The Friend Zone Page 10
I snort. “Are you trying to ask about my sex life, Cupcake?”
It’s cute the way his nose wrinkles. “Please tell me I’m wrong in thinking you haven’t had sex in all this time.”
“You’re not wrong, Gray.”
The room goes silent as he gapes at me.
Annoyance crawls along my skin. “God. Your expression. You look like I’m in danger of damaging my vagina.”
“Not damaging it, but maybe depressing it. This revelation sure as hell is depressing my dick.” He visibly shudders.
I throw a napkin at him and it skims his head, making his hair stick up. “For Pete’s sake, Gray, it’s no big deal. I’m not suffering. Or,” I talk over him because his mouth opens to make another protest, “abstaining because of some greater purpose. I’m not waiting for a husband, or afraid of dick, or whatever. It just is what it is. I’ve been busy with school and—”
“No one is too busy for sex, Mac.”
“Oh, please, I’m only twenty-two. I’ve fooled around with guys, done plenty of things to satisfy me just fine. I just haven’t got to the point of having sex again. And, anyway, five years isn’t that long…”
“It’s long enough. What are you waiting for? Your lady-parts to go on strike and completely shut down? I’ve heard it happens.”
His scoffing hurts. Everything hurts suddenly, as if he’s ripped off a bandage and taken a good chunk of skin with it.
“So you’re saying I ought to go out there”—I wave a hand toward the door—“right now and find a guy to fuck before my lady-parts stop working? You know, you’re right. That’s a brilliant idea.”
At this, Gray’s brows rise as his lips part. “What? No, I’m not telling you to go fuck someone right now.” He actually looks appalled. “Just that—”
“That what?” I snap, leaning forward. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m a sorry sack for not having had endless sex all this time.”
Gray’s massive hands slap the table between us. “I’m just saying that sex is awesome, so excuse me if I’m shocked that you’re going without it. If it were up to me, I’d do it ten times a day.”
And I can picture it, Gray screwing an endless parade of girls. “Tell me something this entire town doesn’t know, Gray.” As soon as the words lash out of my mouth, horror floods me. The feeling grows when Gray’s head snaps back as if I’ve slapped him, his skin leaching of color.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he whispers.
But we both know. A sick lurch goes through my stomach, and I stand, my chair scraping across the floor. “I shouldn’t have said that.” I run my hand over my eyes as I back away. “I have to go.”
Gray stands as well, his face a mask of outrage and hurt. “Go? It’s your fucking house. Where the fuck are you going?”
I’m already halfway out of the kitchen, headed for the hall. “I’ve got to get some air, okay?” I’m losing control, a rarity. And one I avoid because I usually say something I later regret.
“Ivy,” Gray shouts.
“Just lock up behind you.”
“Fuck this.” Gray’s snarl is the only warning I get before his hand wraps around my arm. He’s angry. Clearly hurt too. Yet when he spins me around, his touch is careful, as if he absolutely knows his own strength and will never use it against me.
“What the fuck, Ivy?” His blue eyes are denim dark beneath the slashes of his brows. “You just say that shit and then walk out on me?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, the back of my throat prickling. “I have to… Shit. I’m judging you, Gray. And I don’t want to do that.”
His grip tightens. “So don’t.”
“I can’t help it. And what the hell? You’re judging too.”
His lips purse but he doesn’t let go. “Because it’s stupid, you not having sex. Stupid to make it more than it needs to be.”
“I can’t be like you, like my dad. I can’t treat sex like it’s nothing—”
“Not nothing,” he interjects, his brows still furrowed. “Just not some holy event that you need to send out invitations to. It can be simple, you know. Dirty, hot fucking.”
Hearing Gray’s deep, creamy voice say those words is not what I need right now. Not when they lick along the back of my neck and cause a hot little shiver to break out over my skin. I ignore the sensation in favor of anger. It’s easier than useless longing.
“It’s always ‘fucking’ to you. A basic act, like getting a bite to eat or playing football—”
“Now, that I resent,” he says with a bit of levity. “Football is a holy act.”
“Right.” I wrench out of his grip. “Football means more to you than being intimate with someone.” He snorts, his eyes rolling at the term intimate as if it’s a joke, and I poke his rock-hard chest with my finger. “Right there. That disdain. What’s wrong with intimacy? What’s wrong with treating the act as something more? You’re taking all the beauty out of it. All the meaning.”
“And right there is your problem,” Gray snaps, his own long finger poking back at my shoulder. “You’re building it up so high in your mind that any guy who dares try with you is doomed to fail under the weight of your expectations.”
“Of all the asinine, ridiculous…” I lean in, my breath coming in hard pants as I struggle not to wring his thick neck. “You dare to lecture me on wanting more? Why should I listen to you, of all people?” A dark flush works over his face, and I know I should stop, I know I’m being unfair, but I’ve snapped. “You, who lets a skanky stripper suck you off while your friends watch, and then laughs about it afterward. Ever heard of VD? You can get that from oral, you know.”
“Stop,” he whispers, his eyes going glassy.
But I can’t. Ugliness is a river pouring out of me. I think of my dad cheating on my mom, of how I felt tonight, watching those girls hang on Gray. “Maybe you don’t care who it is you fuck. But I’m not like that. I need more. And if you can’t understand that, well…tough shit!”
He lashes out, grabbing my upper arms and hauling me into his chest. Strong arms wrap around me, as my nose crushes into the hard swell of his pecs. He squeezes me as if he needs to contain my words, my judgment.
“Stop it, Ivy,” he says, loud, desperate. “Please. Please, I can’t fight with you.” His voice is broken now. “Not you.”
The full impact of what I’ve said to him hits me. Horror, thick and dark, rushes up my throat on a strangled cry. “Oh God, Gray.” I wrap my arms around his waist and hold onto to him. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He’s stroking my head, as though I deserve comfort. I want to crawl into a hole and stay there.
“I didn’t mean it, Gray.” I shiver, burrowing closer, my fingers digging into the loose fall of his T-shirt. “I hate myself.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not too happy with you, or me, right now either.” Gray sighs, his hold becoming more secure. A soft touch on the top of my head, a gentle kiss. “But it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe in the clean, comforting scent of Gray. “You’re my friend, and I hurt you. I never want to do that.”
Standing as we are, not an inch of space between us, I notice the warmth of his body, the utter strength of it. When he holds me, I’m safe, enveloped.
“It’s over.” His lips press into my temple. “And I’m sorry too. I was being an asshole, getting on you for stupid shit.”
We’re quiet then until Gray sighs, easing impossibly closer, his big hand slowly stroking up and down my spine. Comfort. That’s what he’s seeking. But I’m no longer thinking of comfort because awareness has set in, of his tight abdomen against mine, the bulge of his cock nestled against my sex. He isn’t hard, but it’s there, obvious and substantial, causing me to think about things that should never enter my head.
Deep within my belly, I clench, heat whispering over my skin. I want to melt into him, stay there all day. I want to open my legs, have hi
m fill that lonely space in between them. If I tilt my chin, my lips will brush the satiny curve where his neck meets his shoulder. I want to lick that spot, taste it and bite it. I don’t want to think of other girls doing the same.
My heart stops. All my anger—the vicious words I’d said—is fueled by jealousy. I am jealous of those faceless, nameless women.
Shame is a lump in my throat, the pricking burn behind my lids. I lashed out because of jealousy, and it’s so wrong of me. I’m so fucking screwed, and I don’t know what to say to make it right. “Gray…”
“I don’t want you to have sex like I’ve been doing it, Ivy,” he says with sudden heat. “It ought to mean something. For you. It ought to be good like that.”
My heart hurts at the hollowness in his voice, and I spread my hand against his lower ribs, holding him. “Why can’t it be like that for you too? Why the endless hook ups?”
Because we’re so close, I feel the tension snake up his back. “It just…” He swallows hard. “I guess I keep waiting for the one who will make me want to stop.”
“Stop having sex?” I’m chilled to the bone, my heart thudding against my ribs. And I’m such a hypocrite because the thought of him not wanting to have sex again is horrific.
My hair musses as he shakes his head. “Stop moving on to the next girl.” His chest expands on a breath. “Ivy, I love women, and I love sex. But you’re right. It doesn’t mean anything to me other than quick pleasure. I don’t care who it is. I don’t remember their names. Shit, I am as bad as you said.”
He sounds so despondent that I give him a squeeze. “No, Gray. Please don’t say that. Can we just… I wish I could take back our fight.”
Slowly, he eases away from me, though his arms remain loosely wrapped around my shoulders. It takes us both a moment to meet each other’s eyes. It’s awkward, and his expression is twisted as though he’s tasted something foul. My fault. But he forces a smile. “Hey, we’re good.” He pats my hair with a clumsiness unlike him, his thumb hitting my cheekbone and nearly poking me in the eye. “It wouldn’t be normal if we never fought.”
Wincing a bit, I grasp his forearms and hold on. Because I can’t keep my hands off him, apparently. “This is true.”
Gray studies me, his blue gaze unnerving. The air between us is too thick, and I can’t breathe properly. A crease grows between his brows, as if he can see my guilt and the fact that I am fighting not to rise up on my toes and press my mouth to his soft lips. Fuck. A. Duck.
God help me if he really knew what I was thinking. He’d probably run out the door. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. No, he presses his forehead to mine, cupping my cheeks in his massive palms. It warms me all over.
“I’m going to go now,” he tells me after a moment. “Gotta get up early for a hell practice.”
“Okay.”
But he doesn’t go. He seems closer, his breath mingling with mine, brushing over my parted lips. It’s too quiet. His fingers twitch, gripping me harder. And then he lets go so abruptly that I almost stumble. Gray’s smile is wide, maybe too wide. He’s backing up, maneuvering around a chair.
“Night, Special Sauce.”
I give him a smile back. False. Strained. Fucked up. That’s me, Fucked-up Ivy. “Night, Cupcake.”
Ten
Gray
For the first time in our relationship, I’ve outright lied to Ivy. Okay, it’s a small lie but a lie nonetheless. I don’t have early practice. I just had to get away from her. Fast. She hurt me. Not when she’d told me the truth of how she saw me. Hell, I know what I am. No, it was the pity in her expression, as if my inability to find any meaning in sex made me pathetic.
Now I’m vacillating between outrage and pain. Sex is sex. Fuck if I should be ashamed of having as much of it as I want. But then there’s this pain, right behind my sternum. Because she’s brought up things that I don’t ever like to think about. Such as why I can’t find meaning in the act. But I know, don’t I? And that knowledge is a scab that I don’t want to pick at.
Only she’s already picked it, and now I’m slowly bleeding. I know Ivy’s sorry she hurt me. It doesn’t matter. The cat’s out of the bag. And I can’t stop thinking: Am I really living for the moment, or am I running away from reality?
But even that isn’t the real reason I escaped Ivy. It was because for one blind second, I’d been about to say the stupidest thing I could. Make me stop, Ivy. Be the one who makes it all stop.
I have the feeling that she could. I’d stood there, aching and hating that we were snapping at each other, and all I wanted to do was kiss her, explore the gentle curve of her lower lip before sucking on it. And Ivy would have flipped out. Because friends do not maul other friends’ mouths.
I’m in uncharted territory here. Usually, when attraction hits, I’d make a move. Or the lady in question would. But now? I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.
“Shit.” I pick up the pace and head into the team’s gym. I could work out at home—and, God, I need to do something to ease this twitchy feeling—but I don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s late so I have a good chance of being alone here.
Gyms stink of bleach, lingering sweat and funk, of steel weights and rubber matting, and I love that. It’s familiar as home to me now. I hustle past the locker rooms, ready to hit the treadmill, when I see them.
It’s a small movement out of the corner of my eye, nothing I’d notice if I wasn’t alone at night in a supposedly abandoned gym. I know Rolondo so well by now that I recognize him almost instantly. He’s leaning against one of the shower walls, a towel wrapped around his waist, his torso still wet.
But it’s the guy next to him who catches my attention. Many scenarios could explain what I’m seeing, but the way the guy leans into ’Londo, half his body blocking my view, and the expression on my friend’s face, tight and miserable, gives me pause. And as if someone’s snapped their fingers in front of my eyes, I get it.
Understanding hits me the exact moment Rolondo notices me. He stiffens, standing tall, his shoulders straightening as if bracing for a fight. The guy next to him, a big black dude who looks like he’d be at home on the field with us, turns and glances as me. Fear widens his eyes for a second before he narrows them and glares at me, then ’Londo.
Without a word, he pushes off from the wall with one hand and stalks past me, his shoulder almost brushing my own.
I’m left alone with Rolondo who stares back at me. I suppose the knowledge is there in my eyes; I’m not really trying to hide it. That won’t help anymore. But it breaks something between us. I see the moment he decides I’m now the enemy because I know his secret.
He makes a noise of defiance and strolls my way, heading for his locker. He doesn’t look at me when he passes, but his muscles twitch and his walk is awkward. Hell. I can leave now, not say a word, but I don’t.
“Whatever the fuck you think you saw,” he says as he grabs his boxers, “you’re wrong, G.”
Weariness has me rubbing my face before I move to the bench and sit on it. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” Rolondo snaps, “I know so.” Already he’s raging, ready to attack at the smallest provocation.
Bracing my forearms on my knees, I stare at the waffle-weave pattern on the rubber floor matting. “Is this going to become a problem for us?”
He pauses, one leg in his sweats, the other out, before he continues dressing. “You gonna make it one?”
“Look, I can pretend, and that would probably make things seem easier for you.”
He snorts, shoving his feet into his shoes without tying them, like he’s racing to escape.
“But in the long run, it won’t,” I finish.
“I swear to God…” Rolondo holds up his hands and his arms shake. “If you start in on some white-boy, let’s-talk-about-our-feelings bullshit—”
“Sit down, ’Londo.”
When he grabs his bag and makes a move to go, my voice, hard and loud, echoes in the room. “Sit. Down.”
Scowling and muttering under his breath, Rolondo drops onto the bench next to me. “What, then?”
I almost smile at his petulant tone, only this night has officially gone to shit and I just want it all to end. My fingers lace as I sit there. “In high school, I had this friend, Jason. He played receiver. He…ah…” A lump fills my throat and I have to clear it. “Sophomore year he tried to hang himself.”
Utter silence expands between us. Until I clear my throat again.
“He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t face his dad, his team, thinking they’d reject him because he was gay.” My hands clench. “I was his friend. I suspected. But I never asked. I didn’t want to upset him. But I knew he was troubled about something.”
Rolondo’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”
I risk a glance, find he’s gone ashy gray. My eyes burn. It hurts thinking of Jason. “I want to be clear. Do not think for a second that I’d turn my back on you, think of you any differently. And do not even imagine that I’d tell anyone. That’s your business.”
He glances away, then nods. Once. Sharp. And I breathe a little easier. But I don’t say anything more, knowing that he’ll talk when and if he wants. We sit together for a full two minutes before he finally decides to talk. “It’s wearing on me. Hiding. Pretending to be something I’m not.”
“I feel you.”
Rolondo laughs low and without humor. “Not hardly, G. I’m a southern, black man who plays football.” He licks his lower lip in agitation. “Hell, my mama is already bugging me about when is she gonna get some grandbabies? What do you think she’d say about this?”
We both deflate a little and stare at the floor in silence.
“That guy…” I glance toward the showers where I’d found them. “You love him?”