Chapter 4
Liam
Once Damon bailed, I sort of lost the desire to see the evening through with the girls. Especially because Julie was definitely into Damon, and I didn’t want her to feel like the third wheel if Hannah and I hooked up.
I still give it a try, but pursuing it without Damon feels weird.
I need him. Like I’ve needed him a lot over the years.
I would’ve failed eighth-grade math if he hadn’t tutored me.
And in high school, he critiqued my kissing ability by watching me make out with a watermelon before I went on my first date.
When my mom died, Damon would hold me in a bear hug for hours until I’d finally cried myself to sleep—it’s the most physical contact we’ve ever had. Then he’d stay with me, so I didn’t wake up the next morning and have to face the nightmare my reality had become all alone.
Shortly before my mom passed, I’d moved to Boston for work because I didn’t know she was sick.
My parents fucking lied to me to protect me.
Only that fucking backfired because now, I hate myself for moving away and missing time with her that I could’ve had.
I’m pissed at my dad for the decision they made and pissed at myself because if I’d been home, not only would I have had more time with her, but once she was gone, Taylor would have never gotten to my dad like he did.
It was a total clusterfuck, and now, staying away is easier than facing everything at home.
Damon moved all his shit out to Boston for three months, no questions asked, after my mom’s funeral.
He made sure I ate, got dressed, went to work, and most nights, I ended up crying myself to sleep in his arms. By the time he had to move back home, I wasn’t really sure how to function without him anymore.
So, while I’ve survived, I haven’t really been living.
Half an hour later, I give up and tell Julie and Hannah goodnight before schlepping myself back to the cabin.
There’s a keypad lock on the front door to our rental, and I punch in the code, stomping my feet on the mat to shake off some of the snow.
When I open the door, I yell for Damon, but don’t get an answer.
“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s hot in here,” I mutter to myself, pulling layers off as I move through the living room. Damon has no idea what it’s like to have a healthy amount of muscular insulation, and we fight over the thermostat everywhere we go.
Finding the little box on the wall, I turn it down to sixty-eight degrees because in no universe is seventy-five acceptable for an indoor temperature.
I already have sweat rolling down my ass crack, for fuck’s sake.
By the time I hit my bedroom, I’m wearing only my boxers and socks, and I still haven’t heard Damon moving around anywhere, so I head toward his room—because if I gave up grade-A pussy to hang out with his ass, by God, he’s hanging out with me—and I hear the shower running.
His door is ajar, so I walk in, fully prepared to inform him that we’re watching Final Destination tonight, but as I raise my hand to rap my knuckles on the door, I stop.
“-li…God yes…don’t fucking stop…suck that cock like it was made for you.”
My mouth tilts up in a smirk when I realize Damon is jerking off in there, but my happiness for him is quickly replaced by confusion. Why is he jerking off to thoughts of Julie by himself in the shower when he could have just fucked her in real life?
My best friend makes no sense sometimes.
Not wanting to interrupt, I take a page from his book, because it’s not fair that he’s getting off while my balls are getting bluer.
Once I’m done, I feel slightly better, but my hand never leaves me with the same satisfaction as getting off with a partner.
Stepping out of the shower, I sigh in relief. It’s finally cooled off in the house enough for me to tolerate sweatpants again, but I forgo the shirt, because I know it won’t take long before Damon exacts his revenge and fucks with the thermostat again.
Turning the corner into the kitchen, I see Damon sitting at the bar with his laptop open.
“Nuh-uh. You owe me a movie,” I say, pushing the top closed with two fingers before looking at my bestie. He’s a good-looking dude. Although he’s an identical twin, there are enough differences that I don’t see his brother every time I look at him, which, given the recent history, is a good thing.
His sandy blond hair is cut short on the sides.
The top is a little longer and stylishly spikey.
He has stunning blue eyes compared to Taylor’s slightly darker ones.
He’s two inches taller than his brother, putting him at five-eleven.
He also has the hint of a five o’clock shadow on his face, and Taylor would never be caught dead with body hair—even on his legs.
“Where the hell did you come from? I figured you’d still be with the girls,” Damon says.
Shrugging, I turn and grab a beer out of the fridge. “I came back not long after you left. Didn’t feel right spending our vacation with them if you weren’t getting in on the action, too.”
Color rises in his cheeks.
“How, um, long have you been here?”
Seeing the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks makes me smile. It’s just me, for crying out loud.
“Long enough to know you were taking care of business on your own,” I smirk.
“What?!” he practically screeches. “How do you know that’s what I was doing?”
I’m cracking up now.
“Dude, chill. I came to find you and tell you we’re watching Final Destination while you were in the shower. I just happen to have impeccable timing and managed to hear the end of a successful sesh.”
“Okay, but like, how much did you hear?” he asks in a panicked tone.
“D, it was no big deal,” I tell him, taking a sip of my beer. “I heard you say Julie’s name followed by some dirty shit, and then I left you to it.”
His brows pinch together.
“I didn’t say…you know what? Never mind.” He slides off the barstool and moves toward the wet bar. “Hand me a lowball glass, will you?”
For only being twenty-four, Damon’s drink preferences are as polished and refined as his wardrobe. Seriously, what twenty-four-year-old drinks Scotch? And not only drinks it, but likes it.
Fuck that.
I’ll take a shot of Fireball with a Dr. Pepper chaser, please.
Opening the cabinet that holds the glasses, I tell him to point to the one he wants. “I don’t know what the hell a ‘lowball’ glass is, bro.”
“Have I taught you nothing?” he asks, slightly more relaxed, as he points to the short glass on the middle shelf.
Handing it to him, I laugh. “You’ve taught me lots…like, pre-algebra, how to tie a tie, to never wear stripes and plaid in the same outfit, and that I used too much tongue when I was learning how to kiss.”
Damon chokes on his recently poured drink.
“When the fuck did I tell you that? And how would I know anyway?”
“Don’t you remember the watermelon experiment? You said, ‘I don’t think it’s supposed to be that wet when you’re done. Maybe use less tongue.’”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’d forgotten about that.” When he opens his eyes again, they look sad, and I don’t know why. Trying to cheer him up, I grab his hand and pull him to the couch.
“Come on. Bros before hoes. It’s movie time.”