Asa
“Damn, Ace. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this.” Jessie grins, clapping me on my shoulder and squeezing. “’Preciate you coming out with me tonight.”
I shake my head, signaling to Tracy, one of the regular bartenders at The Hammerhead, our local—hell, only—bar. I circle a finger over our beers, ordering another round. Tracy tips her chin up, acknowledging me before finishing pulling a draft for another customer.
I snort, lifting my beer bottle and draining the last of the alcohol. “Yeah, well, you know I’ll always make time for you in my jam-packed schedule. Right between a paint job and an alignment.”
Jessie laughs, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. I’m not into men, but looking at my best friend, I get why women lose their damn minds over him. He’s maintained his quarterback physique—wide-shouldered, slim-hipped, with not an ounce of fat on him—and with his close-cropped, dark-blond hair and pretty-boy face, he’s as popular and in demand now as he was while playing for the Rams during his five-year career. Now, instead of throwing balls on Sunday mornings or Monday nights, he could be found on ESPN as a sportscaster. He’d coasted the transition from player to journalist with an ease that defined Jessie. Determination. Focus. And a charm that could make him a douche if it wasn’t so genuine.
Sometimes, I catch myself envying him. Part of me can’t help but imagine sitting beside him at that roundtable, commentating and discussing the sport we both love. Or better yet, playing on the field together, wide receiver to his quarterback. After all, the dream had been to play side-by-side in the league. But only one of us had made that fantasy a reality. I’m happy for him, for his career and success both on and off the field. But yeah… I can’t help but think of the what-ifs…
Tracy sets down our cold, fresh bottles in front of us with a wink. Though she’s only a few years older than our twenty-nine, she’s been a staple in the bar as long as we’ve been coming here. She and her twin sister took over the place from their father about three years back, and with live music on the weekend, a separate section for pool, and Hump Day half-price drinks, they’ve really turned around a bar that had been one more police visit and condom machine away from being a dive.
“Here you go, guys.” Stacking her crossed arms on the bar top, she leans forward, pinning me with a teasing, narrowed glare. “Asa, why is it that I only see you in here when this one,” she jerks her chin in Jessie’s direction, “deigns to come down from Bristol to visit us peons? I’m starting to get offended.” The smile flirting with the corner of her mouth belies her words, but I can’t deny the truth of her accusation.
Between Rose, the regular responsibilities of the shop, and steadily building our clientele for the restoration side of the garage, I don’t have much free time.
“Deigns to come down?” Jessie repeats, chuckling. “Now you’re making me sound like a douche.”
She shrugs a slim shoulder. “If the canoe fits…”
I snicker, trading the empty out for the new beer and taking a long sip. “No worries, man,” I say, slapping him on the back of the shoulder with my free hand. “Us peons are the forgiving sort. It’s our peasant stock.”
“Fuck you.” He grins, shaking his head.
Laughing, Tracy slaps the bar top. “Just holler if you need anything else,” she tosses at us, before striding away to help another customer.
“Is it me, or does she just get sexier every time we come in here?” he muses, staring after the slender woman.
With her sleek, dark hair cut into an asymmetrical bob that brushes her shoulders, gleaming, mahogany skin bared by a black tank top with the bar’s logo stretched across her generous breasts, and tight jeans that hug her rounded hips, yeah, she’s hot as hell.
But she does nothing for me. Because apparently my cock prefers petite women with tight, gravity-defying curls, curves that would make a racetrack groan in jealousy, and eyes the color of freshly minted pennies.
No, not women. Woman. One.
India.
Fuck. My fingers tighten around my beer, and I lift it for another deep swallow. But the cold, yeasty alcohol hitting my gut can’t extinguish the heat simmering in my veins. Still, thinking about my best friend’s ex while sitting right damn next to him is bad form. Hell, it’s lunacy.
Especially since Jessie isn’t over India.
Yes, it’s been two years and by no means has he been a monk, but Jessie hasn’t been in a serious relationship since India walked away from him. And then there’d been the time I’d flown out to Connecticut to visit him for a weekend. After drinking a little too much, he’d confessed his love for her and how he fucked up the best thing in his life, and he wished he could go back and undo the past. It’d been so goddamn hard sitting there, listening to him pouring his heart out about her, all the while knowing I’d kissed her. I’d touched her. I knew with startling and vivid clarity that she tasted like the freshest water and the dirtiest sex.
I have no business possessing that knowledge. And the fact that I did made me the shittiest friend. The shittiest person.
“So, what’s up with you?” Jessie twists on the stool, propping an arm on the bar. He studies me, wearing a small half smile. “I talked with your mom. Right after I thanked her for keeping Rose for the night so we could have this,” he waved his arm out, encompassing the bar, “she told me about my little niece getting in trouble in school. Apparently, she slapped the shit out of a little girl?”
Panic explodes in my chest like an atom bomb, mushrooming to fill my rib cage, my throat, my gut. Had Mom mentioned India? Did Jessie suspect that I was lying to him, even if by omission?
“Jess…” I murmur.
“She also told me what the girl said to her. Now, other than the field, you know I don’t advocate violence, but…” He smirks. “Between me, you, and this beer, that girl had it coming.”
Relief crashes over me, and if I wasn’t sitting, my ass would be hitting the floor. He doesn’t know. For some reason, Mom neglected to tell him about India’s position at the school. Maybe because she thought I had, or she just didn’t want to bring up the hurtful past with Jessie—whatever. I’m just so damn thankful.
Snapping right at the heels of that gratitude, though, is shame. I’m a coward. Since I walked into the school’s office for that meeting and came face-to-face with India, I’ve talked with Jessie a handful of times. And each time, I convinced myself I would tell him about India being back in town. And each time I dug up an excuse to put it off. He’s about to go on air. I can’t distract him now. Or, he sounds so happy, just like his old self. I can’t bring her up and take that away from him. Or, he’s in Connecticut. There isn’t shit he can do about it, so why hurt him with this news?
Yeah, I’m so damn thoughtful. I’m also the king of excuses. And when it comes down to it? A chicken shit.