Chapter 21 #2
He’s stepped in the muck and can’t find his footing.
“You’re right. This is about him,” he says finally.
“In what way?” I whisper.
He hesitates again.
Always with the hesitation.
“He’s competitive,” Declan says carefully. “You know that.”
Big deal.
“So are you. So is Dad. So are all your friends.”
“He’s competitive in a different way.”
“In what way?” My pulse is pounding in my ears now. Nothing he’s telling me is making sense—he’s talking in circles.
Declan presses his lips together. “Sometimes pride makes people stupid.”
I stare at him.
“And you think Aaron is stupid?”
“I think men don’t separate their ego from other things.”
Other things? What on earth is he talking about? All he’s doing is giving me vague warnings and cryptic nonsense, and it’s wearing thin on my nerves.
“Why would I care if he has an ego?” I fire back. “I was literally raised in a house with you.”
He drags a hand over his face again, then settles his hat back on his head, bending the brim like he needs something to do with himself. “Jules. He and I—”
“Don’t get along?” I cut in. “That sounds like a you problem. Stop projecting.” My pulse is pounding now. “Why does everything have to be about you? Why can’t you be happy for me?”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, then stops himself.
“Either tell me what he did,” I say, standing up, packing up my laptop and charger, “or stop trying to warn me off him with zero information.”
“Jules—”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Nope, you don’t get to plant seeds of doubt and supply no information.”
His expression hardens, then softens again. “I don’t trust him.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t.”
I give a short, humorless laugh. “Not good enough.”
For a moment we stare at one another like we did when we were kids, staring contest activated, before I break first, slinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder.
“I like him,” I say again, slower this time. Clearer. “He makes me feel good. He makes me feel confident. So, until you give me an actual reason not to, I’m not blowing up the start of something great because you feel like throwing your weight around.”
I don’t wait for him to respond.
I turn and walk out before he can say a single word.
My hands are shaking by the time I hit the sidewalk, and it takes several moments to compose myself. I suck in a breath. Then another. Cold air fills my lungs, burning on the way down.
I hate that I’m crying.
Hate that I’m having doubts.
It takes a full minute before I can trust myself to reach for my phone.
Tap out a text to the first person that pops into my mind—for the first time, that person is not Blaire.
Juliette: I just walked out on my brother and I wish so much that you didn’t have a game tonight because I could use a hug.
It takes him several minutes to reply.
Aaron: What happened?
Juliette: He was being a jerk. Declan decided to interrogate me about you over coffee—apparently you’re too competitive and I should be careful.
Aaron: I’m sorry he put you in that position.
My heart softens.
Aaron: You don’t deserve to feel questioned for who you choose to spend time with.
God.
Juliette: Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.
Another instant reply.
Aaron: You okay?
The concern in two simple words makes my throat tighten.
I smile despite my somber mood.
Juliette: I’m fine. Annoyed.
Juliette: He wouldn’t come out and say what the problem was but I gathered… he thinks you have some kind of master plan. Which is ABSURD. LOL
There’s another long pause.
Did I insult him? Did that sound like I agreed?
Aaron: He said that?? To your FACE?
Juliette: He did. And it made me feel like shit, and now I’m crying. UGH!!! Blah, I hate this. I need you to make me feel better.
Three dots come and go.
Aaron: A night of cuddles after the game is what the doctor ordered.
I smile again, pleased, the warm fuzzies settling into my gut, replacing the icky feelings my brother had given me.
Juliette: Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor Bishop?
Aaron: I’m writing a prescription of that thing I do with my tongue…
Heat floods my face so fast I have to stop walking.
Aaron: I’ll be remembering your moans tonight when I’m slamming someone into the boards.
I exhale slowly, pulse racing when another text comes through.
Juliette: I was mad enough to cry in public five minutes ago.
Aaron: And now?
I hesitate.
Juliette: Now I’m thinking about your giant hands.
Aaron: Which part of your body do you want them on tonight when I see you?
Juliette: All over
Aaron: Nope. You have to be specific
Juliette: My boobs.
Aaron: Love those
Aaron: Where else?
Juliette: Between my thighs…
Aaron: What about my mouth?
Juliette: Don’t start.
Aaron: Do you know how much I love it that you’re so prissy on the outside—and yet I’ve had you on top, fucking me, that dirty little mouth of yours…
Juliette: I do NOT have a dirty mouth.
Aaron: No, but sometimes I wish you did LOL
How do I interpret that?
Juliette: What does that mean?
Aaron: Nothing, babe ;)
Juliette: Does that entail my mouth SAYING dirty things, or DOING dirty things?
Aaron: Yes to all the above.
Oh.
Oh…
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, flipping to the rideshare app to request a ride, lifting one hand to my face to check the heat of my cheeks.
Flaming hot.
Is he talking about… blow jobs?
Like, he wants me to suck his dick?
The rideshare pulls up before I can spiral any further. I slide into the backseat and immediately stare out the window like I’m contemplating major life decisions instead of replaying Aaron’s text over and over and over again.
Your mouth doing dirty things…
By the time we hit downtown, my brain has run through every possible interpretation.
Innocent.
Flirty.
Filthy.
* * *
I make a beeline for my cubicle, wasting no time before powering up my laptop and FaceTiming Blaire.
“Of course he wants you to suck his dick,” she announces with authority, hair in a claw clip, oversized blue light glasses sliding down her nose, clearly working from home. “What hot-blooded man doesn’t want his pole waxed?”
“Lower your voice!” I hiss.
“Relax,” she deadpans. “No one can hear me.”
“I just—” I glance around even though no one is paying attention, my heart racing. “He didn’t say it outright.”
“He doesn’t have to,” she replies. “Men are not complicated.”
I sink back in my chair. “That feels like an oversimplification.”
“Fine.” She sighs dramatically. “Smoking hot, confident professional athlete hints about your dirty mouth and you’re confused about what he means?”
When she puts it like that…
I drop my face into the palm of my hands. “This is a nightmare.”
Blaire bursts out laughing and takes a long, obnoxious chug from her giant pink water bottle. “It’s really very simple.”
I peek at her through my fingers. “Maybe for you. But I’ve never…”
She freezes mid-sip. Slowly lowers the bottle. “You’ve never what?”
I groan. “Please don’t make me say it.”
“Juliette Kennedy. How did I not know this? How have I known you for over a decade and did not know you’ve never had your mouth on a man’s junk?”
“Because you say things like ‘man’s junk’!”
Blaire laughs. “So, you’ve never done it. This isn’t the end of the world. Plenty of women would never.”
I push out an embarrassed laugh.
“And by the way—if you don’t want to blow him, Juliette, then you don’t. You do not owe this man anything.”
“I know.”
She studies me through the screen. “But do you want to?”
“Yes?” I whisper. “Yes.”
Blaire lets out a low whistle. “Well, well, well. Look at you, baby girl wants to give a blowie.”
“Stop.”
“I’m saying—if you want to, that’s hot. If you don’t, that’s also hot. But don’t do it because you think you’re supposed to.”
My phone buzzes on my desk.
Aaron.
Of course it is.
Aaron: You went quiet.
Aaron: Did I scare you off?
I stare at the screen, debating my reply. Do I say something daring and dirty or change the subject?
Shit.
“Is that him? Did he text you? I heard buzzing,” Blaire asks, immediately sensing the spiral. “What did he say?”
“He asked if he scared me off.”
“If you want this man obsessed, say something ballsy.”
My blood pressure skyrockets at the thought.
“This is what you text him.” She hums, deep in thought. “‘I don’t scare easily. I was imagining what you’d feel like in my mouth.’”
My eyes widen. “Absolutely not!”
“Absolutely yes.”
I type it.
Delete it.
“Oh my god,” Blaire groans. “Watching this is painful.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. And you should. Spice this shit up!”
She’s right.
Which is the worst part.
I type again before I lose my courage.
Juliette: You didn’t scare me. I was picturing what you’d feel like in my mouth.
I hit send before I can overthink it, internally screaming when the message whooshes into cyber space.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…
“I can’t believe I sent that!” I want to die.
Blaire is practically vibrating from the desk in her office. “Congratulations. You have officially entered your sexy era.”
My phone buzzes again.
Aaron: Christ.
Aaron: You have no idea what that does to me.
My entire body goes molten. Goo.
Hot.
Blaire claps. “Read it out loud to me—read it to me now.”
I read her the text messages, and Blaire beams back at me through the screen, as if I were a toddler who’d gone potty on the toilet and she is so, so proud of me.
BIG GIRL!
Good job!
“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“That’s sexual evolution, babe. When are you seeing him again?” she demands, mapping out a battle plan in that brain of hers.
“He mentioned tonight,” I admit. “After the game.”
“Oh.” She hums again. “Why don’t we go to the game?”
“We?”
“Yes, we.” She gestures between us like it’s obvious. “I can come with you so you’re not there alone.”
I don’t hate the idea.
She raises one brow while I hesitate. “Tell me you don’t want to watch him sweat through three periods…”
“I want to watch him sweat through three periods.”
Blaire nods. “Then it’s settled. Girl’s night at the hockey game.”