Page 8 of Whiskey Throttle
Fuck me.
It’s Dom’s mom. That fact keeps rattling around like a loose screw in my brain.
Dom’s mom.
Dom’s fucking mom.
My best friend’s fucking mom.
He’s my boy. Trust is rare with a guy like him, and somehow, I’ve managed to earn his. I know how protective he is of his family. Always has been, even if he doesn’t say it. Even if he rolls his eyes at the mention of her name or glares when people start asking about his family. He hates his dad. Sides with his mom.
And here I am, replaying every second of that night like it was a scene from a movie I’m trying to memorize. The way she looked at me, eyes wet, voice tight. The silk clung to her thin shoulders. Her breath ghosts out of her when she said he was supposed to love me.
Fuck.
What do I say to that? Like, I know what love is? The fuck I don’t. I don’t do love.
It’s a commodity that doesn’t exist in my world. Fools marry for love. The privileged marry for strategic alignment and to bring their legacies together. Marriages are brokered deals to benefit both parties. Love is for casual flings and pool boys. Neither are me.
I don’t want to cross a line. I don’t even know where the line is. All I know is she looked at me like no one else ever has. Not like my namesake. Not like her son’s best friend. Like we were equal. As if I’d understand her feelings since we travel in the same social circles.
Fuck, I haven’t thought of a woman this much, ever. I grip the brake a little too hard when we slow at the next light, and the back tire twitches under me. Diego glances back like he felt it. I wave him off.
“Just a rock, man,” I grumble through the mic.
Their replies are flying in one ear and out the other as I fixate on what to do. We pull off for gas twenty minutes later. I take my helmet off, shake the sweat from my hair, and step away from the group under the excuse of checking my phone. I open the message. My eyes travel over it repeatedly. Still just two words and no follow-up. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Delete.
That’d be the clean thing to do.
Pretend it never got to me. Protect Dom. Protect her. Protect me. Yet I don’t delete it, and I don’t reply either. I stare at it because, for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to do the right thing.
I want to be someone who makes a woman like that unravel, just a little. For some unknown reason, she trusted me that night. Trusted me again to text me, knowing I wouldn’t out her to her son. To be honest with myself, I want to hear her voice in a quiet room. I want to touch her pale skin again. See how soft it is in other parts.
Shit.
I hate myself for wanting that, but not enough to stop. So I do the one thing every idiot does when they are on the verge of making a bad fucking choice. I text her back.
What are you up to?
I stare at the words for a full ten seconds before hitting send. It’s dumb. Aimless. Sounds like a guy looking for a booty call. It’s a text I’ve written hundreds of times to check availability. To see how soon I’m getting laid.
This time, it’s a hundred different ways. My heart suddenly throbs when it delivers instantly. Like I’ve thrown caution to the fucking wind and texted back my friend’s mom with my usual booty call message.
I’m a fucking idiot.
No typing bubble. Thank fuck. Hopefully, she’ll ignore my dumbass. Better yet, block me. I would tell her if I had the self-control. But somewhere deep inside, I yearn for a response.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and turn toward the guys. My gaze moves to Dom, sitting on his bike, helmet on, locked away in his own world as usual. If he knew what I just texted his mom, he’d beat my ass. Diego would probably jump in and take his side. The twins would watch, try to get bets going in this dusty gas station parking lot.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
Good. It’s how it should be, how it needs to be. If she ignores me, it’s for the best. For all our sakes.
Then it vibrates, and I am startled. My slight yelp getting her son to turn my way, his black visor down, giving nothing away. I shoot him a careless smile and a shoulder shrug. He turns back to watch the store’s entrance, where Diego and the twins went in.
