17. LIAM
17
LIAM
Six Summers Ago
Sometimes, crazy is good. Great really. Every sane human is a bit crazy. And whatever this feeling is. . . it’s abso-fucking-lutely, making me crazy.
My pull to Emerson is easy. Too easy that it should be wrong, but I can’t get enough of it. Enough of her.
That’s why it’s crazy. Yeah?
Do you know what crazy leads to? Impulsive and improper, nonsensical decisions.
That’s why I lied to her about today. When she told me she was heading to Lagos, I told her we were too. We weren’t.
From the hotel hallway, I barge through the suite’s front door. I pound on the door leading to Callum’s room and follow it with a loud fist to George’s door.
“Rise and shine! We’re leaving in twenty minutes.” My voice rings loud enough to wake other guests on the floor, maybe the whole hotel.
There’s no sound of movement coming from either room.
Callum won’t take long to pack; he’s not as much of a slob as George. I don’t even try to imagine what I’m about to see when I walk into the room he claimed. Clothes might not even be my biggest concern either.
The door creaks open. Taking in the room, it’s not as bad as I expected. Clothes from the previous night everywhere, but that’s it .
My eyes catch what else is thrown about the floor—a set of black lace knickers haphazardly next to a neon pink minidress and a pair of Prada heels.
“George!” He groans as Beatrix Archer’s head pops out from under the duvet. The white sheet and duvet fall down her body as she sits up against the headboard. Her bare chest pointed directly at me.
“Oi, Bea, what a pleasant surprise!” I toss her a smile and George’s shirt from the ground.
“Good morning, Hayes,” her floral, feminine voice replies. She tosses George’s shirt back at me.
“Heading to Lagos for the day. I’ve booked us rooms at Avenida. Train leaves in an hour,” I say to George.
“Is the sun even up, mate?” George asks grogily.
“You would know, assuming that’s when you two went to sleep.”
George growls at me but reluctantly climbs out of bed, naked. Bea looks over at him, rolls her eyes, but leaves them on him, and watches with longing.
“Didn’t realize you were in Lisbon,” I tell her.
There isn’t another female I know who is confident enough to pull off that shade of pink. Beatrix Archer, Bea for short, is the love of George’s life, despite what he tells anyone—it’s painfully obvious, though. Bea puts the bea in beautiful. Quite fit that one. Darker olive skin. The richest brown hair that matches her eyes. Tall, barely shy of six feet.
They met at boarding school. George and Bea went their separate ways after sixth form, but kept in touch through university. She’d appear for a weekend, and George would disappear the following weekend.
We never knew if they were ever properly together or not. They flaunted relationships in front of each other or dared the other to decide who to hook up with that night during visits—a game I hated watching because she is like a sister to me. Anytime Cal and I tried to stop it, they ignored us.
“Neither did I.” George flashes her a glare over his shoulder. “Even told her last week we’d be here.”
Her face pales. Her tone is raw when she responds, “I told you I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” George asks crossly.
“Georgie.” Beatrix frowns.
“Care to fill me in on how this happened, then?” I ask.
“Left the bar last night and bumped into her on the street with another, but that didn’t last long. Pointed at her, then in the direction of here.”
“And I followed him.” She exhales. “As if I could stay away,” I hear her add on in an embarrassed whisper.
“Want to tag along? Lagos?” I ask Bea. “I miss you. It’s been, what, six months since we’ve seen you last?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I should return to my friend. We’re“ leaving tomorrow anyway.”
Beatrix walks to where her clothes are decorating the floor. She stops when our shoulders meet and tilts her head to kiss my cheek. “Miss you too, Hayes.”
“We leave in fifteen minutes now. Get your shit together.”
“Thanks for the orgasms,” Beatrix says, not looking at George. Dressed, she strides toward the door, throwing a hand in the air, and waves a small goodbye to both of us. She’s past the threshold of the door when she stops. A hand reaches out to grab hold of the archway. Beatrix turns her body to look back at George. It’s my eye contact she finds. There is sorrow and a hint of wishful thinking in them. I can tell that someday she hopes that he finally stops sleeping around enough to only love her.
She’s gone a moment later.
** *
Emerson is standing at the train station, peering around curiously. It’s the same curiosity that she proudly wore at the coffee shop.
“Is this about a girl?” George whispers to Callum behind me.
“I don’t know,” Callum whispers back.
It’s not about any girl, it’s about her. Emerson Clarke.
Emerson’s head swivels till it lands on us. She catches me and rolls her eyes.
“Thought I was lying?” I call to her.
When we finished our coffee, we went our separate ways to pack. Within the quick walk back to my hotel, I booked rooms for all of us at my favorite place to stay in Lagos. I didn’t know if she already had a place, but leaned into the assumption of no. Emerson didn’t mean to, but revealed that this wasn’t part of the original outline.
The dynamic between her and—shit, I can’t remember her friend’s name. Their dynamic perplexes me. I wonder if Emerson knows that her friend walks all over her like a doormat you’ve had forever with imprints of where your shoes step every time you walk on it.
“This fella thought he’d get away with running off to Lagos without us.” George clamps a hand onto my shoulder.
I never properly introduced them last night, but they saw me with her. “The last time we were there. Two years ago, aye? Last year of uni, and Liam here accidentally—”
“That’s enough,” Callum shuts him up.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Emerson, gesturing to the two idiots standing beside me.
She mouths back, “It’s fine.”
“Didn’t get to meet last night. I’m Callum Sullivan.” He pulls her in for a hug, planting a kiss on either side of her cheeks.
She looks up at him, a tiny twinkle in her eyes. The same twinkle all girls get when they see Callum. Same height and similar blue eyes as me. His sandy blond hair is cut close to the head. It curls when he grows it out, giving him irresistible surfer vibes. Fits that his two brothers are both professional surfers .
George pushes past, pulling Emerson in for a hug, but he stops when he sees my eyes. I look at him, daring him to touch her. He smirks and puts his hands on top of her shoulders, checking her out from head to toe.
“George Eaton.” He reaches a hand to hers after taking a step back and dropping his arms from her shoulders. “The best of the three in more ways than one.”
Cal and I muffle our disdain. No reason for us to stroke his ego.
George is shorter than us, reaching only six feet, something Callum and I don’t let him live down. He has warm, light brown skin and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, except when you are close to him and see they are onyx. Flecks of gold dispersed throughout. The amount of gold honestly depends on what hair color he decides to have. At the present moment, it is a dusty light brown, the bleach blond fading away.
“I’m good for at least three good snogs when you’re done with him,” he tells Emerson. She laughs at him; however, her eyes aren’t on him but focused on me.
And perfect timing. In a public place, I’m hard watching her watch me.
We’re on the express train to Lagos. In two hours, we’ll be at the furthest south point in Portugal. Lisbon is incredible, the city and history, but Lagos is a dream: the beaches, the bars, the everything.
I sat next to Emerson on the train, where we filled in the gaps from the night before. Growing up in London, growing up in the Midwest, my relationship timelines with George and Callum, how she is terrified of clowns and will never go to a circus despite how happy people tell her they are.
We spend the entire time talking, fun fact for a fun fact, and story for story. I categorize each piece of information about her, tucking it away as if it were contact information in a Rolodex. I don’t want to forget a thing about her.
We arrive at Avenida Lagos Hotel .
Emerson trails me to the concierge desk. Callum and George immediately find themselves two seats and two drinks at the bar.
“Checking in for Hayes.”
Behind the desktop computer, the concierge is typing away. She doesn’t even lift her head to acknowledge us. “Hayes. Four ocean-view rooms. Can I have a copy of the card on file?”
“I thought we were all crashing together?” Emerson’s ears are perked up. She tosses me a confused glance.
“Made an accommodation to the reservation.” She goes to speak. “Don’t sweat it, States.” I smile down at her but catch a glimpse of disappointment. Did she want us to stay together? After this morning, I—well, I don’t know what she wanted this morning, and I was too much of a wuss to even begin to go there.
It’s not that I don’t want to. I want to be in there.
The concierge hands my card back to me, letting her hand and eyes linger a beat too long on me. I swear I hear Emerson scuff next to me as she watches us intently.
“Three of the rooms are on floor four; the other is on floor three.” She gestures to the stairs. “Stairs are there to the right behind you. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more. . . pleasurable.”
“Thanks.” I give her a curt nod and ignore what she insinuates. If there’s anyone who will make that stay more enjoyable, it’s Emerson.
Callum and George have rejoined us, laughing between them. I hand each of them a key card. Emerson reaches her hand out, palm up, waiting for me to drop a card into her hand, but instead, I pocket hers and mine.
Spinning on my heels, I pick up her bag and head to the stairs.
“I can get that.” She stomps after me, missing the handle, she grabs my hand. “I didn’t pack light.”
Correct, she didn’t. We are here only for a night, but her bag easily has to weigh at least ten kilos. I would hate to know what her bags for the entire summer weigh. I force myself to keep laughing .
“You’re acting like I couldn’t lift you,” I joke.
“Are you calling me heavy?” Her eyes flare.
“That’s one way to flirt with her,” George critiques from six steps up.
“He is not flirting with me,” she says as if disgusted by the idea.
“Right. . . and we aren’t oblivious to the way you got jealous when the concierge was staring at him,” George says.
“Or like we didn’t hear him in the shower this morning after your little ‘friend’ sleepover,” Callum adds, air quotes friend.
“Is that what you were laughing about when you walked up?”
“Maybe,” George taunts.
“Go to your rooms,” I snap, annoyed.
“Yes, Dad.” Callum laughs. The sounds of their feet and bags dragging up the stairs echo in the well.
“Give me my bags,” Emerson demands.
“It’s not heavy. I know you are capable of carrying them, of taking care of yourself, but that doesn’t mean you have to. You should learn to let someone help you now and then.”
She rolls her eyes. “For the record, I let people help quite often. I don’t want your help.” She drops her hand off her bag and walks up the stairs in front of me.
I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything. I genuinely wanted to do this for Emerson. I got the vibe that she’s too independent, admirable, and hot, but that doesn’t mean she has to be independent all of the time.
Her words play over in my head, ‘I don’t want your help’ and “like you are going to fall in love with me, ’ as I follow behind her. A sting burns in my chest. I don’t give a shit what she was or wasn’t insinuating; I know her statement is weighted. There’s something else going on behind her hidden spiky exterior.
I try to shake off the feeling by staying in the present moment, which is a pair of frayed light denim shorts that barely cover an inch past Emerson’s butt. Tan legs stretch out of them, but I can’t, more like I don’t, avert my eyes from how the denim is secured on her round cheeks. Every so many steps, I can see the curve of said cheeks and all the blood rushes straight to my dick. Emerson halts, and I run directly into her. No doubt she can feel it up against her.
“I’m assuming I’ll be on floor three.”
“Uh yeah,” I say to her, gaining composure. Looking at the numbers on the two cards in my hands, I note that she’s directly a floor below me. “To the left.”
I tap the key card against the black scanner on the door. It unlocks with a clicking noise and a green light. I hold the door open with one hand while Emerson walks in. Her shampoo invades my nose again as she walks by, leaving her bag in the hallway behind her.
“Could you get that?” She winks at me over her shoulder.
The room is minimalistic, with simple beige decor and furniture. We both walk a few more steps into it. Emerson rushes to the balcony on the opposite side of the room.
“This is breathtaking.” Emerson sighs. Pushing open the sliding doors and stepping outside, taking in the beaches, ocean, and grottos that are all within view.
She turns around to face me, standing on the balcony, the cyan sky behind her, when a light breeze catches her hair, blowing it about. She looks like a beach goddess.
“Almost as breathtaking as you,” I murmur to myself.
“Thank you for booking this place. . . and coming with me.”
“I told you we were already planning on coming.”
Emerson raises a brow. “Your friends gave you away. I overheard them cackling coming back from the bar. You could have told me you wanted to spend time with me, Liam Hayes.” The smile that forms on her face is mischievous before dropping to become grateful. My body ignites with heat and sparks, and I can’t help but smile that I did this to her. I made Emerson smile. “I appreciate it. You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“You’re welcome, Emerson. ”
It’s the first time I’ve used her name. The feel of it on my tongue catches me by surprise. How my mouth forms to the vibrations of the syllables. Can words have a home? Can a name belong to your mouth and only your mouth to say?
If yes, then it’s her name.