12. Luke
12
LUKE
I gave Emory Caldwell an orgasm. I never thought I would utter those words, but here we are. And it wasn’t just any orgasm. It was a screaming, legs-shaking, inability-to-walk one. Do I regret it? Not even a little bit. Yet, I can’t help the guilt that creeps into my gut uninvited when I think of Nate. I meant what I said—Emory is an adult. She’s the only one who decides what she does with her body, and Nate needs to back the fuck off. But he’s my best friend, and it feels wrong to sneak around behind his back. I should tell him. Not the gritty details, of course. Not how she was so turned on, she gushed on my fingers. Not how she whimpered against my hand while I held it against her mouth. Not how she whined when I slowed down. And definitely not how she shattered around my tongue and fingers when she finally came.
Great, now I’m hard again. It took all of two strokes for me to come— hard —when I got back to my room last night. She would have “returned the favor,” but as much as I wanted that, I turned her down. My dick didn’t quite understand at the time, but there was something in her eyes that made me think that she was offering because she felt like she had to. That shit didn’t sit right with me. I was the one who offered to help her sleep, and I honestly didn’t expect anything in return. I just wanted to make her feel good. Not to mention that was the first time anyone had ever tasted that sweet, perfect little pussy. What kind of losers has she dated in the past? Although, I can’t say my inner caveman didn’t love that I was the first guy to make her scream with my tongue.
Yeah, definitely not telling Nate any of that. But I should tell him something happened between us and just get it over with. Take my beating like a man. The problem is it’s going to be worse than just a beating. He’ll make me move out and never let me talk to Emory again. He might even stop speaking to me altogether. I get where he is coming from in a way. I don’t have a sister, and I have to think I would be protective of her too, but Nate’s behavior is excessive.
No, I shouldn't tell him. I need to see where this is going first.
As I fantasize about everything I want to do to Emory, I hear footsteps coming from the guest room. She left for work early, her car gone from her driveway by the time I woke up. It must be Allie. Sure enough, a grumpy, dark-haired, spectacled girl comes around the corner looking like the real-life version of that zombie cartoon my little cousins like to watch.
“Coffee?” I ask, hoping a peace offering might keep her grumpiness at bay.
She doesn’t respond with words, but she nods.
“How do you take it?”
“Creamer,” she groans and sounds like a zombie, as well.
I grab some creamer from the fridge, put a splash in a mug of coffee, and hand it to her. She downs it like she’s chugging beer at a frat party, then holds it out and says, “More."
I fill it again with coffee and another splash of creamer. This time, she sips it a little slower. As she starts to come back to life, her scowl slowly turns into a knowing grin.
Shit, she knows.
“Was the bed okay? Did you sleep well?” I ask, attempting to steer her away from whatever she is about to say.
“Did y ou?” she shoots back.
Yep, I walked right into that one.
We dance around the obvious for a bit, then she says she's going to check on the house. I've never felt such relief. I'm open about sex and usually don't mind discussing it, but it's weird that Emory's best friend knows what happened last night, and I'm not talking to her until I've had a chance to talk to Emory about it first.
Everything dried out nicely in Emory's kitchen, but some of the wood floor panels suffered water damage. As I survey the kitchen, Allie mentions that there are spare panels stored in the shed from the renovation, so I decide to replace them. I give the guys a heads-up that they're on their own today, as we only have to finish a kitchen backsplash, which I'm sure they can manage without me. Marco even volunteers to pick up the drying equipment before heading to the job site.
With the fans cleared out, I start prying up the old floorboards. Flooring was one of the first home renovation projects I learned from my dad. Our old Emberfield house needed a lot of work, so he renovated it bit by bit. Even though I was just fourteen, he wanted me to learn some basic home improvement skills.
It hasn’t escaped me that it’s been weeks since I moved back, and I haven’t seen him yet. He’s still in an inpatient program at the hospital. The same one Emory works at. I’m glad she works in the ER and most likely wouldn’t have any reason to go to the psych floor. I don’t want to go there with her yet. Nate is the only person I’ve ever told about my dad. It’s not that I’m embarrassed, but it’s complicated.
Mom told me Dad is doing a ten-week program to get all his meds adjusted before he's discharged. She said the group and private therapy are helping too. I know I should visit him. I know I should see him. It makes me feel guilty and like a piece of shit son, but somehow, that's still not enough to make me go. I'm running his business, which has to count for something. Besides my dislike of hospitals, our last meeting didn't end well, so I'll keep doing my part from a distance. For now.
It's almost noon when a light thud startles me, and I see a water bottle lying near where I'm working on the floor. I look up to see Allie standing there, holding a plate with a sandwich on it. She slowly crouches down and sets the plate beside the water bottle. Then she looks me straight in the eye and says, “If you break her heart, I'll cut off your dick and bury it where nobody will ever find it.” This is the second time this chick has threatened my manhood. I've said it before, and I'll say it again—Lord help the person who ends up in a relationship with Allie Montgomery.
“Noted,” I say before taking a long swig of water. “Thanks for this,” I gesture to the sandwich.
“Thanks for fixing the floor,” she replies curtly, then turns on her heel and strides out of the room.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and inspect the sandwich. She wouldn’t have poisoned it, right? She said if I broke Emory’s heart. Which I haven’t. And I don’t plan on it. If anyone’s heart is getting broken, it will most likely be mine. Which is insane because I can’t even think of a time when I’ve had actual feelings for someone outside of sex. Emory and I haven’t even had sex, and I’m already falling for her. Jesus, what is wrong with me?
I decide to push aside the fact that I just admitted that little truth to myself and take a bite of the sandwich—and what kind of sorcery is this? This is hands down the best sandwich I've had in my entire life. It has perfectly seasoned grilled chicken with roasted tomatoes and pesto. Is that a hint of rosemary in there? I devour the whole thing in about two minutes. Okay, maybe Allie's future partner won't have it that bad after all.
Having satisfied my hunger and thirst, I return to work, hoping to finish the floor before Emory gets home so she can have a clear kitchen without my tools scattered everywhere.
Then I get an idea. Maybe I can prove to her that I meant what I said last night. I want her—all of her, not just her body. I have no idea how she feels about that, but I’m going to find out.