Are you around tonight? —C
A vein started to throb in the middle of his forehead. Probably from the sun.
He tossed aside his phone, scrubbing at the itch on the back of his neck. He’d answer the message later. Or he wouldn’t. There was something about the steady stream of hook-up calls that almost . . . panicked him lately. Had there always been so many?
Fox made no excuses for liking sex. The buildup and release of it. That race at the end when he didn’t have to think, his body just doing the job.
Fox’s phone dinged with another text message—not totally unusual for a Sunday, since his weekends were usually reserved for women, although his phone saw the most traffic on Friday nights. Lately he’d been going so far as to throw the goddamn thing into the refrigerator so he wouldn’t have to hear or see any of the incoming messages. When was the last time he even answered one of them? Or left Westport to hook up?
You know exactly how long it has been.
After Hannah left last summer, he’d gone to Seattle. Once. Determined to rip out the twinge she’d left in his chest, the constant barrage of images of their days together.
He’d brought someone out for a drink, literally sweating over how shitty he’d felt the whole time, unable to focus on a single word she’d said or their surroundings. When the tab arrived, he’d dropped a fistful of cash on the bar, made an excuse, and bounced, the roiling in his stomach only settling when he’d pulled over to text Hannah.
Sanders cracked a can of Coke open to Fox’s right.
“You going to answer those booty calls, man?” The deckhand took a gulping pull of his drink, balancing it on the edge of the boat. “How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if you’re not even living?”
“Oh, I’m going to call them back.” Fox flashed a smile that made the throb in his head worsen. “Maybe all of them at once.”
Sanders’s guffaw ran circles around the harbor.
On cue, Fox’s phone started ringing again.
He yanked once, twice at the leather cuff around his wrist.
“Answer,” Sanders said casually, tipping his head at the device. “We’re almost done here.”
In a high-pressure job full of ball-breaking adrenaline seekers, showing weakness was a bad idea, unless he wanted even more mockery. “You just want to listen in and steal my moves.”
“You don’t need moves, pretty boy. You just show up and take your pick. Me? I’ve got a face like a fucking walrus. I need moves.” Sanders drained the rest of his soda in disgust. “I suffered through that live-action Cats movie last night trying to score points with the wife. One fart—one—and I lost all my progress.”
Fox bit back a smile. “No luck, huh?”
“Had to sleep on the couch,” grumbled the deckhand.
“Don’t take it so hard, man.” Fox shivered, despite the heat. “That movie could dry up the Pacific.”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about Judi Dench . . .” Sanders mused.
Fox’s phone beeped with another text, and he seriously considered throwing the damn thing in the ocean. He didn’t even bother checking the name this time. He wouldn’t be able to remember her face and that only made the taste in his mouth worse.
“What are you doing here? Playing hard to get?” Sanders chuckled, prodding Fox in the gut with an elbow. “That would be a first.”
“Yeah.” Fox laughed, his gaze straying back to where the movie was filming, finding Hannah in the group, surprised to find her looking back at him over her shoulder, her lip caught between her teeth. Thoughtful.
He saluted her.
She sent him back a half smile.
“Yeah . . .” Sanders was still going. “You’ve never been one to play hard to get. Remember senior year? Almost didn’t graduate because you spent so much time getting busy in the parking lot.”
Fox tore his eyes quickly off Hannah, feeling guilty for even looking at her while having this discussion. “Hey.” He shrugged. “I still think it should have earned me extra credit toward my physical education grade.”
Sanders laughed and went back to work.
So did Fox, but his movements weren’t as fluid, cranks turning on either side of his forehead. Eventually he found himself braced on the edge of the boat, seeking out Hannah once again, watching as she talked to a sharp brunette. He could tell by Hannah’s body language that something was off. Wrong.
Was that the soundtrack lady?
Had the songs come back for Hannah?
He could have asked her about it this morning instead of trying to divert her focus from his insecurities to something he was not insecure over in the slightest—sex. Too late for regrets now. Too late to worry about how his best friend would react if he knew Fox had talked to Piper’s little sister about jacking off while he was wearing nothing but briefs and a smile.