A One-Time Thing

12. Gil

CHAPTER 12

GIL

I ’d been inside of him twice since I met him, but I didn’t have Rowan’s phone number. That was better, because I didn’t need his phone number. What even would I do with it? We weren’t boyfriends and we definitely weren’t dating. We were just two neighbors who’d fallen into bed a couple of times. A couple times too many, but we’d somehow agreed that was maybe an okay thing and we didn’t have to stop.

But I hadn’t seen him since.

I’d been a good little Boy Scout, marching myself down to the clinic on Thursday to get swabbed, hoping Rowan would be responsible enough to do the same. It was bad enough we’d gone without condoms twice. Even though I hadn’t come inside of him, I’d wanted it like air, the need to sink deep and paint his insides almost as urgent as my next breath. The first time he’d wiped my cum on the sheets, the second time, I fed it straight into his mouth to make sure it didn’t go to waste.

The third time…if we ever had one…

I knew exactly where it was going to go.

After our quick fuck on Wednesday, I got dressed and took myself back home. Not even the crisp night air had been enough to cool the hear burning just beneath the surface of my skin. When I got back to my house, I jerked off in the shower, coming so hard I saw stars against the ceiling. After, I dried off and climbed into bed, ignoring the slew of text messages Jack had sent me after dropping me off at home earlier in the night.

JACK

It makes me happy to see you happy.

I bet he’s wild in the sack, isn’t he?

Actually, I don’t want to know because that means I’d know what YOU are like in bed and by extension I’d know what my brother is like in bed and I don’t want that.

Sorry again. I don’t mean to always bring him up.

I hope you’re fucking your step-kid’s dad and not mad at me for what I said.

Bet you’re mad about that, though.

I exhaled heavily, rolling my eyes as if Jack were there to see me. He’d always been so good about not bringing up Philip, but the past two weeks I’d heard my ex’s name more than I had in the past two years. There had to be a reason for it, but Jack hadn’t mentioned anything, and I was never one to pry. Unsure of what to do with that line of thought, I filed it away for future-Gil to deal with, then promptly closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I slept hard and long, no dreams and no interruptions until an incessant banging from somewhere in my house pulled me back to consciousness. I blinked slowly, rubbing my eyes and rolling onto my side to check the time on my phone. It was barely eight in the morning, and the banging was someone pounding on my front door. If Rowan was coming to get laid, we were going to have to set some boundaries about his sense of time because, while I didn’t think I had it in me to turn him away, I definitely wasn’t going to perform to my best standards before I’d ever had caffeine.

The fist against my door stopped, and I flopped back onto my pillow, but before my eyes could close, it started up again.

“I’m coming!” I shouted, flinging my legs off the side of the bed and pushing to my feet.

On second thought, I definitely would not fuck Rowan after this kind of wake-up. Jack would have called if he wanted to pester me, so short of a political canvasser, I had no idea who needed me so urgently and so very fucking early on a Saturday morning. Grabbing a pair of shorts from the top of my hamper, I managed to get my lower half covered before yanking open the front door.

“What?” I answered, gruff and angry, finding no one at eye level to direct my anger at.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

The voice was soft and uneven in tone, and I looked down to find Fisher on my porch, his bike on its side, half on the concrete and half in my planter.

“I am now.”

“My thing came loose again.” He kicked at his bike.

I scrubbed a hand down my face and closed my eyes before rolling them so he didn’t see. “The caliper?”

“Yeah, that’s the word. I couldn’t remember.”

“I taught you how to fix it the first time,” I reminded him, pointing around the corner of my house to the garage. “We were right in there, and I talked you through the whole thing.”

“My dad doesn’t have an Andrew wrench.”

“Allen wrench,” I corrected.

“That one.” Fisher fussed with the buds in his ears.

“Are those on?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Then take them out.”

A flash of teenage defiance lit up his features, and then both white buds were tucked into his front right pocket.

“Can I borrow your Allen wrench?”

“Do you also need my garage?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. “And my spray grease?”

“My dad doesn’t have the grease.”

“Does your dad know you’re here?”

“No.”

I sighed. “I’ll open the garage up, but I haven’t even had coffee yet, so you’re on your own.”

“Thanks, Gil.”

I closed the front door in his face, went down the hallway to open the exterior garage door, then shuffled into the kitchen to make some coffee. Mercifully, it brewed quickly, and I got a shirt while the carafe filled to the brim. Pouring myself a mug, I headed toward the garage, somehow not surprised in the least to find Fisher with his dirty hands all over the fuel tank of my bike instead of the brakes on his own.

“She doesn’t need any grease,” I said.

He started and stumbled backward, tripping over his bike and falling into the fender of my Cougar. Thankfully, like most things in my life, the car needed a lot of work and not even the force of Fisher’s bony hip would be enough to take her down.

“Your bike is cool,” he said, righting himself and turning to his bicycle.

“I know.”

Leaning against my toolbox, I sipped my coffee while Fisher sank down onto his knees to get at the brake caliper on his bike. He’d at least paid attention the first time I went through it with him, and I watched while a quickly growing sense of pride spread outward from the middle of my chest. Rubbing my sternum, I chased the feelings down with a drink of coffee that was far too big and still far too hot.

“I’ve always wanted one when I get old enough to get my license,” Fisher said, trying to make conversation.

“Absolutely not,” I snapped at him, like I had any place to dictate what he could or could not do. Clearing my throat, I lowered my tone. “I mean, that’s up to your dad.”

“He won’t let me.”

“Good.”

Fisher shot daggers at me with his eyes. “I’ll just get one when I turn eighteen.”

“With what money?” I asked.

“I’ll get a job.”

“And the insurance?”

“I said I’ll get a job.” Fisher’s cheeks were a dark and angry kind of red, not from a real sense of anger, but the kind that came with being called out for not knowing better. I was familiar with the feeling, and the shame that came with it.

For months after my accident, I’d carried the same feeling around like a weight on my shoulders. Except I should have known better. I’d been riding long enough to know the conditions were not ideal and my speed was excessive. There was an old saying about riding— It’s not if you crash, but when. My when had almost taken my life, and it was a long time before I’d had the courage to get back on two wheels. But once I did, all the fear over my near-miss evaporated into thin air.

Fisher had either given up on the argument or gotten tired of it, maybe both. He didn’t say anything beyond his protests about getting a job, but he set back to work on fixing the brakes on his bike. I settled back against my toolbox, drinking my coffee. Even though he’d woken me up far too loudly and far too early for the weekend, the weather outside was tolerable and his quiet company wasn’t the worst.

For a kid, at least.

Maybe after Fisher finished up and took off, I’d go for a ride up to the mountains, get out of town for the day. The winter would be here sooner rather than later, and I wanted to take advantage of the few remaining nice days we had left. However, all thoughts of a peaceful weekend ride were interrupted when Jack’s car pulled into my driveway.

He climbed out of his car with a cardboard drink carrier and crumpled bag of donuts balanced in one hand, his eyes dancing with amusement when he saw Fisher in the middle of my garage.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Fisher looked up, recognizing Jack from the night before, but not offering him a hello.

“You weren’t answering my texts and I thought you were mad at me.”

“Very friendly,” Fisher muttered under his breath.

“Are you finished yet?” I asked him, eyebrow raised.

He stood at my question, dusting off his knees and taking the grease and the Allen wrench back to their place on top of my toolbox.

“I’m finished,” he said quietly, pausing before asking, “Are you sure you’re just friends?”

“Why do you care?”

“I heard you come over last night.”

“So?” I tightened my hold on my coffee, knuckles turning white against the porcelain.

“Are you and my dad friends too?” The accusation in his words was thick, and it was clear I needed to have a talk with Rowan about where we fucked and how loud he got while it happened.

“It’s not your business what me and your dad are.” I pushed away from my toolbox and picked up his bike, rolling it into the driveway to help him along. “Have your dad buy an Allen wrench, Fisher.”

“He’s tearing up the floor in the bathroom,” Fisher said with a shrug, hopping into his bike and riding down my driveway without another word. He turned left, standing on the pedals and giving the bike a little jump before speeding off and out of sight.

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” Jack asked, mouth twisted into a knowing smirk.

I flipped him off and turned, heading back into my house to refill my coffee. Jack was hot on my heels with his Styrofoam cups, which he dumped one of into my mug before I could even get to the pot.

“I brought you a maple bar to soften the blow,” he said.

“What blow?”

“Of my texts last night. I didn’t mean to bring Philip up.”

The sudden recurrence of my ex-boyfriend’s name in my life that I’d filed into the darkest and most forgotten corner of my brain made its way back front and center, his stupid name blinking in marquee lights if I closed my eyes for too long.

“And yet you continue,” I murmured.

“He’s been…it’s not your problem.”

“But it’s your problem,” I said, nudging Jack out to the living room and down onto the couch. “And you’re my best friend, so let’s talk about it.”

“You hate talking.”

“I know.”

“So why are we doing it?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Because you need to.”

“I don’t want to,” Jack protested weakly, shrugging. “I just…”

“Would you spit it out before I throw you out of my fucking house, Jack?”

“Philip’s getting married,” he blurted, eyes going wide. He shrank down into my couch like he wanted it to swallow him whole, and I had to admit I wished it would.

“Oh.”

I didn’t know what else to say, the shock was a paralytic, and it was only the burn of my palms against the outside of the mug that shocked me back into the present. There’d been a time Philip and I had talked about getting married. In fact, we’d talked about it often, but there’d been a deal breaker between us, and…loving Philip just wasn’t enough anymore.

“He’s getting married,” Jack repeated, gnashing his molars together and facing me head on to deliver the next—nearly fatal—blow. “And he wants me to be his best man.”