.

“I didn’t take the script. You know I don’t keep stuff like that in my house.”

His nostrils flare and his lips get white around the edges. Ben might be easygoing, but he does have a temper at times. Usually when I’m smothering him.

“You didn’t take the script.”

I debate telling him he’s cute when he’s mad, but decide not to fan those particular flames today. “Darling—”

“Because of me?” His eyes are flat and hard.

“Well . . .” Of course because of him. Because for over a dozen years, I’ve kept my house a narcotic-free zone for him. Because my home should be a safe place for my best friend, and . . . Oh shit, did I say all that out loud? Ben’s face is getting redder and redder, and he’s balled his hands into fists.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Eddie.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t be in pain because you’re worried about
me
.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Well, I’m not going to stop worrying about you. It’s what I do. And don’t forget, I like pain.” I regret it the second it comes out of my mouth. Ben doesn’t understand masochism, and he doesn’t like the idea of me suffering on his behalf. Equating the two, however tangentially, has led to some of the biggest fights of our decades-long friendship.

“You need to stop acting like I’m your responsibility. I’m a grown-ass man.”

“I know this.” I look away. I
do
know it. But when you love someone, you want to take care of them, at least, that’s how it works for me.
Shit.
I peek up at him and bat my lashes like a starlet. “Oh, Ben. Old habits die hard, but I’m fine. Advil is plenty. It’s only bruises. I’ve had worse after a night at Keith’s club. Seriously, I’m fine.”

He sighs. “Do you want to come downstairs and eat your pizza? I set the table in the kitchen.”

“That sounds lovely.”

He paces out of the room, hands still twitching like he wants to wrap them around my neck. I pull on my robe and follow.

After washing up at the kitchen sink, I grab us each a Coke from the fridge. He grunts out a thank you when I hand him one, and I figure we’re good.

“So.” He spears me with a glare as I’m lifting the first slice of salty-cheesy goodness to my mouth. “What’s this I hear about a twenty-four-year-old sadist?”

I set the pizza down. “My hard-hat angel gave me a ride home from the hospital. And then he gave me a rough ride once we got here. It was hot, and it was fun, but that’s that.”

Ben nods thoughtfully. “You’re really not gonna see him again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

What is it about people in committed relationships that makes them want to see everyone else paired off?

“Because he’s twenty-four years old, that’s why not.”

Ben leers. “And I bet he’s got stamina for
days
.”

Oh,
hell
.

“I’m not gonna lie, that thought has merit. But Ben, you know I don’t date younger men. They all seem to want a daddy, and I can’t be bothered with that mess.” I start eating again, hoping he’ll take the hint.

“Mm-hmm.” He sprawls back in his chair, resting his soda can on his abs. “Your loss.”

“What do you care?”

He shrugs. “I don’t. Just making small talk.”

“You and I, we don’t make small talk,” I remind him. “You got something to say?”

“Dave asked me to marry him.”

The funny thing about surprise is that it hits like physical pain. A wrench in the gut, a stab behind the eyes, vision and hearing clouding over for a moment, and then it’s gone, leaving you wondering whether you had a cardiac event or if your best friend just told you he’s getting married.

“He—” I shake my head.
Married
? “I’m sorry, did you say—?”

“I’m getting married.”

Definitely
a cardiac event.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Congratulations is usually the thing.” He smiles, a big bright smile. God, I love that smile. Holy shit, he’s getting married.

“I— Congratulations.” I take another bite of my pizza.
Married
.

“Wait-a-minute. Is Kinky Eddie actually speechless?” he teases. “This has to be a first.”

He ain’t kidding. “Darling, you don’t spring a big announcement on someone. I’m in delicate health.” That’s the only thing to explain why my heart is racing.

“Delicate health, my ass. I shocked the shit out of you.”

“Don’t be crude.” I study my plate. “You guys barely know each other.”

“Eddie. I’ve been living with him for almost a year. And it wasn’t exactly the kind of year that goes easy on a relationship. We’re in it for the long haul.”

“He was pretty good for you after the surgery,” I admit grudgingly. “But marriage? Isn’t that all sort of heteronormative?”

“Believe it or not, hets are people too.” He snorts. “I really didn’t expect you to take this so badly.”

“I’m not taking it badly. Give a guy a minute to adjust his worldview.”

“Think you can adjust it enough to be my best man?”

“Of course I can. Ben, I really
am
happy for you.” I smile at him, and hope it reaches my eyes. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation turns to business, and I’ve never been so relieved to talk about sales figures and customer-loyalty incentive programs. By the time I walk him to the door, I’ve gotten over my initial shock, and if I hold him a little too tightly when I hug him good-bye, he’s kind enough not to say anything.

After his car rumbles away, I stretch out on my bed and stare at the ceiling for what feels like an hour, hanging with my favorite ghost, What Might Have Been. From the day Ben, an earnest high school freshman, hit on me—the only out gay guy in school, and three years older—his feelings for me had been sweet and uncomplicated—friendship and sometimes lust. Love, but not the kind of love people write songs about. I’m happy for him to find the love he deserves, but it reminds me how lonely I really am. And now I feel like an asshole, making my best friend’s engagement news about me. Self-absorbed much, Ed?

My phone ringing jerks me out of my maudlin reveries. I answer on autopilot with a gruff, businesslike “Russell.”

“Mr. Russell, this is Amanda at Mercedes-Benz of Lake Lovelace, how are you this evening?” She barely pauses for my answer before she tells me the tire has been replaced and balanced, the alignment checked, and the airbag replaced. “We don’t do bodywork in-house, but as a convenience to you, we’d be happy to contract that work to one of our partners.”

“Who are the partners?”

“Import Haus or Carver Paint and Body, both are out of town a bit, but have solid reputations and are certified to work on Mercedes-Benz vehicles. I believe Carver P&B is closer to your home, but Import Haus has been in business longer.”

“My brother does that sort of thing . . .”

What the hell. “Take it to Carver, pay whatever he asks. Charge it to the card you all have on file.”

“Thank you, Mr. Russell. Is there anything further I can help you with this evening?”

“No, thank you.”

Dinner at Keith’s. My god, I love the guy, but I don’t know if I can handle seeing him and his happy sub tonight. It’s been a week since the accident, my car is back in my possession, and my brain seems to be looping a continuous replay of the best sex I’ve had in years. Seeing the guy I go to for a good beating isn’t likely to help me forget Wish. Of course, my mama didn’t raise me in a barn, so when Keith texts me to confirm, I dig deep and reply:
What’s Heather serving? I’ll bring the wine.

A few moments later, Keith texts back:
Salmon, I think. She liked that Viognier you brought last time.

Perfect.

When I arrive at Keith’s house and he opens the door, Heather is nowhere to be seen and Keith appears troubled. He’s a big, handsome guy with pierced ears and a short, well-groomed beard. Although he could pass for midthirties, today he looks every one of his forty-six years, and has a deep groove between his eyebrows. But I can smell food cooking, and there’s music playing, so whatever’s on his mind likely isn’t related to dinner. I hand him the wine and give him a quick hug.