Asa
“Ms. Colleen, I haven’t had food like that since…” Jessie leans back in his chair and shrugs, grinning. “Well, since the last time I was here and you cooked for me. Thank you. No one spoils me like you do.”
“Go on, boy.” Mom picks up his plate, lightly slapping him in the shoulder with her free hand. “I’m not believing that charm or that smile. I’ve seen both on TV. And besides, I bet you say pretty much the same to your own ma.”
I snort. She might claim not to believe him, but her red-stained cheeks are declaring something else. As if she can read my thoughts, she glares at me, bumping my shoulder as she grabs my plate, too.
“Now, you know my mother doesn’t cook, Ms. Colleen.” Jessie laughs. He shakes his head. “She can organize the hell out of a garden party, though.”
“Well, we all have our talents. Don’t go getting on your ma like that. How is she, by the way?” my mom asks, pausing at the dining room door.
Jessie shrugs again, his grin dimming just a bit, though his voice remains as upbeat as before. “She’s fine. Staying busy with the beginning of the holiday season. It means more benefits, social events, and galas, and social events and galas to support the benefits. Anything as an excuse for her and Dad not to spend time in each other’s company, but continue to stay married.”
And that doesn’t come across as bitter at all.
Mom tries to cover her wince, but doesn’t quite achieve it. As long as Jessie and I have been friends, we’ve been aware of his less than… ideal home life. Yes, he grew up in a two-parent home where he wanted for nothing, every need met even before he asked for it. But there were certain things missing in his house that I had in spades, in spite of growing up with a single mom, where making ends meet was akin to an Olympic sport. I had love. Affection. Acceptance. When Jessie had loaned me the money to open up my shop, we’d argued about me paying back; he hadn’t wanted my money. According to him, Mona and Mom and I opening our home to him had been a gift he would always be grateful for.
So many people looked at him, the great Jessie Reynolds, with his high-class, wealthy, educated background, his illustrious football career, his current great sportscaster job… they looked at him and only saw who and what they wanted to perceive. Surface. A handsome successful, golden boy, who couldn’t seem to do any wrong. But they didn’t see the lonely, emotionally and often physically abandoned boy and man, who replaced feelings with things, with accomplishments. The man who fucked up because happy scared the shit out of him. The man who sought to do better, to be better for those who loved him, more than for himself.
“I love you, you knucklehead,” Mom says, then pushes through the swinging dining room door.
His smile, this time, warms and is more genuine.
“She likes me more than you.” He waves a hand in the direction Mom just disappeared.
“Probably.” I lift my coffee cup, sip. “Shit. Definitely.”
He laughs and picks up his own mug and takes a sip. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he sighs and jerks his chin up. “Hey, I could’ve used a wingman last night. Where’d you disappear to?”
I freeze. Guilt and fear curdle in my gut like spoiled milk.
Guilt, because memories of exactly where I spent last night flash across my mind. With those images, lust licks at the underside of my skin, pumps through my veins. But I don’t need those visions to still feel the vise grip of India’s too tight, soaking wet, and goddamn perfect pussy on my cock. To inhale her jasmine, fresh rain, and hot sex scent off her skin. To hear those breathy moans and throaty whimpers that signal her pleasure and need. I don’t require reminders of any of that, because they’re all emblazoned on my mind. And that only deepens the guilt.
Fear, because I’m afraid my betrayal is stamped on my face in permanent ink, easy for him to read. I feel like it is. Hell, when he showed up on Mom’s doorstep for the breakfast we prearranged, I longed to duck my head, terrified he’d take one look at me and know. Know that I’d crossed a line in our friendship.
“Nothing,” I say, shocked the answer emerges steady, normal. “I just went home. It was a long day.” Fuck. I’m just digging a fucking deeper hole by lying to my best friend. “Why? What did you need a wingman for?”
His mouth twists into a rueful smile. “To keep me from drinking just enough to do something incredibly stupid, like find out India’s address and go over there and beg her to give me another chance.”
The bottom of my stomach plummets into a free fall. Holy shit. If he’d done that…
“Looks like you didn’t need my help after all,” I manage, taking another sip of coffee to do something with my hands and wet my suddenly arid throat. “What’d you end up doing?”
That smile hardens into something harder, though the regret lingers. “Not what. Who.”
I stare at him, blink. Blink again. Because surely… Slowly, I lower my cup to the table.
“Excuse me? You fucked someone last night?”
“Can you please—” He throws a look over his shoulder toward the dining room door. "—keep your voice down? And yeah. Tracy. From the bar.” He scrubs his hand over his hair again and heaves a hard breath. “After you left, I stayed and had a few more drinks and we ended up talking. A lot. I hung around ‘til closing and followed her home.”
I can’t stop staring at him. My thoughts tumble in my head like a big-ass jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Shock has me by the throat, threatening to choke me out.
But even at the frozen edges of it flickers the red flames of anger.
Is he fucking kidding me?
“Let me get this straight,” I say, leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Last night, you see India for the first time in two years. The first time after you fucked up by falling on your dick into another woman.”