Hooking Up
Page 7
I watch what was supposed to be my future fall to his knees, hands cupping his face, and I wonder if his physical pain can in any way match my emotional agony. I don’t think it’s possible.
Four: Fuck You, Motherfucker
Lexington
The first hit sends a shock of pain through my fist and up my arm. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight. It feels unbelievably good to make Armstrong suffer in some way, even if it’s only temporary. When he drops to his knees, cupping his face, I make a grab for his lapels to haul him back up.
“You stupid fuck.” Before I can plant another fist in his face, one that will inevitably result in the necessity for some serious plastic surgery, I’m yanked back.
“Get a handle on yourself,” my brother Bane barks.
Armstrong is carried back into the hotel through the door he just came out of by a couple of his douche friends, screaming his stupid head off while I fight my brother’s hold. It’s pointless. He might be two years younger than I am, but he played professional rugby for seven years and he’s massive. Once the witnesses are gone he spins me around and shoves me, setting me off balance. I land on my ass on the asphalt and then he’s on top of me, his knee pressing into my chest.
“What the—”
He shifts his weight, his knee perilously close to my throat, significantly decreasing my air supply. “You wanna tell me what the hell you were doing?”
“What? I—” I have no clue what he saw, but I’m assuming it doesn’t look good from his point of view.
“Don’t bullshit me. I saw you, Lex. I fucking saw you. You were on her.”
“Get off and let me explain.” I punch him in the side of the leg. I could go for his knee, the one he’s had surgery on, but I don’t want to actually hurt him. I just want his weight off my chest.
He pushes to his feet, then holds out a hand as if he’s going to help me up. I slap it away and roll to the side. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. I’m still pretty drunk and now I’m winded.
Gripping the back of his neck, he paces the lot. “You better not’ve had a hand in what when down tonight.”
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks, Lex? Your date blows the groom. You end up in the bridal suite, on top of the mostly naked, crying bride. Look at you.” He gestures to my attire.
My belt is still half-undone, my shirt untucked, my tie hanging askew. I can see his point. “I wouldn’t try to sabotage a goddamn wedding to get back at Armstrong for being a cocksucker, Bane.”
“You sure about that? You and Armstrong have a long history of fucking with each other.”
“I would never do something like that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? ’Cause as long as I’ve known you, it’s been exactly like that.”
He has a point. Armstrong and I have spent a lot of time screwing each other over since we were teens. When we were kids he was my best friend. He was like another brother—my mother called us Mischief and Malice. I was Mischief, and I didn’t really understand the negative connotations of Malice until I was older. Where I was the kid who lit the firecrackers in a backyard that wasn’t mine, Armstrong was the one who would aim them toward the house instead of away from it. When we got into trouble my mom would gently remind me that I knew better. So my role had been to channel that side into harmless competitions, practical jokes that didn’t damage property or other people.
I seemed to be able to manage him until we got older and that malicious side of Armstrong began to appear more often. Practical jokes gone wrong turned into the occasional fistfight. But then, that’s just how we dealt with things. He’d push buttons and I’d push back.
We were fourteen when things changed. Suddenly my best friend became my worst enemy. The harmless competition became vicious. After that I saw a side of Armstrong that I hadn’t realized existed, and for a while I was convinced I was the one who brought that horrible part of him to the surface.
Our competitive ball-busting turned into an epic, almost lethal clusterfuck after a dare went too far.
I came away with scars and he came out with a bruised ego. Blame was thrown around by my aunt, and after that the healthy competitive edge we had had turned into malicious backbiting.
For a while I tried to smooth things over. But it was clear that it wasn’t going to work. It became his mission to screw with me. If I was involved in a sport or a club or anything, so was he. Whatever I was good at, he wanted to be better and if he couldn’t be, he’d find a way to sabotage me. The competition between us seeped into every single part of our lives, from sports to school to girls.
Sometimes I just took it, but when he’d take it too far I’d retaliate in kind. He’d come back at me and do something worse. I could deal with it when it didn’t involve other people, but Armstrong’s vindictiveness wasn’t containable, and he’d hurt people in his mission to sabotage me. I’d feel guilt over whoever was caught up in the crossfire, because I made him into this. I pushed a button back when we were kids and fucked him up. So I’d given up years ago on making amends.
Except last year it wasn’t just Armstrong being a dick. It was more than that. I saw Amalie first at that party. He couldn’t have cared less who she was until he overheard me asking about her. I tried to remedy it by introducing myself and offering to get her a drink when I noticed hers was empty. Before I could make a move, in he swooped with his bullshit lines and his pearly white smile. I figured it wouldn’t last long. His relationships never did.
Neither did mine, usually thanks to him, but that wasn’t the point.
Getting back at him wasn’t worth it, not if it put someone else’s emotions at risk.
I blow out a breath, aware our history and tonight’s setup make this look exactly like I was trying to mess with him. “Whatever you think happened, it didn’t.”
Bane remains skeptical. “Enlighten me, then.”
“I told Brittany I was going to the bathroom. You know what she’s like, that chick just talks nonstop about nothing. I couldn’t take it. I sure as hell wasn’t drunk enough to manage listening to her for the rest of the night, so I took a breather.”
“In the bridal suite?”
“Yeah, man. Best hiding spot in the damn place. The bride shouldn’t have been in there at all. I was just going to use the bathroom and take a twenty-minute timeout before I headed back. That way I could miss most of the speeches, but when I came out of the bathroom there was Amalie, hacking her dress apart, freaking the fuck out.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you ended up on top of her on the floor.”
“Like I said. She was freaking out. She came at me with a pair of gardening shears. I wasn’t sure if she’d lost her mind or what. Then she told me she was going to fuck me, like revenge on Armstrong for my date blowing him or whatever, and she pulled some ninja move and we ended up on the floor. I said no. She’s feisty though. And strong.”
Bane’s glare tells me he’s unimpressed. “That’s your story?”
“It’s not a story, it’s the damn truth. I’m not an idiot, Bane. I wouldn’t screw a jilted bride. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not someone who’s already been hurt.” It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to have sex with her. Amalie in that lingerie, all pissed off and desperate? I was serious when I told her I would regret saying no forever.
Four: Fuck You, Motherfucker
Lexington
The first hit sends a shock of pain through my fist and up my arm. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a fight. It feels unbelievably good to make Armstrong suffer in some way, even if it’s only temporary. When he drops to his knees, cupping his face, I make a grab for his lapels to haul him back up.
“You stupid fuck.” Before I can plant another fist in his face, one that will inevitably result in the necessity for some serious plastic surgery, I’m yanked back.
“Get a handle on yourself,” my brother Bane barks.
Armstrong is carried back into the hotel through the door he just came out of by a couple of his douche friends, screaming his stupid head off while I fight my brother’s hold. It’s pointless. He might be two years younger than I am, but he played professional rugby for seven years and he’s massive. Once the witnesses are gone he spins me around and shoves me, setting me off balance. I land on my ass on the asphalt and then he’s on top of me, his knee pressing into my chest.
“What the—”
He shifts his weight, his knee perilously close to my throat, significantly decreasing my air supply. “You wanna tell me what the hell you were doing?”
“What? I—” I have no clue what he saw, but I’m assuming it doesn’t look good from his point of view.
“Don’t bullshit me. I saw you, Lex. I fucking saw you. You were on her.”
“Get off and let me explain.” I punch him in the side of the leg. I could go for his knee, the one he’s had surgery on, but I don’t want to actually hurt him. I just want his weight off my chest.
He pushes to his feet, then holds out a hand as if he’s going to help me up. I slap it away and roll to the side. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. I’m still pretty drunk and now I’m winded.
Gripping the back of his neck, he paces the lot. “You better not’ve had a hand in what when down tonight.”
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks, Lex? Your date blows the groom. You end up in the bridal suite, on top of the mostly naked, crying bride. Look at you.” He gestures to my attire.
My belt is still half-undone, my shirt untucked, my tie hanging askew. I can see his point. “I wouldn’t try to sabotage a goddamn wedding to get back at Armstrong for being a cocksucker, Bane.”
“You sure about that? You and Armstrong have a long history of fucking with each other.”
“I would never do something like that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? ’Cause as long as I’ve known you, it’s been exactly like that.”
He has a point. Armstrong and I have spent a lot of time screwing each other over since we were teens. When we were kids he was my best friend. He was like another brother—my mother called us Mischief and Malice. I was Mischief, and I didn’t really understand the negative connotations of Malice until I was older. Where I was the kid who lit the firecrackers in a backyard that wasn’t mine, Armstrong was the one who would aim them toward the house instead of away from it. When we got into trouble my mom would gently remind me that I knew better. So my role had been to channel that side into harmless competitions, practical jokes that didn’t damage property or other people.
I seemed to be able to manage him until we got older and that malicious side of Armstrong began to appear more often. Practical jokes gone wrong turned into the occasional fistfight. But then, that’s just how we dealt with things. He’d push buttons and I’d push back.
We were fourteen when things changed. Suddenly my best friend became my worst enemy. The harmless competition became vicious. After that I saw a side of Armstrong that I hadn’t realized existed, and for a while I was convinced I was the one who brought that horrible part of him to the surface.
Our competitive ball-busting turned into an epic, almost lethal clusterfuck after a dare went too far.
I came away with scars and he came out with a bruised ego. Blame was thrown around by my aunt, and after that the healthy competitive edge we had had turned into malicious backbiting.
For a while I tried to smooth things over. But it was clear that it wasn’t going to work. It became his mission to screw with me. If I was involved in a sport or a club or anything, so was he. Whatever I was good at, he wanted to be better and if he couldn’t be, he’d find a way to sabotage me. The competition between us seeped into every single part of our lives, from sports to school to girls.
Sometimes I just took it, but when he’d take it too far I’d retaliate in kind. He’d come back at me and do something worse. I could deal with it when it didn’t involve other people, but Armstrong’s vindictiveness wasn’t containable, and he’d hurt people in his mission to sabotage me. I’d feel guilt over whoever was caught up in the crossfire, because I made him into this. I pushed a button back when we were kids and fucked him up. So I’d given up years ago on making amends.
Except last year it wasn’t just Armstrong being a dick. It was more than that. I saw Amalie first at that party. He couldn’t have cared less who she was until he overheard me asking about her. I tried to remedy it by introducing myself and offering to get her a drink when I noticed hers was empty. Before I could make a move, in he swooped with his bullshit lines and his pearly white smile. I figured it wouldn’t last long. His relationships never did.
Neither did mine, usually thanks to him, but that wasn’t the point.
Getting back at him wasn’t worth it, not if it put someone else’s emotions at risk.
I blow out a breath, aware our history and tonight’s setup make this look exactly like I was trying to mess with him. “Whatever you think happened, it didn’t.”
Bane remains skeptical. “Enlighten me, then.”
“I told Brittany I was going to the bathroom. You know what she’s like, that chick just talks nonstop about nothing. I couldn’t take it. I sure as hell wasn’t drunk enough to manage listening to her for the rest of the night, so I took a breather.”
“In the bridal suite?”
“Yeah, man. Best hiding spot in the damn place. The bride shouldn’t have been in there at all. I was just going to use the bathroom and take a twenty-minute timeout before I headed back. That way I could miss most of the speeches, but when I came out of the bathroom there was Amalie, hacking her dress apart, freaking the fuck out.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you ended up on top of her on the floor.”
“Like I said. She was freaking out. She came at me with a pair of gardening shears. I wasn’t sure if she’d lost her mind or what. Then she told me she was going to fuck me, like revenge on Armstrong for my date blowing him or whatever, and she pulled some ninja move and we ended up on the floor. I said no. She’s feisty though. And strong.”
Bane’s glare tells me he’s unimpressed. “That’s your story?”
“It’s not a story, it’s the damn truth. I’m not an idiot, Bane. I wouldn’t screw a jilted bride. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not someone who’s already been hurt.” It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to have sex with her. Amalie in that lingerie, all pissed off and desperate? I was serious when I told her I would regret saying no forever.
