Chapter 24
CONNOR
I perform well under pressure; in fact, sometimes I think I might even do some of my best work under it.
A client’s friend or parent hovering over my shoulder and watching every single movement that I make, knowing that I’m about to smack face first into an important deadline, being in charge of organizing a meet – I’m good at that.
I need the added pressure to help me do the best job I’m able to.
What I don’t do well with, apparently, is the man who I once called my best friend standing twelve feet away from me and glaring daggers in my direction every chance that he gets.
It doesn’t help that his wife is perched in front of him, swiveling back and forth on his chair and watching while he works the table. Our eyes meet every now and again, and I’m not sure if she looks away from me, but I have to look away from her.
I think I’m going to have to quit my job.
I’ll need to find a new shop, maybe a new city.
It was hard enough to keep to myself that anything had happened between Julia and I; but now I’m supposed to act like I wasn’t falling for her?
That I’m not still, actively falling for her?
I don’t think I can do it.
Shaking my head, I pull my attention to the young woman standing in front of me. Not a drop of ink is on her skin or anything more than a nostril piercing that I can see, and she’s twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she inspects my jewelry display.
“How bad does a conch piercing hurt?” She asks, fluttering her lashes at me.
“It doesn’t feel good,” I chuckle, “but it looks awesome on just about everyone.”
She hums and haws, twirling that same piece of hair and moving her head side to side before finally saying, “What about a belly ring?”
“I get less complaints about navels than I do cartilage,” I tell her, “but either way, you’re looking at six months to a year for healing. So I’d go with whichever one you’ll like best.”
Poking out her lower lip in a pout, she says, “Oh. Well what if I wanna get in the pool, like, Monday? What will heal by then?”
A paper cut? I think.
Turning to my right, my eyes lock onto Julia again, and she pulls her lips into a tight smile. She’s wearing a too-big ribbon in her hair, tied into a bow, and the muted pink of it makes everything about her just look soft.
The problem is that I know just how soft she is.
Her skin, her lips, her whimpers.
All of it is so soft.
“Maybe a—”
I cut off the young woman in front of me by offering her one of my business cards sandwiched between my index and middle fingers.
“Take some time to think about it before you commit,” I tell her with a smile. “If you’re ever in Miami, come on in and see me and we can get something sick done for you.”
With a sigh, I reach for my bottle of water and drop into the chair behind me, only lasting a few seconds before I stand and make my way to a small alcove near the restrooms.
I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life. Truthfully, I’ve screwed up more times than I can count. In a lot of ways, I’m lucky to be standing where I am today, in spite of everything that I’ve gotten wrong.
I would say that sleeping with Julia was the biggest mistake I’d ever made, but that wasn’t a mistake.
Doing it behind Tripp’s back was the mistake.
The lie was the mistake.
“Are you okay?”
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I turn toward Julia. She’s keeping her distance, more than twice an arm’s length at least, and her hands are held behind her back. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that her fingers were nervously fidgeting with each other.
“You need to get out of here,” I tell her, using my eyes to gesture toward the main convention hall.
“I— you looked upset, and I thought—” She sighs. “Never mind. Sorry. I guess it’s none of my business.”
The toe of her shoe taps against the floor, her head dipping for just a minute before she looks at me again. When she does, her eyes are rimmed with red, and guilt gnaws at my chest as she offers me a soft smile.
“I’m really sorry I made you lose your best friend,” she tells me quietly.
Before I can even think of something – anything - to say to her, she pivots and is on her way back into the main hall, her short heels clicking against the flooring and her long, blonde curls bouncing behind her with every step.
I keep to myself when I make it back to my station, only letting myself care about the revolving door of clients sitting in my chair and the money that they’re bringing in for both me and the shop. I can only hope that some of them will be repeat clients when this convention is done.
Our crew doesn’t break down any of our tables until well after six o’clock.
What a terrible hour of the day; it’s too early to go to bed, but too late to do much of anything else.
I’m relieved when one of the guys from a couple of tables to our left approaches to invite me out for a bar crawl with their crew.
It’s a quick run up to the hotel room from Hell to drop off my things and change into some fresh clothes and a few spritzes of cologne before I’m down in the lobby, waiting for everyone else to meet me.
Our first stop is a cool little dive bar.
There’s a full wall of liquor behind the bar, a pool table that I might find myself using, if we were planning on staying longer, and strings of lights hanging from the ceiling like streamers at a child’s birthday party.
It’s dark in here, but the atmosphere is good.
We stay for two drinks before moving on to another bar, and then another after that.
We don’t stay long enough to properly settle into any one place, and by the time we’ve reached the final bar, I’ve got a solid buzz going.
My cheeks and the tip of my nose have a soft tingle to them, the world is moving just a little more slowly than usual, and everyone around me is a little better looking than I would find them to be on an average day.
It isn’t until I’m one too many deep that I realize that all I’m doing here is delaying the inevitable, and ultimately, once again, proving my sister right.
A few taps against my phone’s screen brings a ride to the door, and I climb into it, on my way back to the hotel that I’ve spent all night avoiding.
“Shhh,” I whisper to the door’s locking mechanism as I press my card against it, earning a beep in response.
Pushing open the door, I hope against everything that I believe in that Tripp and Julia will be asleep when I step inside. I’ve been ready to come back to the room since somewhere around ten o’clock, but I’ve been doing my best to avoid them since the conference ended.
Much to my disappointment, when I enter the room, they’re sitting on their bed together. Julia has a glass of rosé in her hand and Tripp has a bottle of beer in his. Jules looks like she’s been crying, but both of them look like they’re being weighed down by something heavy.
“Don’t mind me,” I say as I walk past them and toward my own bed. “Keep talking about whatever it is you were talking about.”
“We were talking about you,” Tripp tells me.
I don’t miss the venom in the way that he practically spits the words at me.
And that scratches at something deep in my chest.
An ache.
A loneliness.
“So that’s it,” I wonder out loud. “She’s forgiven, you two are all lovey-dovey and happily married again, but it’s screw me, right?”
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he sips from his beer, Tripp says, “I’m not obligated to forgive you.”
“Yes you are,” Julia tells him, pressing a hand to his chest. Tripp’s brow pinches in annoyance. “If you got in a wreck, who would you call? Before anyone else – who would you call?”
His gaze narrows in my direction, bringing with it an itch at the surface of my skin.
“Brody,” he finally answers.
“Stop it,” Jules pleads, using that hand to press more firmly against his chest. “He’s your best friend. We’re stuck here together for another twenty-four hours, so you may as well try with him, too.”
I wait, maybe in not such a small way hoping that he’ll agree with her, but he doesn’t. He just stares at me and takes another swig from his beer.
“Whatever,” I scoff. “I’m going to bed.”
My shoes land near the balcony door when I kick them off, and I drop onto my mattress and flick off the light between our beds. I don’t bother trying to say goodnight to either of them before I slip off my shirt and pants, dropping them onto the floor before I flop the blankets over top of myself.
I might have to catch a bus in the morning; I can’t do another day of this.
This is my own personal brand of torture.
Whispering.
Who the fuck is whispering?
When I open my eyes and my vision finally adjusts to the darkness in the room, I make out the shape of Tripp’s right arm around Julia’s shoulder, her fingers intertwined with his.
His left hand is tucked beneath their bedding.
Jules’s back arches and her eyes drift shut as she bites down on her lower lip to keep herself from making any noise.
Tripp’s mouth is pressed to her ear as he whispers into it, but his eyes are laser-focused on mine, narrowed and spiteful.
With a shift of his body, Julia lets out a gasp, using her free hand to grip onto his face as she turns to press her forehead against his, and my cock twitches as their mouths meet in a slow, heated kiss.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
I should interrupt them.
I should get up and leave the room.
But that’s exactly what Tripp wants me to do; so instead, I quietly turn over in my bed and desperately try to drown out his whispers and Julia’s stifled whines. I try to pretend that I don’t hear the moment that it’s no longer Tripp’s fingers inside of his wife, but his cock.
More than anything, I try to pretend that listening to them isn’t making my dick hard.