8. Liam
CHAPTER 8
Liam
What fresh hell is this?
Not only have I spent the entire day driving through the middle of nowhere with the woman I love and the man I’m stupidly attracted to, but now Ivy wants to enter my idea of the seventh circle of hell—a country dive bar.
“We do need to eat,” Ford says from the back seat. “I love barbeque.”
Ivy beams at him. “Thank you, Ford.”
Not only is Harrison driving me insane and I’m worried about Ivy, but when the hell did Ford become Ivy’s yes man? I don’t like the way he’s been looking at her all day. Like he wants to cuddle her and then fuck her. Or fuck her, then cuddle her.
Even worse, she keeps giving him soft smiles whenever they make eye contact.
I regret staying in the separate motel last night.
But my bank account is already screaming at me and I couldn’t resist poking at Harrison. He brings out my competitive side. Or some might argue my petty side. Yet now I’m fixating on the fact that maybe something went down between Ford and Ivy—like him between her thighs.
She would tell me, though.
I think.
She usually tells me everything.
Now I’m in my head and there’s no choice but to open the car door. “I’m in.” A bargain dinner will be easy on the wallet too.
Harrison steps out of the car. “My God, it’s a thousand degrees here. I need a cold beer the size of my head.”
That might be the most he’s said since this morning. He slept half of the drive, which makes me curious what he was doing last night. He doesn’t have the look of a man who went to bed alone at ten p.m.
Not that I care who he went to bed with.
Harrison stretches, his T-shirt pulling up and tight across his chest, revealing the hard pecs that I thoroughly enjoyed running my hands over when he was naked…
Fuck. I do care who he goes to bed with.
I want it to be me again, because while we might bicker nonstop when our clothes are on, when we were together that night, not only did we get along, it was electric between us.
Which makes his behavior the next day and every day since even more annoying.
I’m determined to despise him, no matter how fucking hot he is.
As we cross the parking lot, I move in step beside Ivy. I put my hand on her shoulder and give a light squeeze. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine. I slept really well.”
Because Ford gave her an orgasm?
The thought pops in and I can’t get rid of it.
“That’s good to hear.”
I slept horribly.
I tossed and turned and alternated between visualizing Ivy’s expression when Ford told her Brad was a no-show and Harrison naked. Neither was relaxing. So I waffled between worried and turned on all night long until I finally dozed off and had a dream where I was having sex with both Ivy and Harrison. At the same time.
Which has sparked a fantasy I didn’t even know I had and now can’t get out of my head.
“What’s our cover story?” Harrison asks. “Should Ivy be a famous actress and we’re her bodyguards?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You need a story in a place like this. We can’t just be ourselves.”
“Who are we going to be talking to?” I ask.
An hour later, I have my answer—everyone in the whole damn bar.
That’s who Harrison is talking to.
After ordering four plates of food that could easily feed eight people, Harrison has the older female server laughing and calling him “handsome.” He’s turned and made small talk with the table behind us when he borrowed their hot sauce sampler caddy and then before I could blink he was in a pepper eating contest with a man introduced to us as “the cayenne king.”
Everyone loves Harrison, including the band, who has invited him up to play drums, which, amazingly, he can.
Meanwhile, Ivy smashed on a whole pulled pork platter, gifted her sunglasses to a toddler who admired them, and is laughing and dancing on the sticky floor with a very elderly man when the band dedicates “California Girls,” to her. I don’t even know how they know she’s from California.
Ford is keeping one eye on Ivy and the other on the bullseye as he has suddenly become the stiffest competition in wherever-we-are-Texas’s charitable dart tournament. He paid the entry fee and added an extra five hundred bucks when he heard it was to help a local family whose young daughter has cancer. He’s gotten more kisses on the cheek from middle-aged women than I would have thought possible.
Then there’s me.
Sitting in a corner.
Legs sprawled out in front of me, a beer I’m ignoring resting on the table next to me.
I’m an introvert. The observer. I enjoy watching people interact and have a great time. People are fascinating and I apply all of that to my writing. My friends understand me well enough to know that just because I’m sitting doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.
My role when I usually go out with friends is to make sure no one ends up in jail or leaves their credit card behind the bar, and I’m good with that.
Harrison doesn’t get that.
He alternates between trying to coax me into having fun and snarking at me about not being capable of anything enjoyable.
“Seriously, does anything at all give you pleasure?” he demands, after putting the drum sticks down and returning to the table for his beer.
For once, I don’t think he meant it as an innuendo.
But as I eye him, allowing my gaze to wander from his head and on down the length of his sexy as fuck body, the corner of my mouth turns up. “There are a few things that give me pleasure,” I murmur.
His eyes darken, and he drops into the seat beside me. “Like what? Me being quiet?”
I run my fingers over the sweat on the side of my beer bottle. “You being quiet because my cock is in your mouth, yes.” I shift my legs apart on the chair, needing more room. “While I yank your hair.”
Harrison leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Tell me more.”
But I’m not making it that easy for him. I sit back, creating more distance between us again. “I like to dance.”
His jaw drops, then he breaks out in laughter. “You do not.”
“How do you know?” I ask calmly, casually. “It’s not like you know me. You didn’t stick around long enough for that.”
He makes a face. “Look, we didn’t talk about what came next, if anything, that night. I thought we were just having good, clean, naked fun.”
“Sure,” I agree, because I’m not going to insist it was more than that, even though he knows full fucking well it was.
There was chemistry, yes, but there was a connection that went beyond sex.
But if Harrison wants to keep me at arm’s length, that’s his right.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you line dance in front of all these people. Like all in. Hips and hands moving, William. Don’t let me down.”
I sip my beer. “Easiest thousand bucks I’ve ever made.”
Harrison snorts and stands back up. He goes over to the band, who are on break, and has a chat with the lead singer.
“Okay, folks, we’re going to do a little classic Texas two-step for our Cali friends. Everyone get on out here and show these folks how everything is bigger and better in the Lone Star state!”
There are whoops and hollers and a dash to the dance floor.
“South Carolina!” Harrison calls out.
“What?” the singer asks.
“Two of us are from South Carolina. Two from California.”
“Then we have a real dance off! Three states represented.”
Harrison makes a face like that backfired on him. “Can’t dance?” I ask.
But Harrison, being Harrison, says, “I can do anything.”
That makes me snort and shake my head. He probably doesn’t even know the two-step is a partner dance. I stroll over to Ivy. “Dance with me?”
She nods, grinning. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As Harrison makes his way to the floor, he realizes about a heartbeat too late he needs a partner. A woman grabs him by the arm with a big smile. She’s about half his height and twice his age, but as I start the dance and take Ivy’s arm, I see the woman is literally dancing circles around Harrison. He’s just standing there bouncing on his heels, looking bewildered. She gestures for him to lift his arm to twirl her, but he doesn’t get the message. He just lifts his arm.
Meanwhile, me and Ivy have a nice rhythm and flow. We’ve danced swing together before and this shares some common roots with it. So even though I’ve never technically done the two-step, it’s easy to follow, especially since the singer is calling out directives to be helpful.
She smiles up at me. “You haven’t lost your touch. You been dancing without me lately?”
Since Brad. That’s what she means.
I shake my head. “No. You’re my only dance partner.” I turn her and tug her in tight up against me, closer than the dance calls for.
She collides with my chest. “Well, hello.”
“Hi.” I turn her out. When she comes back, I murmur, “You’re amazing, you know. I’m proud of you for how you’re handling this.”
“Thanks.” She strokes my cheek. “You’re the best.”
There’s a moment hanging between us and I feel my heart swell. I want to kiss her.
The music suddenly cuts out with a loud scratch. Ivy jumps. I wince.
“Whoops, sorry, folks!” The DJ laughs over the mic. “Our Cali couple is doing an amazing two-step! Well, our young lady is anyway.”
It’s a poke at me that I can’t let stand. Not with Harrison watching.
The two-step focuses on the woman.
I need to show off a little more.
I make eye contact with the singer. “Something faster?”
He gives me a grin. Then he says into the mic, “Cali Boy requests we crank up the speed. We’ve got you covered.”
The man isn’t fucking around. He plays “Footloose,” which allows me to really move next to Ivy, who is suddenly shrieking and laughing as she tries to catch up. It’s silly and fun and yes, I am enjoying myself. I’m also sweating.
Harrison has given up on dancing and is leaning on the bar watching us.
The “Git Up” follows, and it gives me some wiggle room to add a little hip hop edge to it.
People are yelling and clapping and pointing fingers at me. “Go, Cali!” a woman calls out.
Ivy yells to me, waving her arms, “I can’t keep up! I’m out.”
She squeezes her way through the throng over to Harrison. Ford has joined him.
It doesn’t bother me that there are a lot of eyes on me. I even give a few hip thrusts that have people screaming. But two more songs and I’m officially out of breath.
“A big round of applause for our Cali Boy!”
I grin and wave as I pretend to wipe my brow and slide off of the dance floor.
“That was…something,” Harrison says.
I shrug. “I can dance.”
He’s trying to be cool about it, but at that, he cracks a grin. “Yes. Yes, you can. Nice thrusting, William. Here’s your payout.”
He pulls cash out of his wallet, which momentarily stuns me. He has a grand in his pocket? But then I take it with a feigned nonchalant “thanks,” and head right over to where they’re collecting donations for the family of the little girl. Her picture is emblazoned across a plastic jug with her name on it. I give the money to the woman who is in charge of it.
Her eyes widen. “Bless you!”
“My pleasure. I hope Alyssa has a speedy recovery.”
When I return to the table, Harrison looks at the others. “Are we ready to leave now that William has made me look like a complete dick?”
“I’m ready.” Ivy pinches off one last piece of cornbread from her platter and pops it in her mouth.
Ford nods.
“Works for me. I can drive.”
Except when we open the front door and step outside, it’s pouring down rain. An absolute torrential downpour.
We all pull up and pause under the overhang. “Now what?”
“We could find a hotel,” Ivy says.
“Or wait it out,” Ford adds.
“Oh, this is an all-nighter,” a man says as he steps outside and lights a cigarette. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, there’s a hotel a mile up the road. The Armadillo Inn.”
“That sounds appropriate,” Harrison says with a smirk, sticking his hand out into the rain like he can gauge how long it will last by touch.
“That’s probably our best bet. I’ll drive. Wait here, I’ll get the car,” I tell them.
I dash through the rain and jump in. Once I pull around, Ford has taken his shirt off and is holding it over Ivy’s head in some overblown chivalrous gesture. I frown, but then they’re in the car. Driving in the direction the man pointed, I can barely see the road. I’m going twenty miles an hour and the only way I know we’re still on pavement is the tires aren't spinning.
Relieved, I spot the motel and turn in.
There is a debate in the backseat between Ford and Harrison over who will go into the lobby. Ford has put his wet shirt back on at least. I don’t need Ivy ogling him. I don’t offer to go in because I’m not putting four rooms on my credit card.
For whatever reason, they do rock-paper-scissors and Harrison wins—or loses?—and he opens the door and jogs through the rain.
“This is crazy,” Ivy says. “It never pours like this in California.”
“It does in South Carolina.”
“Oh, goody,” she says, dryly, before shooting Ford a grin over her shoulder.
What is going on with those two?
Harrison comes back and jumps into the car. His shirt is soaked through, outlining his chest in a way that makes my mouth dry. Water is running down his face, and he swipes a large hand over it and through his hair, torturing me further.
“Bad news. There’s only one room available.” He holds up a classic motel key. “Be prepared to get cozy tonight, kids.”
I sigh in defeat. A whole night crowded in a room with a wet Harrison and Ivy and Ford sneaking glances at each other?
Fucking fabulous.