CHAPTER 28
SHERIDAN
I’m aware that all the girls are already here at The Pink Skunk, and that Brin and I are late. I’m aware that while Brin eagerly leaps from the car to join in the birthday festivities, I linger behind to give Myles a kiss goodbye and a promise to text him when we’re ready to go home. I’m aware of my sweaty palms at the thought of going into this bar and sitting in a crowded space for an unforeseeable number of hours.
I am not aware, however, that all the girls—with the exception of Brin, of course—are watching us with slack jaws until I turn around and find them all gawping at me like a school of fish.
I turn a look over my shoulder in case they’re actually looking at something else and I’m being self-conscious, but the street is practically empty save for Myles’s car. He pips his horn with a wave and cruises away. I’m not ashamed to say I already miss him.
“Was that Myles?” Bailey demands.
Ah, right. I clear my throat. “Er, yeah.”
“Did you just kiss him?” Gemma asks, horrified.
“Yep.”
“Are you together?” Emma follows up.
“Considering I’m not one to usually go around kissing my brothers’ friends, I’m gonna go with yes to that, too.”
Brin sniggers, squeezing my arm.
“Damn,” Brandy, Bailey’s older sister whistles appreciatively, “well done, Sheridan.”
“I told you he was fit,” Bailey says to her sister under her breath.
I give Brandy a blushing smile, whilst being reminded just how gorgeous she is. She’s tall, made taller yet by knee high stiletto boots, with glossy dark hair that falls straight down her back to her waist, deep brown eyes and an olive complexion. She’s beautiful in a sharp and striking kind of way—she always has a male’s attention whether she wants it or not, and right now, with her suede mini skirt and halter top, that is every man in the near vicinity.
Brin and I used to go for sleepovers with Gemma at Bailey’s house all through school, and when we were younger Brandy would often bring her own friends, too. Then, as we got older, she started going out instead. Being three years older than us, staying in with your younger sister’s friends probably wasn’t seen as very cool. Amongst all this, the Scott sisters’ parents seemed to develop an alcohol addiction around the time we started high school, and sleepovers became few and far between.
Bailey and Brandy don’t talk about their parents much anymore.
I hand Bailey her birthday present and give her a hug. “Happy Birthday, Bay.”
“Thanks, chica.” She grins, hooking her arm through mine. “Tell me how this thing with Myles happened, then.”
With a small sigh, I reluctantly explain how Myles and I came together. Bailey is suitably scandalised and delighted by the tale of our sofa sex, appalled by the lost phone number, and swooning when I recall how he showed up on my doorstep with flowers. I admit to her I’ve been somewhat romanced by him these past weeks, and she seems genuinely happy for me.
We snatch a table towards the back and decide to take it in turns to do the rounds at the bar. Brin and Brandy go first, returning with a tray of multi-coloured shots and an assortment of fruity cocktails. We cheers to the birthday girl with a shot each and down it in one. Mine tastes like sour apples and regret. I chase it with a second one, if only to curb my anxiety at being in such a packed bar.
It’s rowdy and full of large groups of men—stag dos, I assume. I’m hoping if I drink enough my nerves will ease up. This is supposed to be my ‘soft launch’ into busy social scenes before Myles and I venture out to London in a couple of weeks for the Toonies. I’m still terrified by that.
While we each drink our first round, we catch up on each other’s love lives—Bailey is seeing some middle-aged solicitor she claims is the best sex of her life. I’m just secretly glad it’s not Beau. Brandy is still with the sexy goalie from the Crusaders team; Gemma is suspiciously coy about her relationship status; Emma is single, along with Brin. When all eyes land back on me, I politely ask them to keep the news regarding my relationship with Myles to themselves until I manage to speak to my brothers. I do not need one of them accidentally spilling it to them that I’ve been having fantastic sex with their best friend.
“Fantastic, aye?” Bailey nudges my side with a smirk.
“If you heard what I can hear on a nightly basis, you would only assume it’s fantastic,” Brin grumbles.
“Or she’s just a really good actress,” Gemma says, voice void of much emotion.
I try not to roll my eyes at her. “If I had to fake an orgasm, I wouldn’t be sleeping with him.”
“Amen, sister.” Brandy lifts her glass in a mock toast.
“Lots of people fake orgasms,” Gemma retorts in an oddly defensive tone.
“Well, I don’t,” I snap. “I don’t want a partner I’m not sexually compatible with.”
“I once slept with a guy who had two kinks in his dick,” Bailey admits, I’m assuming to diffuse the tension between Gemma and I.
I nearly spit my drink out. “Jesus, Bailey.”
“What? I did.” She shrugs.
“Did you have to fake your way through it?” Brin asks, darting a cautious look at Gemma.
“Well, yeah. It was uncomfortable to be honest, and he was trying too hard.”
Brandy snorts. “Ew. The only time I’ve ever faked it was when some guy asked me to role play with him.”
“What was the scenario?” Emma asks, leaning forward.
“He wanted me to be an alien, which could’ve worked if he hadn’t been so…technical.”
I burst out laughing. “Wow.”
“Yeah, his vocabulary was super specific, and while I’m not opposed to a hot nerd or dressing up in silver PVC and deely-boppers, it turned me off a bit. Like, yes, please use dirty science puns, but don’t mansplain protons and neutrons to me.”
I am fully cackling at this point. Looks like the sour apple shots are doing their job.
* * *
I think I’ve reached Raving Lunatic territory on the Drunk Scale. I can’t remember the last time I was this drunk. I feel like I’ve been taken out of my body and thrust into the ether that is the sticky dance floor of this shitty bar. I didn’t drink this much on our little summer holiday, so that is saying something.
I can’t remember why I’m here. I can’t remember why I was using alcohol as a crutch. I’m not sure I can even remember my own name.
Shirley? No, that’s my mum.
Sh…antelle? That doesn’t sound right, either.
Sh… Siobhan? Nope. Not Irish.
Huh. Oh well. I’m sure it’ll come to me.
I’ve been throwing myself around the dance floor for an indeterminate amount of time. The girls have come and gone intermittently, whether for a bathroom break or to rehydrate, but I haven’t left since the DJ played Chaka Khan. I’ve become that person who screams when I like a song that comes on.
We’ve hit that run of songs club DJs always play that are slower, more sensual. All of a sudden everyone around me is in a couple. Bailey is grinding her arse against a man’s crotch who looks twice our age, and it’s not the solicitor she showed us a picture of earlier. Emma is playing tonsil tennis with a pretty woman with an afro and ebony skin, and I am flooded with love for her in a way that is a little more than just familial.
I am crowded from behind by a solid chest, and for a short, blissful second, I’m reminded of blond hair, honey eyes and a bear tattoo.
Hands find my hips, and I just know it’s not him. Engulfed in the scent of cheap cologne mixed with sweat and stale beer, I know this is not my man. My Myles.
I don’t have time to lecture this stranger on touching things that don’t belong to him.
“Sheridan!”
Right, that’s my name.
Brinsley is by our table waving me over.
I smack the man’s hands away and throw him a dirty glare before sauntering back to the table.
Taken away from the bubble of the dance floor, I realise how unsteady I am on my feet, and how blurry my vision is. This, for some reason, makes me start to giggle. And then I’m laughing uncontrollably.
Brin just shakes her head with a fond smile and hands me my bag and coat.
“Is Myles here?” I ask, like a lovesick idiot.
“Five minutes. We just need to say bye.”
We make the rounds quickly. Even as inebriated as I am, I’m astute enough to recognise that Brin is eager to leave, and I relate to the feeling so much I’m not going to let her suffer.
Myles pulls up just as we’re exiting the bar and seeing him so relaxed at a late hour like he is—in jogging bottoms and a fleece, hair mussed and a little greasy—something wicked and wonderful expands in my chest.
He leans over and pushes the passenger door open for me. Brin slides into the back seat, and I settle into the front.
“Hi!” I say brightly, grinning like it’s the best day of my life.
“Hi,” Myles greets around a chuckle. “Did you have fun?”
“I think Sheridan had more fun than the birthday girl,” Brin says.
“I drank a lot,” I admit, positively beaming.
“No, really?” Myles jokes, and I smack his arm. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
I babble the whole way home, about how grumpy Gemma is, about how pretty Brandy is, about the music, and the dancing. Brin occasionally chips in and Myles plays the good sport and asks questions he deems relevant.
I love that about him—my attentive listener.
His hand is on my bare thigh and I’m trying my best not to think about how much I like it. Occasionally he squeezes it, and it reawakens the familiar fire in my belly. I try not to think about how I want him to slip it a little higher, under the fabric of my skirt and into my knickers.
When we get home, Brin yawns her way around a goodnight and heads to bed.
I am still a stumbling mess when the bedroom door closes behind us.
Myles produces a glass of water and a paracetamol when I collapse onto the edge of the bed. When he got them, I have no idea, but I’m so grateful for his foresight because I would not have even thought about it. I pop the tablet in my mouth and wash it down with the water, then finish it off. He takes the glass off me and places it out of reach, which is probably sensible, and I’m not offended by it.
I clumsily pull off my shoes one by one and toss them at my open wardrobe. Then, when trying to undress, I get stuck in my shirt.
“Myles,” I whimper.
He snickers, but when he reaches me, his touch is warm and attentive. Once we’ve manoeuvred me out of it, I’m met with the sight of his bare chest. Without much thought—none at all, actually—I start tracing the lines of his tattoos, starting with the bear on his abdomen.
His breathing is even, and he smells like pine and chamomile. He is steady, sturdy, constant, consistent. He is both equally, I think, what I want and what I need.
And I think I might have fallen in love with him.
“Myles,” I say, completely paralytic and unfiltered, “I think I’m in love with you.”
He pinches my chin and lifts it to meet his gaze. With all the confidence in the world, he replies, “That’s interesting, Birdie, because I think I’m in love with you, too.”