The last three months had been spent in a haze of sun, parties, swimming, and drinking more than I should have. Now I found myself lazily swimming at the Old Grourer swimming hole. The place had been teeming with classmates only hours before, but now it was only Meg and me.
My badass best friend made it her mission in life to be the last one to leave anything. She’d punch you in the face if you dared call her a wimp. She spent her time combating people’s tendencies to underestimate her.
Her fiery personality was what had me on edge because I knew she’d be pissed if she found out what I had been up to the last two weeks when I wasn’t spending time with her.
Kyle knew. He had given me a pained look, patting my back and muttered, “It’s your funeral, dude.”Webber was never much help when it came to navigating female waters.
Meg was going to be angry. Probably more than a little ragey.
But she’d forgive me. She always did. We’d been friends since the womb. She had told me once I could murder someone and she’d help me bury the body.
I was banking that carte blanche in the mercy department extended to dating Chelsea Sloane.
I still couldn’t quite believe that I was currently engaged in a hot and heavy down-low relationship with Miss Popular herself. I thought the drunken make-out session at Lance Ridgeway’s party two weeks ago was a one-time thing. I had always thought she was good looking, even if she was a total bitch. There wasn’t a guy in our school that hadn’t jerked off to the image of Chelsea naked.
I just never thought there was anything more to her than a great pair of legs.
But I had gotten to know a different side of Chelsea over the last fourteen days. She wasn’t all bad. She swore that a lot of the stuff between her and Meg was simply misunderstandings. She was emphatic that she never made up the nicknames that had haunted my friend for years, that it was all Josie and that she had stupidly gone along with it.
And I believed her. She seemed so upset to learn that Meg didn’t like her. She said she wanted to be her friend. Maybe this was the chance for the two of them to get over their crap and, if not become friends, at least learn to co-exist.
Things with Chelsea had progressed quicker than I meant them to. Every evening after dropping Meg off at home, I’d head to Chelsea’s. She’d lead me to the pool house in her back yard, and we’d spend the next few hours making out. It had progressed rapidly from tongues and hands to clothes being removed and her mouth around my dick.
Then last night, one thing led to another, and we had sex. It was my first time, and I was pretty sure I was terrible. But Chelsea seemed to enjoy herself, and I found myself wanting to do it again. In fact, now that’s all I could think about.
So why was I feeling so damn guilty?
Because of the girl grinning at me from atop the rock right before she cannonballed into the water. She bobbed to the surface, hair slicked back from her face, and my chest squeezed tight.
I was with Chelsea. I wanted to be with Chelsea. I liked having sex with Chelsea. A lot.
Meg would understand.
We were friends first and foremost. There was no way she’d hate me forever. Sure, she’d be angry at first. But I’d just explain myself. Tell her how much I cared about Chelsea. She’d get over it.
Right?
Meg splashed me with water, and I accidentally swallowed a mouthful.
“Ugh, gross, Galloway. You’re going to pay for that.” I lunged for her, and she squealed, swimming away. I reached out and grabbed hold of her ankle and yanked her toward me. I wrapped my hands around her waist and hauled her up against me, pinning her arms to her side.
“Take a deep breath,” I warned before pulling both of us under the water. When we broke the surface, she sputtered, and I laughed at the annoyance on her face.
It was then that I realized I still had my arms wrapped around her. Her thin, lithe body was pressed up against mine. I could feel every inch of her. Her breasts pressed against my chest. Her face, angled up to look at me, her green eyes flashing. We were both breathing heavily, and I couldn’t help the way my eyes dropped to her lips. They were slightly parted, and I wondered, not for the first time, how her mouth would taste.
I had kissed her once, and I knew by the look in her eyes at the time that she thought it was a mistake. We pretended it never happened. I had swallowed the feelings I had developed for my best friend years ago, convinced she would never, ever feel the same way I did. And I was confident I was right.