Chapter 8
ASHER
I’m not a fan of kids. Like, at all. They’re loud and sticky. Just not my thing. But Amber sure is cute. She’s having the time of her life, opening up presents and making the guys dress up in jewelry and tiaras.
I got to try on her tool belt, though it didn’t come close to fitting around my waist, and she made me abort the mission as soon as she realized that so I wouldn’t break it.
The kid is cute as hell.
But soon, she’s crashing from the sugar, and Shelly and Randy are wrapping her up in her coat and taking her out to the car. Gabe and Walker help carry presents out and say goodbye while the adults continue the party inside.
I wonder if next year there’ll be more kids running around. The way people are coupling up around here, I wouldn’t be surprised.
And sure enough, as soon as Gabe and Walker rejoin the party, Sarah gets our attention with a special announcement. From the way Missy is holding her belly, I can guess what the announcement is even before they say it.
“We’re pregnant!”
The guys all hoot and holler their congratulations.
We knew they were going through IVF to try to bring a child into the world.
Unfortunately for them, several of the guys offered up their sperm when they told us at a morning meeting.
They politely declined, choosing to go the anonymous-stranger route. Good for them.
I love these guys, but they can be a lot. I can’t think of better parents than Missy and Sarah either.
“We’re getting another Oakley’s Crew Member,” Oakley squawks, grabbing them both into a gentle bear hug. They both just pat him on the shoulder, clearly fond of the big guy.
I look over and see Luke, Sarah’s younger brother who just joined the crew recently. He looks pretty happy, though I’m sure he already knew the news. I hold up my glass to him in cheers, and he holds his back to me, nodding with a grin.
He’s a good kid. And though I know he’s gay—I may have heard him talking about a hookup on break at a huge project and also got a vibe that he’d be interested in me—he’s just not my type.
My eyes slowly drift toward the literal definition of my type—Jackson. Goddamn him for looking so good all the time. We’re friends. Have been for a long time. But maybe that’s not what I want . . .
Of course, he doesn’t fail to let me know how much I bug him constantly. I’m just being myself, and I don’t sugarcoat a damn thing. It’s not my style. It’s on him if he can’t handle it.
And he doesn’t like Little Miss Perfect, no matter how hard he’s trying to convince everyone. He’s currently standing by her side, politely chatting away. She’s probably going on and on about how she can’t wait to be a mother, and I guarantee you he’s panicking right now.
Sweating. Because Jackson doesn’t really like kids either. He definitely doesn’t want kids of his own. But has he told Rebecca that? I very seriously doubt it. I hate how polite he is with her.
There are no snarky comments. There’s no fire. He looks bored out of his mind.
What is he even doing with her?
I go on about my own way, chatting with everyone and drinking maybe a little bit too much, but I’m not shitfaced. And then, wouldn’t you know it, I wind up right next to Rebecca. She offers me a sweet, adorable little smile as we both reach for some snacks at the same time.
I’m a gentleman and let her go first. She grabs the smallest handful of Chex Mix known to man, while I grab enough to fill my big hand and start munching. “Hi. Asher, right?”
“Yup,” I say, not rude or anything—at least, I don’t think so, but not over-the-top nice either. I am who I am, after all. I’m not going to be fake like Jackson.
“I’m Rebecca,” she says, her eyes all hopeful like she wants me to like her. I don’t. I mean, I guess she’s fine, but I don’t like her being with Jackson.
Which is . . . Maybe I am a little drunk.
“I know.”
She giggles. It grates on my nerves. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I usually like most people, and she’s a nice person. I have no reason to hate her. But I can’t stand the woman, apparently. “Jeez, is everyone on Oakley’s Crew drop-dead gorgeous?”
I stare at her, irritation ratcheting up as I frown. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m gay as fuck.”
“What?” She sounds shocked, almost scandalized. “I . . . No. I wasn’t like . . .” She’s really fumbling for words here, and I sway on my feet a little bit, trying to focus. Yeah, I’ve had too much to drink. Whoops. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m with Jackson.”
“Yeah,” I grit out, taking a swig of my drink—even though maybe I should lay off the alcohol. “Good for you.”
“Are you okay? Did I do something to offend you? I wasn’t hitting on you or anything. I just meant that the crew is very good-looking.”
“And most of us are very, very gay. Or bi.”
“Right. Like Jackson,” she says as if she knows something big. News flash—we all know Jackson is bisexual. He’s very vocal about it.
“Right.”
She’s just staring at me now, like she’s not sure how to approach me, and I’m okay with that. She needs to go away. And wow, okay, I need to stop. I’m being a dick. I know that.
“I really, really like Jackson.” She seems to need me to know that.
“Mm-hmm. And he really likes you too,” I say, way too sarcastically. I really am a dick.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?” I ask, taking another bit of Chex Mix into my mouth and chewing.
“You sound like you don’t think he likes me.” She sounds defensive now, almost a little interesting when she has some grit. Not enough for Jackson though. He’s bored out of his mind with this one, and I can guarantee you she doesn’t ever bite back at him.
No way. She’s too busy trying to be perfect for him. To not offend him. Not upset him. Boring. Boring. Boring.
“Why does it matter what I think?”
“So you do think that?” Her eyes are so wide, she looks like a cartoon character. Seriously? Jackson thinks this is his type now? He’s lost it.
“Think what?”
“That he doesn’t really like me?”
“Do you think he does?” I ask, trying to brush her off. She needs to just get away from me. Or fight back. That would be something at least, but she looks shrunken up and all sad.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hear Jackson’s harsh tone from behind me, and a slow smile slides over my face before I turn around to face him. I can’t deny his voice does something to me, especially hearing it drip with fierce, passionate anger.
“Hey, Jackson. I was just talking to your girl here. Getting to know her.”
His hand wraps around my bicep, and I’m being pulled away, nearly tripping over my feet before I can right myself and catch up to what’s happening.
Fucker almost spilled my drink, but then he takes it from me and slams it down on a table as he pulls me away.
What was left of the Chex Mix in my hand falls to the floor.
“I’ll be right back,” he says to Rebecca, who looks flustered and scared, like the perfect little Disney princess she wants to be.
I yank away from him just as he slams my back against the hallway wall, far away from the rest of the party. “What the fuck is your problem? She didn’t do anything to you.”
“I hate Disney,” I say, my words coming out a little slurred.
“What the fuck?” His eyes narrow. “How drunk are you?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “And you made a big mess on Travis’s floor. I hope he fires your ass.”
“What is your problem?” He’s close to me now.
I can feel his warm breath on my face. It smells good though, like peppermint.
Was he chewing on a mint? Hmmm, I wouldn’t mind tasting peppermint right now.
“Asher.” His voice pulls me from the thought, and my eyes try to focus on his face, though it’s a little blurry.
“What?”
“Why would you say that to Rebecca? I told you I like her.”
I snort. “No, you don’t. You like chaos.”
“Fuck you.” He starts to move away from me, but desperation claws at me, and I reach out to grab his arm, keeping him here with me. “What?” he snaps, and fuck if that doesn’t make my dick hard.
I love the push and pull with him, and I would have gone for it years ago if I thought for even a second the feeling was mutual. But sadly, I don’t think it is. I think he sees me more like an annoying brother or something. A pest.
“You know I’m right.”
He jerks away from me with aggravated force, his eyes narrowing and his jaw tight with anger. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stalks off down the hall and back to her.
What the fuck ever.
If he wants to live a boring, nice life, I’m not going to stop him.
“What was that about?” Damn it. Gabe.
I turn to look at my friend, who looks more amused than annoyed. “What?”
“Don’t what me. You and Jackson. You and Rebecca.”
“I’m gay, sweetheart.” I pat his chest. “There will never be a me and Rebecca.”
His eyes roll as we walk toward the kitchen, and he directs me to sit down at the island while handing me a bottle of water. “I’m well aware of that, but you were being a dick.”
“You heard that?” I wince because I thought I was being quiet.
“Everyone at the party could hear you. You’re loud when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” I grumble, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig.
“Sure,” he says, his voice low. I turn around and see that no one is paying attention to us—especially not Jackson, who’s busy consoling his little princess.
I look back at Gabe, irritation swimming in my gut. “He doesn’t love her.”
“So? You don’t have to be mean to the poor girl.”
“I wasn’t being mean. I was being honest. There’s not enough honesty in the world.” I take another drink. “I’m making the world a better place.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “By being mean to a perfectly nice girl?”
I lean forward a little, my arms braced on the marble counter of the island. “You know he doesn’t love her.”
He leans across the bar too. “It doesn’t mean you have to be a dick.”
I scoff and then sit up straight. “Maybe I had a little too much to drink.”
He stands up straight and nods his head. “So sober up and remember we’re all friends here.” He lowers his voice even more, then leans over the counter again, so only I can hear. “And if you want Jackson—just know I’m rooting for you.”
I pull back like he burned me—scorched the hell out of me—with his words. “I what? I don’t want Jackson.” I say it a little too loudly and cringe, but I don’t think anyone is really paying attention to my drunk ass, thank God. I’m quieter now. “I don’t.”
He just shrugs. “It would make sense to me. You and Jackson.”
I shake my head. “He barely even thinks of me as a friend. I annoy the shit out of him.”
Again, he shrugs. “Maybe. But Jackson likes a little . . .”—he searches for the right word noticeably before settling on—“fire.”
I snort, thinking about the girl who threatened to set his house on fire. “Yeah well, he’s fire, and I’m fire. We’d be a disaster.”
“Not worse than his worst relationship.”
I snort. “Oh yeah . . . couple goals. Not the worst of the worst.”
He laughs and walks around to slap me on the back. “I think you two would be good together.”
“Fire and fire with no ice to put it out,” I mumble in my drunken stupor, leaning forward and resting my forehead on the cold marble.
I feel him pat my back in pity before he leaves me to wallow.
Because I know deep down what I want, and what I want is Jackson. But I’m also right. We’d fight constantly.
There’d be nothing there to stop it before we ignited into something we couldn’t come back from.