More Than This
Page 2
Babe? Really? This guy has to be a joke.
“Jesus Christ, Logan. Turn down the asshole a little, would ya?” his friend behind him says. He has a British accent, or South African or Australian or something.
Logan turns around to face his friend so quickly that his hand holding the rest of his beer slams against accent boy’s broad chest. Beer spills on the crisp white shirt under his open tux jacket. Logan stifles a laugh. Accent boy groans and pushes Logan aside, heading to the back of the restaurant toward the restrooms, I presume.
“Naw, don’t be like that, Jakey,” Logan jeers.
I stand up to go to the restroom to see if the dress, or this night, is worth salvaging, but douche bag Logan blocks my way. Eyeing me up and down, he walks a slow circle around me. He comes to a stop in front of me, a small smirk pulling at his lips.
“Well, hello there, little lady,” he drawls.
I push him out of the way and head toward the restroom. I’m wearing a halter-style black dress that’s open down to the small of my back, so I’m not wearing any underwear just in case it’d show. I’m hoping, fingers crossed, that the beer spilled just on my back and not on the dress. I can ask Megan to help me clean my back at least—more than I can say for accent boy.
As I turn down the hallway with the restrooms, I stop in my tracks. Megan is halfway out the door of the ladies’ room. She’s adjusting her dress, her hair in shambles and her lipstick smeared all around her lips. She’s giggling and reaches her hands up to the face of some random guy who she probably just hooked up with.
Megan is every guy’s walking wet dream. She’s sex on legs: your typical leggy, blue-eyed blond. She loves sex and has lots of it. So it doesn’t surprise me at all that we’ve been at Bistro’s all of fifteen minutes, and she’s been doing God knows what with some random dude in a public bathroom.
What does surprise me, though, as I get closer to her, is that her hands are not on just some random guy. They’re on James. My boyfriend. She’s cleaning the smeared lipstick from around his mouth. My eyes are drawn to his hands, which are at the front of his pants. He tucks himself back in and zips up his fly.
I feel the vomit creeping up my throat and gag. The noise must have been loud enough to distract them from each other. They both turn to face me at the same time in what almost feels like slow motion, their eyes huge and their mouths hanging open.
Like they’re surprised I’m intruding on their intimate fucking moment.
TWO
JAKE
I’m in the bathroom, doing everything I can to save this beer-stained shirt that’s clinging to my body. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. It’s dunzo.
I take off my tux jacket and start undoing the buttons on the shirt, hoping the tank I’m wearing underneath is okay. I’ll have to run home and grab a new shirt. Luckily, Mom is always prepared for this kind of stuff and has a spare ready to go.
I can’t believe Logan did that, and all to get that girl’s attention. I mean, I get it—I noticed her the minute she walked through the door, smiling up at the kid whose hand she was holding. She walked in with another guy, so you’d think that was enough of a sign to call the game off. But not for Logan. The minute her boyfriend or whatever left her side, it was game on. I followed him for a laugh. I wasn’t supposed to end up here. I roll my eyes at the mirror. I’m going to look like an ultra-douche walking out in suit pants and a beater. Fuck Logan.
I open the door and stop in my tracks. It’s her again, but she’s not the same girl who walked into Bistro’s earlier. Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears and she’s fuming. I’ve opened the door just enough so I can see her, but I haven’t stepped into the hallway yet. She’s staring daggers at something or someone.
I take a tentative step forward and see her glaring at a couple standing in front of the women’s restroom. They look like they’re frozen in time. The blond girl’s hair is messed up, her dress is all twisted, and her hands are on the guy’s face. I can’t see him properly because his back is to me. I can, however, see that he’s adjusting himself. It’s obvious those two just screwed in the bathroom. At least their prom will be memorable.
I almost leave when I hear her strained voice. “How long?” she asks, her tone flat.
The guy turns to face her, and I realize who this asshole is. It’s her boyfriend. At least, I assume he’s her boyfriend. He’s the dick she walked in with.
“How long?” she asks again, a little louder, but still with the same even tone.
“Baby . . .” her boyfriend says, reaching out for her.
“Two years,” the blond says at the same time.
I look over at the cute brunette and wait for a reaction. I feel like I should leave, like what I’m witnessing is too intimate and personal. But my feet are glued to the floor. I have no idea why, but I can’t look or walk away. I want to punch this guy for causing the pained look on this girl’s face. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially her. I feel the need to protect her, but I don’t even know her.
Two years—what the hell?
Her boyfriend steps forward, turning away from the blond. She glares at the back of his head. “Baby,” he says. I ball my fists. “I love you, Mikayla.”
What?
“What?” both girls yell.
The brunette and her boyfriend both turn to the blond.
“Shut up, Megan!” they shout in unison.
“Megan,” the brunette says, taking a deep breath. “You’re my best friend. What the fuck?” Tears start streaming down her face.
Megan looks at her, then at the asshole.
“I’m sorry, Mick.” She shrugs. But you can tell she’s not sorry, not even a little. She walks away, passing in front of me.
I still haven’t said a word. I still haven’t moved an inch.
Mikayla and her boyfriend are staring at each other. Neither of them knows I’m standing here like a creeper.
“Jesus, James,” Mikayla whispers, her voice shaky now. “I’ve been with you for four fucking years, and half that time you’ve been screwing my best friend!”
He’s silent as he wipes a tear from his face. Why the fuck is he crying?
“Why the fuck are you crying?” she says forcefully. He flinches.
Exactly, Mikayla.
“For four years, I never so much as looked at another guy. I was loyal to you when you weren’t even around, when you wouldn’t have even known, because that’s how much I loved you.” She’s in his face now, her words clear as day. She’s beyond the broken girl she started as—now she just looks pissed. “Were there any others?”
“Jesus Christ, Logan. Turn down the asshole a little, would ya?” his friend behind him says. He has a British accent, or South African or Australian or something.
Logan turns around to face his friend so quickly that his hand holding the rest of his beer slams against accent boy’s broad chest. Beer spills on the crisp white shirt under his open tux jacket. Logan stifles a laugh. Accent boy groans and pushes Logan aside, heading to the back of the restaurant toward the restrooms, I presume.
“Naw, don’t be like that, Jakey,” Logan jeers.
I stand up to go to the restroom to see if the dress, or this night, is worth salvaging, but douche bag Logan blocks my way. Eyeing me up and down, he walks a slow circle around me. He comes to a stop in front of me, a small smirk pulling at his lips.
“Well, hello there, little lady,” he drawls.
I push him out of the way and head toward the restroom. I’m wearing a halter-style black dress that’s open down to the small of my back, so I’m not wearing any underwear just in case it’d show. I’m hoping, fingers crossed, that the beer spilled just on my back and not on the dress. I can ask Megan to help me clean my back at least—more than I can say for accent boy.
As I turn down the hallway with the restrooms, I stop in my tracks. Megan is halfway out the door of the ladies’ room. She’s adjusting her dress, her hair in shambles and her lipstick smeared all around her lips. She’s giggling and reaches her hands up to the face of some random guy who she probably just hooked up with.
Megan is every guy’s walking wet dream. She’s sex on legs: your typical leggy, blue-eyed blond. She loves sex and has lots of it. So it doesn’t surprise me at all that we’ve been at Bistro’s all of fifteen minutes, and she’s been doing God knows what with some random dude in a public bathroom.
What does surprise me, though, as I get closer to her, is that her hands are not on just some random guy. They’re on James. My boyfriend. She’s cleaning the smeared lipstick from around his mouth. My eyes are drawn to his hands, which are at the front of his pants. He tucks himself back in and zips up his fly.
I feel the vomit creeping up my throat and gag. The noise must have been loud enough to distract them from each other. They both turn to face me at the same time in what almost feels like slow motion, their eyes huge and their mouths hanging open.
Like they’re surprised I’m intruding on their intimate fucking moment.
TWO
JAKE
I’m in the bathroom, doing everything I can to save this beer-stained shirt that’s clinging to my body. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. It’s dunzo.
I take off my tux jacket and start undoing the buttons on the shirt, hoping the tank I’m wearing underneath is okay. I’ll have to run home and grab a new shirt. Luckily, Mom is always prepared for this kind of stuff and has a spare ready to go.
I can’t believe Logan did that, and all to get that girl’s attention. I mean, I get it—I noticed her the minute she walked through the door, smiling up at the kid whose hand she was holding. She walked in with another guy, so you’d think that was enough of a sign to call the game off. But not for Logan. The minute her boyfriend or whatever left her side, it was game on. I followed him for a laugh. I wasn’t supposed to end up here. I roll my eyes at the mirror. I’m going to look like an ultra-douche walking out in suit pants and a beater. Fuck Logan.
I open the door and stop in my tracks. It’s her again, but she’s not the same girl who walked into Bistro’s earlier. Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears and she’s fuming. I’ve opened the door just enough so I can see her, but I haven’t stepped into the hallway yet. She’s staring daggers at something or someone.
I take a tentative step forward and see her glaring at a couple standing in front of the women’s restroom. They look like they’re frozen in time. The blond girl’s hair is messed up, her dress is all twisted, and her hands are on the guy’s face. I can’t see him properly because his back is to me. I can, however, see that he’s adjusting himself. It’s obvious those two just screwed in the bathroom. At least their prom will be memorable.
I almost leave when I hear her strained voice. “How long?” she asks, her tone flat.
The guy turns to face her, and I realize who this asshole is. It’s her boyfriend. At least, I assume he’s her boyfriend. He’s the dick she walked in with.
“How long?” she asks again, a little louder, but still with the same even tone.
“Baby . . .” her boyfriend says, reaching out for her.
“Two years,” the blond says at the same time.
I look over at the cute brunette and wait for a reaction. I feel like I should leave, like what I’m witnessing is too intimate and personal. But my feet are glued to the floor. I have no idea why, but I can’t look or walk away. I want to punch this guy for causing the pained look on this girl’s face. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially her. I feel the need to protect her, but I don’t even know her.
Two years—what the hell?
Her boyfriend steps forward, turning away from the blond. She glares at the back of his head. “Baby,” he says. I ball my fists. “I love you, Mikayla.”
What?
“What?” both girls yell.
The brunette and her boyfriend both turn to the blond.
“Shut up, Megan!” they shout in unison.
“Megan,” the brunette says, taking a deep breath. “You’re my best friend. What the fuck?” Tears start streaming down her face.
Megan looks at her, then at the asshole.
“I’m sorry, Mick.” She shrugs. But you can tell she’s not sorry, not even a little. She walks away, passing in front of me.
I still haven’t said a word. I still haven’t moved an inch.
Mikayla and her boyfriend are staring at each other. Neither of them knows I’m standing here like a creeper.
“Jesus, James,” Mikayla whispers, her voice shaky now. “I’ve been with you for four fucking years, and half that time you’ve been screwing my best friend!”
He’s silent as he wipes a tear from his face. Why the fuck is he crying?
“Why the fuck are you crying?” she says forcefully. He flinches.
Exactly, Mikayla.
“For four years, I never so much as looked at another guy. I was loyal to you when you weren’t even around, when you wouldn’t have even known, because that’s how much I loved you.” She’s in his face now, her words clear as day. She’s beyond the broken girl she started as—now she just looks pissed. “Were there any others?”
