Chapter 8 Friends With Bennies
Friends With Bennies
Harlee
I’m not drunk.
I mean, technically, I had wine. And technically, I also laughed too loud at a man’s joke and let him feed me a piece of sushi like we were in a soft-launch montage.
But what’s buzzing under my skin right now has nothing to do with alcohol.
August drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh like it belongs there. The city slides past the windows in glossy streaks, streetlights turning his profile into a moving photo: sharp jaw, messy waves, those stupid-lush lashes that make me mad on principle.
He glances over. “You okay?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I feel… feral.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a new one.”
“It’s not cute,” I warn, but my voice comes out breathy, like a confession.
“Didn’t say it was cute.” His thumb makes a slow circle on my leg and my whole body does that thing where it forgets how to be civilized. “Just asked if you were okay.”
I look out the window so he can’t see my face. The problem is, I can still feel him looking at me.
We stop at a light. The car goes quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the bass of whatever he has playing soft on the speakers. August shifts in his seat like he’s holding himself back from doing something reckless.
Me too.
“Where are we going?” I ask, even though my body already knows the answer.
He exhales, long and controlled. “Where you tell me.”
My laugh is small. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re giving me the remote to your whole life.”
His eyes flick to mine, steady. “I’m giving you the remote to this moment.” Then he looks back at the road. “You call it.”
The light changes. He doesn’t move right away. Just waits, patient, like he’s building a fence around my choice so I can’t blame him later.
I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.
But I’ve spent the last ten weeks collecting disappointments like Pokémon.
Credit audits. Rejections. A practicum scandal that dragged my graduation out like it was punishment.
I was fourteen credits from being done. Now I’m staring at twenty-four like a prison sentence, and my dad is not paying for the extra year.
I am tired of being good for everybody except myself.
So I lift my chin, even with my pulse trying to escape my body. “Take me to your place.”
His grip tightens on the wheel. “Harlee—”
“I’m sure,” I cut in, because if I let him talk, I will talk myself out of this. “And if I change my mind, I’ll say so.”
He studies me for half a second like he’s memorizing the look on my face. Then he nods once. “Okay.”
The word lands heavy. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just… careful.
Like he’s taking me seriously.
We turn off onto a quieter stretch and the city shifts. Less campus. More glass. More tall buildings with lobbies that look like they smell expensive without anybody ever saying the price out loud.
August pulls into an underground garage, taps a black card at a reader, and the gate opens like it recognizes him. Of course it does.
He parks. The engine shuts off. The silence after is loud.
August gets out first, comes around, and opens my door. When he holds his hand out, I take it. The garage air is cool enough to raise goosebumps on my arms.
“Home,” he says when I ask where we are, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
We ride an elevator that doesn’t have buttons. The kind that feels like it’s judging my immersive debt aura.
The female voice announces, “Forty-fourth floor,” and my stomach flips.
When the doors open, the hallway is quiet in that rich-people way, like even the air knows to keep its voice down. August’s hand rests at my lower back, gentle pressure guiding me forward. He swipes his card at a lock. The door opens without a sound.
Lights fade up automatically as we step inside.
I stop in the entryway and just… stare.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Sleek kitchen. Clean lines. Art on the walls that looks curated, not random. The whole place feels like a man who’s used to being in control.
“Holy shit, Batman” I whisper before I can censor myself.
August’s smile is soft, like he expected this. “Welcome.”
“Wait,” I murmur. “You live here?”
August's lips curve into a teasing smirk. “Most of the time.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, but before I can get the words out, he spins me into him.
My body presses against his, the heat of him seeping through my clothes.
His large hands slide down to cup my ass, giving it a gentle squeeze that sends a jolt of electricity up my spine before he releases me.
As if sensing my nosiness, the shades glide upward, revealing Chicago spread out beneath us. Navy Pier in the distance. The lake like a dark sheet of glass.
I walk closer to the windows, my palms hovering near the glass without touching. The view is ridiculous.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks from the kitchen. “Wine, beer—”
“Beer,” I say fast. “If I have more wine, I’m going to start telling you my childhood trauma.”
His laugh is low and warm. “Noted.”
He pours me a beer in a chilled glass like I’m a person who drinks beer in glasses and not straight out the bottle at a backyard cookout.
I take it anyway. Because I’m trying to act like I belong in this moment.
I drift toward the art while he leans on the island with his own drink. “Did you take these?”
“Some,” he says. “Some are from friends.”
My eyes snag on one photo in color. A starburst. Bright and violent and gorgeous.
“This one,” I murmur, stepping closer. “It looks like… chaos with a plan.”
August comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel his heat but not so close it’s a trap. “Exactly why I like it.”
I glance back at him. “You like chaos?”
“I like honesty,” he corrects. Then, after a beat: “And I like when you notice details.”
That sentence should not feel like a compliment that goes somewhere deep. But it does. It lands in the part of me that’s been fighting to be seen as more than a résumé and a problem to solve.
Music shifts behind us. Nina Simone’s voice slides into the room, smooth and commanding, the kind of voice that doesn’t ask permission to take up space.
I exhale a laugh under my breath. “Of course you have Nina queued.”
August hums like he’s pleased with himself. “You said you liked her.”
“I did not say you had to remember it,” I mumble, but my mouth betrays me with a smile.
He steps beside me, not crowding, just… present. His gaze drifts from the photograph back to me like he’s connecting dots he’s been collecting all night.
“Ven,” he says quietly.
I blink. “What?”
He holds out his hand, palm up. Simple. Patient. Like it’s no big deal.
“Baila conmigo,” he adds, voice warm. “Just one song.”
I stare at his hand like it’s a math problem with feelings.
“I don’t dance,” I say automatically, because I’m consistent if nothing else.
August’s mouth curves. “That’s not true. You just don’t let people lead.”
“Mm. That sounded like a read.”
“It’s an observation,” he says, and there it is again, that steadiness. Not cocky. Not pushy. Like he already knows I’m going to take his hand, he’s just giving me room to decide it.
I sigh, dramatic on purpose. “If you spin me into a wall, I’m suing.”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Lo prometo. No walls.”
I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he guides me away from the art wall toward the open space by the windows. The city glitters behind him, but my attention gets stuck on the way his shoulders settle, like dancing is a language he speaks without translating.
“You know,” I say, already bracing, “if a samba comes on, I’m leaving immediately.”
August lets out a soft laugh, low in his chest. “No samba, princesa.”
“What is it then?”
He steps closer, hand sliding to my waist with a gentleness that still makes my breath hitch. “Bachata.”
I blink again. “Is that… fast?”
His smile turns into a slow, knowing thing. “Not how I dance it.”
Before I can overthink, he positions me. One hand at my waist, the other holding mine. He doesn’t yank me in. He invites me in, shifting his weight like he’s showing me the answer key with his body.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Suave. Follow me.”
I scoff, but it comes out weak. “You’re acting like this is a physics lesson.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Everything is physics.”
“Oh my God.”
He chuckles and starts moving, small steps at first. Side to side. Close enough that my hip brushes his. Then closer, because of course it gets closer.
My body adjusts before my brain can protest, like it recognizes the rhythm and decides to cooperate without consulting my pride.
“Okay,” I admit reluctantly. “This is… not terrible.”
“No es terrible,” he echoes, and his Spanish sounds like honey and trouble at the same time. “You’re doing good.”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t patronize me.”
He leans in, mouth near my ear, voice dropping. “I’m not. You’re listening. That’s why you’re good.”
The beat rolls through the room, Nina’s voice smooth as velvet, and August’s hand at my waist becomes the only anchor I want. We sway, slow and steady, the city lights watching like nosy neighbors with binoculars.
I become painfully aware of how close we are. How his thigh slides between mine on the next step. How my breath catches when he guides me into a small turn and pulls me back in, chest to chest, like he’s done it a thousand times and still treats it like it matters.
“August,” I whisper, warning and want tangled together.
He makes a sound that says he’s holding himself back on purpose. “Sí?”
I swallow. My voice goes softer. “This feels like you’re… trying to get me in trouble.”
His mouth brushes my temple, barely there. “You came here, princesa.”
Fair.
The sway shifts again. His hand presses a little firmer at my waist, just enough that my body responds without permission. Our hips meet, slow grind, not frantic, just inevitable. Heat spreads low in my belly like a match catching.