Page 3 of The Boy Next Door
After we get The Brew House ready to open, I take a seat at the bar and pull my phone from my apron. Messenger pings with a text. Winston Carlson’s name pops up on the screen. “God...” I groan as I swipe over his message asking me to some frat party. I don’t even bother to respond this time. The guy can’t take no for an answer. He’s one of those silver-spoon kids that thinks he shits gold. Arrogant.
Earlier this year, at the fall formal, Winston practically pinned me to the wall and shoved his tongue down my throat. I pushed him away and called him an asshole, which he evidently took as a form of foreplay, because he’s still at it...
“You know,” I say, turning to Evan, who’s stacking glasses behind the bar. “What is it with guys not understanding when a girl’s not interested?”
“You’re asking me like I know what it’s like to find a girl who’s not interested.” A cocky grin dances over his face.
Shaking my head, I huff. “I don’t even know why I’m still friends with you.”
“At this point, it’s obligatory, Em. Ten years, we’re practically common law.”
“Oh, please...”
“Come on,” he rounds the bar and slides behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling his chin to my neck. My pulse skitters. “Don’t tell me you forgot the pact we made senior year: if we’re still single at thirty, we’ll marry each other.” His forearm brushes the bottom of my breasts and I bite at my lip.
“Yeah, I remember when we agreed we were each other’s last resort.”
I feel him grin against my neck before pressing a quick kiss to my skin. There’s a burst of heat where his lips touched before he untangles his arms from around me. My heart flutters, and I hate myself for being in love with a man I’ll always be one step away from completely having.
“Seriously”—he slips back around the bar—“what was the groan about?”
“Winston asked me to that party next weekend at his frat house.”
I notice his jaw tick. “I hate that fuckface.” He yanks the pour spout from a bottle of vodka. “I’m gonna end up kicking his ass. I feel it.”
“Evan...”
He shoves a clean spout into the bottle before sliding the vodka to the end of the bar. “Someone needs to teach that prick a lesson...” He mumbles something I can’t quite make out as he walks to the end of the bar to grab another bottle of liquor. “Fucking touch you again and I’ll kill him.
“He’s fine.”
“The hell he is!” Evan’s cheeks redden and his nostrils flare. God, he hates Winston, and I find it undeniably hot.
“Look, don’t worry. I’m not going.”
Evan nods. When he goes to slide the bottle of bourbon down the bar, it tips over. Liquor splashes the bottom half of his white T-shirt. “Aw, shit.” He grabs the bottle and sets it upright before taking the bottom of his shirt and lifting it to wipe over his bourbon-soaked abs. The liquor trickles down the middle of his stomach, taking the exact path I’ve imagined tracing with my tongue. I fight a whimper when the drops roll to the jeans that sit dangerously low on his hips. There’s a pull between my legs and I lean against the counter just to grant myself a little pressure.
This is literally torture.
He pulls his backpack out from under the counter, unzips it, and fishes out another T-shirt.
“The fact that you know you are going to spill something on yourself...” I laugh.
“It’s called preparation,” he says with a grin and a wink before peeling his wet T-shirt off. By the time he changes into the clean shirt, I need a change of panties.
The door opens and Derrick, the bouncer, struts in just in front of our first customers of the night. I watch the girls in tight dresses wobble inside on their too-high high heels. Their obnoxious giggles fill the room and I sigh, prepping myself for another night filled with drunks. There’s a burst of hyena-like laughter, and I catch Melissa Collins at the back of the pack. She flips her blond, pageant-queen hair over her shoulder. Her eyes lock on Evan as she struts toward the bar with a violent sway of her hips. “Hey, Ev,” she coos while leaning over the counter. My skin crawls.
“Hey Melissa.” He grabs a clean glass and scoops some ice into it. “Sex on the beach?”
“Mm-hmm.” The wide smile she shoots at him looks painful. “So sweet of you to remember.”
He glances at me and smirks. Every newly twenty-one-year-old girl orders sex on the beach—and here this ditz is thinking he’s remembered what she likes.
“Yep,” he says, pouring the array of liquors into the glass.
I watch from the corner of my eye as she primps herself, adjusting her stance so her fake boobs poke out. Evan slides her drink across to her. “Wanna start a tab?”
“Sure. Oh, did you get a new tat?” She brushes her finger over the raven feather tattoo on his forearm.
“Yep.”
“That’s so hot.”
I want to roll my eyes.
She hands him her card, then throws one last grin at Evan before she walks away.
“God, the fact that she noticed you had a new tattoo is borderline stalker.”
He laughs and walks to the side of the bar to take another drink order. I follow suit, filling orders for long island iced teas, sex on the beach, and more shots of screaming orgasms than I want to count. Every once in a while, I glance at Evan and I tell myself it’s perfectly normal to have a thing for your best friend.
