Blurred Lines (13 page)

It’s been a long time since Parker and I have shared a meal like this.

I mean, we share meals all the time.

Random lunches if we’re out running errands, or taco Tuesdays with friends at our place, or waffles on Sundays, since they’re about the only thing I know how to make.

But tonight is different.

Tonight there’s a white tablecloth, and a gorgeous view of the city, candles, and, yes, champagne. Of course.

And for just the briefest of seconds, when we first sit down and are arguing over which appetizer to start with, I have a moment of panic.

Panic because this looks like a
date
.

No, not looks like a date.
Feels
like a date.

But the panic recedes almost immediately, because dates are all about sweaty palms and painful small talk and that slight nagging stress over whether there’s going to be another date to follow.

There’s none of that with Parker.

It’s just dinner with your best friend,
my brain soothes.
Chill
.

And for the most part, my brain does settle down, except for one nagging, tiny seed of annoyance that I can’t stop thinking about:

Parker’s planning on calling that guy from the karaoke bar.

I mean, I
told
her to. I
had
to tell her that.

I meant what I’d said about her needing to get over Lance, and while she hasn’t been moping, I
know
her. I know she can’t possibly be as healed as she pretends to be. Not after that moron dropped her like it was no big thing.

But it bothers me that she’s thinking about other guys while she and I are still…you know. Doing it.

I mean it doesn’t bother
me
.

It bothers my ego. Because from my side of the bed, and the shower, and the couch, and the kitchen counter, things have been pretty damn exceptional.

So exceptional, in fact, that I haven’t even
looked
at another girl since that first night.

Whoa.

I sit back in my chair at that whopper of a realization, totally tuning out the inquisition Parker is giving our server over the preparation of the fish special.

Two weeks, and I’ve only been having sex with one girl.

Not just any girl. Parker.

Huh.

And, I know, I know, two weeks isn’t a big deal. Except to me it is.

The last relationship I had was in my sophomore year at college, and that lasted all of four semi-miserable months. Since then I’ve been happily cruising along in the no-commitment lane.

Sure, I’ve had plenty of repeat hookups with a few girls, but it’s generally been the once-and-done thing.

I run a hand over my face as I look across the table at Parks.

She’s wearing some sort of navy sweater dress, which shouldn’t be all that sexy since it’s a long-sleeved turtleneck kind of deal and shows almost no skin—especially since she’s paired it with knee-high boots—but it hugs her just right.

Her dark hair’s down today, flowing around her shoulders, and with the stupid candlelight, she looks…pretty.

I barely let our server finish his sentence before I blurt out, “Can I see your bourbon list?”

Parker shoots me a puzzled look, probably because I hardly ever drink anything other than beer, or sometimes wine if I’m with her. “I’ll save the rest of the champagne for you.”

Except that’s not the real reason I want the bourbon. The real reason I need something stronger than wine is to help me come to grips with the fact that I’m on the verge of a sexual rut.

Worse than the rut is that it doesn’t feel like a rut at all.

The server moves away, and Parker leans forward. “What’s wrong with you? You look ready to puke.”

I lean forward, too, deciding to lay it out and play it totally straight with her, because she’s my best friend and she deserves it.

“When you pitched this whole friends-with-benefits thing, how long did you envision it lasting?” I ask.

She blinks. “Um, I don’t know. Can’t really say that I was thinking about a timeline.”

I breathe out a long breath. “Are you aware that it’s been nearly two weeks? We’ve been having sex for
two weeks
.”

“Yeah? So?” she says, her nose scrunching.

“I haven’t…” I rub a hand over the back of my neck. Might as well just say it. “I haven’t been with anyone else since the first night you and I hooked up.”

Parker’s silent for several seconds before she starts cracking up. “Oh my God. You should see your face right now.”

I smile begrudgingly. “It’s not funny.”

It is. A little.

“Sorry.” She tries for a straight face and fails, chuckling into her champagne flute. “Okay, so I thought we covered this. If one of us wants to sleep with someone else, we just say the word—”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Like you and that guy from the bar—”

“Brandon,” she says.

I clench my fists beneath the table.

“Sure. So you’re going to call Brandon, and then it won’t be weird if I hang out with another girl.”

“Definitely not weird.”

“Right.”

“Right,” she repeats.

“Right.”

The server comes back with the whiskey menu, which I take, my eyes never leaving Parker. The server is astute enough to know that she’s interrupting something and backs away without a word.

“Oh God,” Parker says, her voice a little panicked. “We’re not going to let it get weird. Are we?”

No. No way will I let that happen.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say, opening the menu. “Tomorrow is Friday.
You’re
going to see if Brandon wants to go out.
I’m
going to go out on the prowl.”

“Don’t call it a
prowl,
weirdo.”

I continue as though she hasn’t spoken. “And then
you’re
going to get laid by this Brandon guy. I’m going to find myself a cute blonde.”

I shut the menu after verifying that they have my favorite and look back at Parker. “Sound good?”

“Definitely,” she says with a little smile. “Because we wouldn’t want you to get in a sex rut.”

“Exactly,” I say, smiling. “That, and I don’t want to ruin your sex life forever. Too much of me, and the poor other guys will never measure up.”

She points at me with her wineglass. “I don’t know how you got it in your head that sort of cockiness is a turn-on, but I’m here to tell you it’s not.”

I lean forward. “You sure about that?”

My voice is huskier than I mean it to be, and Parker’s eyes respond by going a little smoky.

She licks her lips. “So this whole sex-with-other-people thing…that starts…tomorrow?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say, my gaze studying her mouth.

“And that will mean the end of…us. This sleeping-together thing.”

I ignore the stab of disappointment that shoots through me at these words. This is the right call. Better to end it before it gets…messy.

“So that means tonight,” she says, “you and me…last time—?”

She breaks off and lifts her eyebrows in question.

I grin. “Definitely.”

Ben’s idea was really, really good in theory.

The whole
Let’s sleep with other people so we don’t let things get too intense
idea, I mean.

And I’m relieved that he came up with it, truly.

Because he’s so right.

Even though we’re not, like, falling for each other, the fact that we’ve been completely monogamous for two weeks is so
not
what our arrangement was supposed to be about.

It was supposed to be casual sex with the other person whenever we felt like it.

Only, we aren’t supposed to feel like it
all the damn time.

So, like I said. Ben’s plan of changing up our sex partners? It’s a good plan. A great plan.

In theory.

The reality…

Ugh.

Okay, here’s the thing. The
entire
reason I pitched my friends-with-benefits plan to Ben was because of my inability to think sexy thoughts about a stranger.

As my mom pointed out, I clearly have to have some sort of connection with someone before I sleep with them.

Which is why…as nice as Brandon Mallory is, and as good-looking…I can’t go home with him. I just can’t.

To his credit, Brandon doesn’t push me.

After a perfectly lovely meal at a casual little Italian place he’d suggested, he doesn’t even blink when I say that I’ll hail a cab.

“Can I call you again?” he asks, as we do the awkward linger-in-front-of-the-taxi thing.

“Sure, I’d like that,” I reply, meaning it.

I don’t know that Brandon’s the love of my life or anything, but dinner was nice. I may not be feeling the sexy vibes tonight, but a second date can’t hurt.

“Good,” he says with a slow smile. Brandon has a nice smile.

Then he puts his hands on my cheeks and kisses me, and that, too, is nice.

It’s only after I’m in the cab on my way back home that I realize how often I’m applying the word
nice
to Brandon.

Nice is fine.

But nice is not…

Nice
is not what I’m after.

I want more.

I just don’t know
what
.

I pay the cabbie, pulling my keys out of my purse as I head toward my front door.

All hopes of a quiet evening with a good book and a glass of red wine are dashed the second I walk in the front door.

Music is blaring, struggling to compete with the TV (also blaring), as well as with the high-pitched din of a bunch of drunken voices.

I sigh as I set my purse on the console table by the front door. Looks like Ben’s big plans of a wild night out on the town have transitioned into a wild night
in
.

I can’t really blame him, as I’m sure he thought he’d have the house to himself.

I’d definitely given the impression that I’d be going home with Brandon, as was our agreement.

Maybe I can sneak upstairs and he’ll never know….

“Parks!”

Damn. I’ve been spotted.

It’s Ben’s friend John Harris. I haven’t seen him since the night he came over after Lance dumped me, and the details of that evening are fuzzy at best.

“Hey!” I say, pasting a smile on my face. I’ve always liked John. Way better than douchebag Jason as far as Ben’s friends go.

He gives me a hug, and I mentally give him points for not getting handsy despite the fact that my black dress is very, um, tiny.

“Ben said you weren’t coming home tonight,” he said.

Bless him. John’s voice is apologetic, probably because he knows my house sounds like a freaking rave right now.

“Change of plans,” I say with a smile. “Sounds like you guys are having a good time, though.”

“For sure,” he says. “You should grab a drink and join us.”

I hesitate, wanting to go directly to my room.

But John will for sure tell Ben that I’m here, which will then have Ben wondering what the heck is going on, and, even worse, Ben will know that I’m avoiding him.

I take a deep breath. “Sure!”

I pour myself a weak vodka tonic from the boozy selection sitting out on my kitchen counter and venture into the living room.

The scene looks pretty much exactly like it sounded.

A bunch of half-drunk people are plopped around the room alternating among watching TV, talking over one another, and singing the wrong lyrics to the music.

I recognize a few of the guys as Ben’s football buddies; they’re an okay bunch. A little noisy whenever they come to our place to watch a game, but polite. And they’ve always been pretty cool about using coasters without my having to remind them.

But coasters are
clearly
not on the agenda tonight. Red keg cups cover virtually every surface, and I feel a little surge of annoyance because it all feels so…college-y.

An overly muscled guy in the corner notices me first—Roy? Ray?—I forget his name.

“Hey, it’s Roomie!” he says, in a too-loud voice.

Eight heads swivel around to see me standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Roomie
is what Ben’s friends call me. Probably because they don’t remember my name, but I don’t take offense since I didn’t remember Roy/Ray’s name just now.

I lift a hand in a dorky
hi
gesture, and I tell myself that I’m
not
going to let my eyes seek out Ben, but of course they do.

Hard to miss him with the big-boobed blonde sitting in his lap.

Ben’s eyes go wide. “Parks?”

I smile faintly.

“What happened to—” Ben starts to get up, but clearly isn’t sure how to maneuver Blondie off his lap, and I hold up my hand quickly, telling him to stay.

I debate my next move, wondering if it’s too late to retreat upstairs.

A couple of the guys give me a
what’s up
before turning back to the TV, but most of the girls are still staring at me curiously.

I’m used to this.

Not because I think I’m something to look at, but because it’s a boozy Friday night. Sex is likely on everyone’s brain, which means everybody’s trying to figure out who will pair with whom, and none of the girls like that there’s another female in the mix.

John comes up behind me with his refilled drink, his hand finding rest on my back. “What are you doing in the doorway? Come sit. Joe, move your ass, man. Make room for Parker.”

There’s really no choice but to move forward, and I let John maneuver me next to a zoned-out-looking girl with pink tips in her blond hair. John settles on the other side of me. He sits close, but not too close, and I have a feeling he’s protecting me from Joe, who, honest to God, seems to be staring at my crotch.

I shift, wondering why I feel so awkward. It’s certainly not the first time Ben’s had people over whom I don’t know all that well.

Nor is it the first time I’ve watched him make moves on a girl right in front of my face.

It didn’t used to bother me.

It doesn’t bother me
now
.

So why do I feel like I’m going to be sick to my stomach?

I take a sip of my drink, letting my eyes sneak back over to my left, where Ben and Blondie are sitting on the L part of our sectional couch.

I’m struck by the irrational thought that it’s
my
couch.
My
Ben.

Snap out of it, I tell myself.

Still, my eyes can’t help but take in the fact that his hand is settled on her skinny hip while she leans back to whisper something in his ear.

He laughs, and I want to know if it’s a real laugh.

I apparently have a tell—yesterday he told me I tip my head back when my laugh is real, and he’s probably right—but I don’t know what
his
tell is.

I’d never really noticed, because when he and I are laughing together I
know
it’s real, and when he’s laughing with other people…

Well, I’ve never cared much.

Until now. I want to know badly if his laugh is real. If his smile is genuine.

But
why
do I care?

This is the arrangement. I’d get laid. He’d get laid. And not by each other.

It was the best way of shaking things up before he and I ended up somewhere dangerous.

Ben’s hand slides up a few inches to the blonde’s waist and my stomach does that clenching thing again, and I’m faced with a horrible realization:

What if we’re too late?

What if I
already
ended up somewhere dangerous?

It’s not that I want Ben for myself.

I don’t want him at all, really. He’s still…Ben. My best friend.

He’s not boyfriend material for
anyone,
least of all me. But the thought of his hands on another girl and actually having to watch it—

My stomach rolls, and I shove my cup at a surprised John as I stand up.

“I’m headed up to my room,” I say.

“You okay?” John asks.

“Yeah, just exhausted. Long week.”

I don’t look at Ben as I awkwardly climb over John’s legs, then over pervy Joe. He “accidentally” touches my thigh and I slap at his hand, not caring that I’m acting like a prude on an otherwise sexy Friday night.

What is wrong with me?

I kick my heels off at the bottom of the stairs, scooping them into my hand before I sprint up, wanting to leave the scene behind me as quickly as possible. Wanting to bleach it from my mind as quickly as possible, too.

Inside the safety of my room, I shut the door and lean back against it. For a second I consider calling Brandon and asking if he wants to come over.

Let’s just see how
Ben
likes watching me with another—

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Even if calling Brandon were a good plan—and it’s not—it wouldn’t work.

Ben doesn’t care who feels me up. He doesn’t care who I sleep with.

He’s
the one who told me to call Brandon. The one who complained about the fact that he’d slept only with little old boring me for the past two weeks.

Two weeks. As if that were
soooo
long or something.

I peel my dress off, tossing it onto the bench at the foot of my bed, and then climb under the sheets, not bothering to change out of my sexy lingerie or take off my makeup or do anything but wallow.

It will be better tomorrow, I tell myself.

Tomorrow I’ll be back to normal and I won’t care that Ben’s about to take that blond girl up to his bedroom and touch her the way he touches me….

I let out a scream through gritted teeth and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, wishing I could scrape away the painful mental images.

Ben and my no-strings-attached relationship?

Yeah. Turns out that there are suddenly strings after all.

And I’m completely tangled in them.