9. Hux
9
HUX
Confession I can’t believe I made to my best friend today: that I fucked someone else before having her sleep beside me in my bed.
Confession I can’t believe my best friend made to me today: fucking someone else before sleeping in my bed. With me.
Nothing—and I mean nothing —has ever happened between Dolly and me. We swore to strictly be friends a long damn time ago, and we’ve stuck to that. There are zero blurred lines between us. Cuddles, shared sleeping spaces, held hands—that’s it. All platonic.
Never been a single question about that.
Yet knowing that Warren Callahan had her before she slid between my sheets makes me want to rip his limbs straight off his body. Even if that was ten years ago.
It’s not like I thought Dolly was a virgin. I knew she wasn’t. I was the first person she told about losing her virginity back in high school. And after six years with Jeff…well, we won’t go there. Because I want to rip his limbs off too.
Flopping back onto the king-size bed in our suite at the Seven Swans Inn, I suck in a deep breath, letting my diaphragm stretch. As weird as that admission was, I don’t regret it. Dolly is the one person on this planet I can be that vulnerable with. And if that helps her build herself back up, then I’ll be as vulnerable as she needs me to be.
“Okay, I’m ready, I think,” she says, stepping out of the bathroom. “Does this look okay?”
Holding her arms out, she twirls, the skirt of her lilac-colored sundress billowing just enough to follow her movements. She looks adorable—and not in the little girl kind of way. In the making my insides do somersaults kind of way. The kind of adorable that you file away in the back of your brain for a moment when you need a smile, because just the thought of her like this will make everything right again.
“Looks great. Is that new?”
She nods, her eyes darting away from me. “Yeah, I bought it for the honeymoon…”
Fuck…
I should know what to say. But I don’t. Something loving and supportive. Or something about how his loss is our gain. Or even a simple fuck him would work. But I’ve got nothing.
The awkwardness takes over, silence weaving its way between us in a way it never has before, making my chest ache. I need to do something.
Popping up off the bed, I wrap an arm around her, and once I’m sure I’ve got a good grip on her, I pull her in close and dip her. Dolly lets out a little yip before bursting into giggles, my move catching her off guard.
Success.
“What was that for?” she asks, her giggle still echoing through the air. A zing rockets through me, making the little hairs on my arm stand straight up.
I straighten us out, smiling as I stare into her eyes. “Felt like it. That a problem?”
She shakes her head, smile still wide. “Is there more where that came from?”
“Depends.” I shrug. “If the moment calls for it.”
Laughing, she rolls out of my grip, cool air rushing between us, making me miss her. Something I shouldn’t feel. For a split second, I think maybe I’ve overcorrected. Then I remember this is Dolly, and that she’d never take such a move seriously from me. Even if that had been how I’d meant it.
“To the Sand Bar?”
I hold out my elbow, offering to escort her like we’re dressed to the nines ready to walk the red carpet, rather than in our casual best headed to a beach bar. Still, the move earns me an even bigger smile—the one with her wild in it—and an eyebrow wiggle, so I’ll take it as a win.
Because that’s my Dolly. She’s coming back.
The walk to the Sand Bar doesn’t take long, leading us down the paved path alongside the main road through the touristy “downtown” with all its cute shops and restaurants. It’s busy, even for a weekday, no doubt some Georgia locals trying to sneak in a trip to the island before peak season starts in a few weeks.
“What do you think it’s like to live in a place like this?” Dolly asks, as we wind past the last of the shops, back onto the beach toward the bar. “I know Brenna interviewed for a job over here and said it reminded her a lot of Hickory Hills, but we don’t get tourists like they do here.”
“I think living in a destination location full-time is something entirely different. And no thank you.”
I hold the door open to the bar, letting Dolly walk in ahead of me. The small, one-room building opens up onto the beach, making the space much bigger than it looks from the outside. A cover band perched on a stage out on the sand plays a nineties country song, the familiar melody seeping into me, my brain keeping time with the beat.
Flicking my eyes down to Dolly, I notice the movement of her skirt, that lilac fabric almost shimmering as it shifts, her hips moving in time with the count in my head. A count I’m going to lose track of if I continue to stare at said hips.
I need a drink.
“Shots.”
My declaration is short, sweet, and leaves no room for question. Thankfully, as my best friend, Dolly doesn’t think twice. In fact, she responds the only way she knows how. By one-upping me.
“Tequila.”
The wild is back in her smile, and my heart squeezes. Fuck yes.
I nod, taking her hand and leading her through the crowd to an open spot past the stage, crossing over an uneven dance floor laid over the sand. Oversized Adirondack chairs surround cast iron fire pits, strategically placed among the high top bar tables, giving the space an easygoing feel. The kind of place you could spend all night chilling, listening to the cover band. Which is exactly what I intend to do.
I park my bestie in one of the oversize chairs, then set off to find her the requested beverage. It doesn’t take long, a waitress intercepting me along the way, talking me into something I’ve never heard of. Although “talking into” is maybe a stretch. All it took was a simple question and I knew it was the perfect way to get this evening started.
“Tequila flights?” Dolly’s eyes bug out of her head as if she were a cartoon character trying to get a better look at something that excited her. The rev of my pulse makes my skin buzz, and it takes every ounce of control that I have to stop myself from uttering the comment that is right on the tip of my tongue as the waitress sets down the wooden trays, each with three shot glasses filled with different tequilas. “You are askin’ for trouble.”
“Should I go ahead and ask the band if they know your song now, or wait ’til you’re a couple in?” I tease, prepared for whatever gets thrown at me for such a remark. Literally and figuratively.
“Ha, ha. You know damn well tequila does not make my clothes fall off. Also, they don’t make the girl in that song’s clothes fall off either. She loses an earring, and a shoe, and a contact.”
I chuckle, grabbing the salt from my tray. Dolly absolutely can hold her liquor. Or at least she used to be able to—it’s been a long time since we’ve done this kind of thing. Six years anyhow…ever since Jeff came into her life.
“Well then, here’s to it.”
Licking in between my thumb and forefinger, I dose it with salt and hold up the first shot. Dolly does the same, clinking her glass with mine, then throwing it back. The tequila burns going down, flaring up my nostrils as I suck on a lime. Dolly doesn’t seem fazed by it, tossing her beautiful blonde hair over her shoulder and looking like she’s ready to take on the world.
“That one was for forgetting the past,” she says, picking up the next shot. “This one is for living in the moment.”
We repeat the steps—salt, tequila, lime—this one going down a little smoother than the last. I’m sure if I asked there would be an explanation as to what each one of these tequilas is, and how there’s a distinction between them. But right now, none of that matters.
Holding up the third, she slides to the edge of her chair and sucks in a deep breath. “And this one…this is for embracing the future.”
“To whatever awaits you.”
“Us,” she adds. “Whatever awaits us.”
“Us,” I repeat, my gut clenching, wondering what she means by that.
Whatever this life holds, I’ll be by her side. Dolly knows this. And really, that’s probably what she’s thinking. That this toast is to our future as best friends. Always.
Still, a part of me worries that it’s her giving up on love. On her dream of having a family. Of that little white house on lots of land. The dream I know she keeps close to the vest, worried that if she’s too open about it that the old biddies in town will harass her even more about being in her midthirties and not married. Made that much worse after being left at the altar. I know she’s hurting—that Jeff pulling that stunt did a number on both her heart and her self-esteem, but I can’t let her give up on that.
Clicking our glasses, we send our third and final shot down the hatch, this one actually feeling pretty smooth. Whatever that one was, all the rest need to be. Even if it bankrupts me paying for them.
“Another round?” I ask, as Dolly slips back into the chair.
She shakes her head, blinking slowly. “Not yet. Right now I’m going to let those sink in. Give me five and I think I’ll be numb enough to not care that Jeff doesn’t love me.”
“He’s a dumbass.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t love me. He asked me to marry him.”
She has me there. That’s sound enough logic—sober or tipsy.
“I would have done it the second he asked. Run away right then and tied the knot. But no, he wanted to wait. And wait more. Six years wasted. Six years . Like…he couldn’t have told me at any other point that he didn’t love me?” she continues, starting to ramble. Yeah, the tequila is starting to kick in.
I nod, letting her have her moment. I know she needs it.
“Why didn’t he love me, Hux?” she asks, tears hovering on the edge of her voice.
I scoot forward, ready to reach out to her, take her hand, and tell her that this isn’t a her problem. That Jeff is the douchebag here. That’s why I’ve referred to him as Douche Baggins in my head for the last six years—and will promptly start referring to him that way out loud from now on. But before I start, she cuts me off.
“I need more tequila.”
Or there’s that…
“As you wish.”
I flag over the waitress, ordering another round of whatever tequila number three was, as well as a margarita for Dolly and a beer for myself. We might be walking back to the hotel, but one of us does need to remain relatively sober, which means I need to slow down.
Shot number four brings out the giggles, loosening Dolly up even more as we sit and enjoy the evening air. Sipping on her margarita, she hums along with the classic rock song the band is playing, her impish smile firmly in place.
“Do you know the difference between a man and a margarita?” she asks, in a fit of giggles.
“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me…”
“The margarita hits the spot every time.”
I chuckle, unable to help myself. “The right man knows what he’s doing, and doesn’t give up until he’s found his woman’s spot …multiple times. Sounds to me like you were with the wrong one.”
“We know that,” she drunkenly snarks. “Hence the whole purpose of this trip. And the tequila requirement.”
Touché…
“I love this song. It’s the perfect song for dancing to. Jeff hated to dance.”
“D’ya wanna dance?” I ask, trying to get a feel for if she’s testing the waters or just complaining.
She looks at me skeptically, one eyebrow lifted. “Errr, you don’t like it either.”
Pushing to my feet, I take her drink from her, setting it down on the ledge by the fire. I take her hand and pull her to her feet, wrapping my arm around her.
“I don’t hate dancing. It’s just not?—”
Dolly cuts me off, finishing my sentence for me, knowing exactly what I’m going to say. Because of course she does. “A preferred activity.”
“Exactly.” I wink.
I don’t hate dancing—I simply hate dancing with women who aren’t her.
Leading her out to the floor, I make sure not to break contact. The soft, mid-tempo ballad doesn’t have the right timing for a two-step, but there is enough of something to push her around to it. To hold her close and make her feel adored. Exactly how every woman should feel on the dance floor.
“You’re better at this than you think,” she whispers, tightening her grip on me.
“Never said I was bad.”
“Oh, sorry, just that it’s not preferred,” she throws back at me. “You know, you might have better luck with women if you went dancing more.”
I scoff. “I do just fine.”
More than “fine” actually. Hence Mrs. Chamberlain’s tomcat accusation last week. Followed by Anton calling me a manwhore. Which is better than when Gus called me a slut after I broke our couch. To be fair, I might have deserved that one—I mean, I did break the couch fucking some girl whose name I don’t remember—but I replaced it. And I haven’t brought a girl back to the house since.
“Don’t you want something more than just…whatever it is you get from all the girls you just see once?”
I give Dolly a twirl, eyes glued to her hips as her skirt flares, my mouth watering and my hands aching, a part of me wishing I was holding her differently. A sign that I need to move from beer to water.
“Nope.”
It’s a simple answer, but the truth. Those encounters are purely physical, and that’s all I require them to be.
“But it’s sundown, somewhere…” she says, her voice wistful. She twists in my arms, looking out over the beach, the setting sun reflecting off the water as if timed perfectly with her comment.
“It is…”
My words hang in the air, the song winding down behind us, the other couples on the floor slowing their movements in time with the music. I know I should do the same, but there’s a feeling inside me urging me to hold my best friend tighter. To tuck the stray piece of hair blowing in the breeze behind her ear and never let go. But I can’t do that.
Because beyond the promise to always be her best friend and to be by her side, no matter what, is another truth. A bigger one.
I’m not good enough for Dolly McLain. Never have been. Never will be.
Before either one of us can say or do anything though, the band kicks into “Sweet Caroline.” Whatever spell we were under is broken, the catchy tune taking over, both of us singing along at the top of our lungs.
We sing and dance, losing track of time, allowing the night to take us where it goes. A couple more rounds of drinks—beer for me, a mix of shots and margs for Dolly—and we’re both feeling pretty good. The memory of why we’re here seems long forgotten, leaving us to be exactly what we are. A pair of best friends out to have a good time.
“Never let go of me, Hux,” Dolly says into my ear, wiggling against me.
My pulse jerks, skipping a beat, and I don’t know if it’s from her request or the fact that she’s borderline dirty dancing with me and has been all night. The feel of her body pressed against mine is one thing, but when she moves, it takes everything to remind my body we’re not thirteen anymore.
Then again, tell that to the semi I’m currently sporting thanks to the swaying of her hips against mine.
“Never,” I tell her, wishing that it was physically possible.
“Okay.” She stops, placing her hands on my shoulders, staring me in the eye. Her eyes are glassy and borderline serious. As serious as one can be in this state. “Drunk confession time.”
“It was you who swapped out Whitney’s sunblock for mayo before she went on spring break,” I joke, knowing that she had nothing to do with that prank on her younger sister.
“No!” She shakes her head, giggling. “I?—”
She’s cut off by the opening notes to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and I know that whatever was so important a second ago no longer matters. More importantly, that is also my cue to leave.
Dolly shrieks, letting go of me, throwing her arms up and starting to dance. I laugh, backing away—along with every other guy out here—letting her sing along and dance with the other ladies currently losing their mind to the classic.
Wandering back over to our spot, I catch our waitress, ordering another round of drinks—this time a water for me and another margarita for Dolly—and plant myself in the chair, giving myself a good view of her out on the dance floor letting loose. She looks happy, relaxed, and like herself.
The song ends and she bounds back over long enough to grab her drink and take it back out to the floor with her, continuing to dance with another pair of women who look to be about our age. Part of me thinks I should go back out there and join her. Go cut loose or whatever. But then I think better of it. Because sitting here, I have the most perfect view of a curvy blonde with a dangerous set of hips and breasts that steal the show, filling out a lilac sundress like she’s being paid to do so.
Eat your heart out, Jeff. You don’t know what you’re missing…
“Hux!”
“Dolly,” I greet her in return, smiling like I won the lottery as she sashays toward me.
I expect her to sit back down in the chair she was in earlier, exhausted from all her dancing, but she doesn’t. She walks right past it, over to me.
Climbing into my lap, she lifts one leg over, straddling me. The move is so quick, even as clumsy as it is in her drunken state, it takes a minute for it to register. Shifting, she drags her center along the front of my shorts, my dick reacting instantly.
Holy fuck…
So much for that semi. I’m fully hard in the blink of an eye. And I have no fucking right to be. This is Dolly. My best friend. No. Just no.
“Hux…” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my neck, pressing her forehead to mine.
“Doll…” I groan. I mean for it to be a warning, but it doesn’t come out that way.
Because this can’t happen. I can’t kiss my best friend. Not in this state. Not ever.
But especially not drunk. Not right after she’s been left at the altar.
“Whatcha doin’, Doll?” I ask, trying to control the situation. I grab ahold of her hips, telling myself that it’s so I can keep her steady, stop her from grinding anymore in my lap and finding out exactly what my body is doing in response to her being in this position.
“It’s sun…whatever…” she says, partially slurring the words. “So, I…maybe…”
Leaning in, she presses her lips to mine. The angle is weird at first, but she shifts, again dragging herself against my dick, the mix of salt and sweet from her drink finding my tongue. Or maybe that’s her. That perfect mixture of the two is what Dolly tastes like.
Fuuuuuck…
Her lips are soft, light, and leave me wanting more. So much more. It would be so easy to kiss her back. To run my hands up her legs, under this sundress, feel the smoothness of her skin, and grab her ass. To have my way with her.
But I can’t.
She’s drunk and heartbroken. And I won’t do that. Won’t be that guy. I refuse to be something she regrets.
Pulling back, I gasp, trying to catch my breath, knowing that I need to find the perfect words. But there are none.
“Dolly…” I start.
But that’s all I can say before the rejection takes over. Dolly’s face falls, her body hunching, fingers flying up to her lips, tracing along them. The hurt is written all over her face, stabbing me straight in the heart.
I did that. I hurt her. And if it’s possible, she looks more hurt than she did on her wedding day.
Fuck.
“I think it’s time to get you back to the hotel.”