Authors: Virginia Nelson
He only had to figure out how to get her to talk to him when that moment came.
Chapter Three
July 9, 2007
Abby,
You haven’t answered me. I know, I was a dick. I get that. But don’t you think it’s a wee bit bitchy to get letters from me for this many years and not answer a single one? I thought for sure you would at least send me something when Uncle Frankie died or answer me when your grandma passed, but not a damn word for this long?
I get it. I left. I’m the jackass here. But you and I were friends for how many years?
I’m not going to write you again. I know, I’ve said that before and caved because I miss my best friend, but really, Abs, this is stupid. Apparently I never meant to you what you meant to me.
If you ever get the stick out of your ass and take a moment to answer me, know this: I still love you, even though you are kind of dragging this out longer than I thought you would.
Love, B
Abby drank too much.
She recognized this, but thanks to the numbing effects of the alcohol, the recognition of her state wasn’t alarming. It was giggle worthy.
At first, she took the shot of white lightning someone offered because she didn’t want to think, didn’t want to focus on the fact that somewhere, in the milling bodies, Braxton lurked.
Once the shot soaked in, she chugged a Corona and enjoyed the haze. More shots followed, some Jell-O… She didn’t really try to remember them all.
She stumbled on her way back from the Porta-Potty and realized that perhaps she wasn’t getting drunk…she’d already arrived.
Which was funny as hell. Choking on laughter, she searched for Carnie and headed away from the fire and into the trees, rather than back toward the party. This started a harder fit of giggles.
Really?
She couldn’t even head in the right direction anymore.
A hand took her arm. “Where you going, Abs?”
The use of the nickname and the smell of him hit her all at once. Her stomach knotted and lurched dangerously for a moment, threatening sickness, and—instead of answering—she concentrated on not letting the booze go out the way it had come in.
“Are you drunk?”
Slapping his hand away, she glared up at him. He sure wasn’t scary with a haze of liquor between them. But he was damn fine looking. Tasty as apple pie and she wanted a bite.
Asshole.
“Thas none ‘o yer business, you fucker.” She wiggled a finger at him. “You’ve got shome balls about you, Mister Wedding Smasher butthead. How dare you corner me when I am having a perfectly nice little walk?”
He grinned. “Yeah, you are hammered. C’mon. I was hoping we could talk, but I can find somewhere safe for you to sleep this off—”
His hand on her arm pissed her off. Smacking it away again, she poked his chest, getting up in his face so he could see she meant business. “I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want you to tell me what to do either. You’ve got no rights—no rights!—y’hear me?”
“Sweetlips, half the town can hear you. You’re yelling.” His smile hadn’t faded in the least and now both his hands cupped her elbows. He wasn’t taking the hint at all.
“Don’t call me that. You left me. Fucker.”
“You swear more when you’re drunk, you know that?” His hands ran up and down her arms, half holding her in place, half giving her a soothing massage.
“You don’t know what I do. You left me. For years. Without a word.”
Tears threatened and she hated herself for them. She was not wasting any more tears on Braxton Dean
,
no siree-bub
.
He rested his forehead against hers. “I would be happy to explain. I came home to do just that, but we should wait until you’re sober enough to remember what I have to say.”
She tried to punch him.
He caught the fist as if he was a superhero, moving faster than her drunken eyes could track. She flung a second fist at him. He caught that one too. So she tried to knee him in the gonads.
All she accomplished was throwing them both off balance. He managed to catch her and rolled beneath her as they fell.
She continued her attempted assault until he rolled on top of her and pinned her to the ground with his body, his hands braceleting her still struggling wrists.
“Let me, up,” she ordered, breathless and trying not to notice how perfect he felt, weight pressed against her.
“As soon as you stop trying to kick my ass, I’ll be happy to. Are you done?”
His eyes, even in her inebriated state, didn’t look mad. And this close to him, she could feel that he wasn’t unhappy to be there.
If she knew men at all, she would say he was a little excited by holding her.
“You deserve it, y’know. For what you did to me. You deserve it and—”
And her words were swallowed by his mouth.
The move was so unexpected, so shocking, she froze with his mouth pressed to hers.
And then he began to slide those lips against hers and she drowned in him.
The smell of him, the taste of him, the hard rub of his body against hers…
A moan sounded in the darkness, and it took her a moment to realize it slipped from her own throat.
He no longer pinned her wrists because her hands were full of his thick, dark hair and her legs clamped around his hips. His mouth traced from her mouth to her jaw, while his hands streaked across her flesh. She arched into him, another moan joining the first.
“I still want you. I still want you so bad, my Abby.” His words were like icy water splashed on her raging hormones.
How dare he?
Not only had he left her at the altar like a worthless piece of shit and didn’t call to even let her know he was alive, but he wanted to take advantage of her while she was drunk? The douchebag alarms in her head screamed.
But when his fingers cupped her heat, the alarms shut off pretty quick. Her body wanted him to keep going. Her mind refused to fall into that trap.
She had to stop him. Fast.
“Yeah, well, sex with you would be great and all, but we both know that I won’t have a chance to get off before you shoot your load.” She managed to get out between pants.
He rose above her, expression unclear as he was silhouetted by the night sky. An uncomfortable moment passed when she was pretty sure he could see her clearly, but all she could see was that shadowed shape. She wanted nothing more right then, than the ability to pull back the words that hung in the air between them like some living thing, and never have said them.
“You’re right, of course. I never treated you like you deserved, not back then. I’m sorry, Abby.”
She did
not
want to get into a discussion about premature ejaculation with the ex who left her high and dry on their wedding day. But she had to remove the temptation of him. Drunk, she had no defenses against her fantasies of him, the feel of him, except for the words she could throw at him like knives. “Nothing has changed either. You are still stuck on what
you
want, what
you
need. Get off me, Braxton.”
She found the verbal daggers in the cold dead part of her heart. The part he crushed. They were angry, hurt declarations, and since he’d been her best friend, she knew they were bullshit. Once they were out, she couldn’t take them back even as guilt washed over her.
But the thing about knowing someone really well was she also knew what to say to hurt him. The barb hit home and he was on his feet in a second, pulling her to hers in the process.
When he spoke, his voice was clipped and distant. “Fine. If that is how it’s going to be, fine. But we do need to talk. Even if you are too plastered to hear it right now, I still want that eventually.”
“You still want, huh?” Yanking her arm free from his grip, she stumbled sideways. “How about this? I don’t
want
to talk to you, Braxton.”
“Yeah, well a lot of shit has happened that I didn’t want either.”
With that, he was gone, leaving her alone with only her bitterness for comfort.
Again.
Chapter Four
February 7, 2010
Abby,
Happy birthday. I called my dad last week and he says you’re engaged. Congrats on that. I always figured, back when we were kids, if we didn’t end up married then at the very least I would be there on your special day. Since you still haven’t answered any of my letters, I’m guessing I won’t be getting an invite.
I will tell you that I wish you the best.
No, fuck that. I really don’t mean it and I have never lied to you. Why the hell would I start now? I kind of hope it falls through. Part of me still sees us together someday. Yeah, hilarious, I know. I almost got married, what, twice now? And we’re almost thirty. Hard to believe that one. But anything over twenty-five is almost thirty, you used to say. Anyway, yeah, I hope you’re happy but I don’t want you with another man. I can’t be that nice of a guy. Picturing someone else touching you kind of makes me want to shove his dick down his throat. Probably good I have no plans on coming home anytime soon, huh?
Well, the point of this letter wasn’t to insult your fiancé, no matter how fun that is for me. It was happy birthday, congrats and, well, as usual…I love you, Abs.
Write me back, dammit.
B.
White-hot fire blasted through her eyelids when she tried to pry the dry things apart. A thousand dancing elephants pounded in the space between her ears, and her mouth tasted like someone used her tongue to clean out urinals.
Rational adults shouldn’t be stupid enough to get hammered out of their gourds. Then again, Braxton made her feel far less than rational.
Blaming him gave her little comfort when faced with sickly curls of nausea and the pulse point of the pachyderms in her brain. Even her hair hurt.
Managing to roll out of her bed and get unsteadily to her feet, Abigail headed to the bathroom to wash the urinal out of her mouth and splash cold water on her face. Once this was done, she headed downstairs…slowly.
She prepared the coffee pot, her fingers dancing impatiently on the countertop as it brewed.
Coffee. Need coffee
.
The pealing sound of her doorbell was like a red-hot dagger stabbing through her ear and into her head, where the elephants parted to make room for the extra pain.
Clutching her temples in defense, she made a lurching run for the door in hopes of opening it before whoever it was rang the damn bell again. Someone turned out to be worse than the hangover, and looked fresh, handsome and as clean cut as an ad out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Braxton held a handful of Shasta daisies and a Styrofoam box.
She slammed the door back into place and lurched back to the kitchen.
The door opened behind her. She ignored it.
Coffee.
The pot brewed enough that she could steal a mug’s worth. She poured it in a rush and shoved the pot back into place before the coffee could dribble all over her counter. Adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and milk, she gave it a brisk stir before blowing and sipping.
That first mouthful of liquid salvation was better than an orgasm.
Speaking of orgasms, he hadn’t left.
Braxton leaned a hip on the counter, watching her adore her hot beverage. He still held the flowers and the white box.
“What do you want?” Her voice came out scratchy and worn sounding. It matched her undoubtedly crazy hair and still-pained eyes nicely.
“I remember that your hangover cure involved a greasy breakfast of eggs and bacon. Figured I would bring you the cure and some flowers to make up for last night.”
“That was my hangover cure when I was not even twenty. Now that I’m old, I prefer coffee and lots of it.” The bacon did smell really good though.
“You aren’t old.”
She snorted, took the box and ignored the flowers to open it. He hadn’t lied. Inside was her favorite hangover cure, steaming, and no doubt picked up from her favorite diner on his way here. Stupid, thoughtful man.
“There are things we need to talk about.”
His soft words penetrated the haze of bacon lust she was battling, and she met his clear eyes with her pained ones. “What is there to talk about?”
“Why I left. What it means.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have, Abby.”
“Really? A decade late, right?” She scowled at him. “How could you hurt me
more
?”
“Can’t we have a civil conversation like a couple of adults?”
“I’m in no shape to talk to you right now. You’re wasting your time.” She scowled at the bacon before looking up.
His crestfallen expression shouldn’t have fazed her. He nodded. “Yeah, I should have figured.” He turned to go.
She glanced at the bacon and ran a tongue across her teeth. Curiosity nibbled at her, weighted by guilt. “Fine, we’ll talk, but not now. Later, one o’ clock, Point Park?”