Licks Page 2

  I peered at him, unsure why he seemed to be on his own. “Did we have plans?”

  “You didn’t get my text?”

  If it had been sent after I’d humiliated myself with his brother, his message would be buried with that damning evidence. “I haven’t checked my phone in a bit.”

  “Then I guess this is fate, and I get to buy you a birthday drink.”

  I tried to smile at his sweet effort. When we were kids, he’d raised hell with August and me, but as we’d gotten older, August would often tell him to get lost. Finch would sulk, but I’d been too focused on his brother to insist he tag along. Alone time with August had been a valuable commodity.

  The past year and a half, though, after having cut August from my life, Finch had been more present. The two of us were at the same school now. He’d make an extra effort to check in on me, inviting me to lunch, the library. He and August seemed to have drifted since high school, but my childish silent treatment meant I couldn’t ask August why, and there was an unspoken rule between Finch and me: August was a classified subject. Any mention of him or his name would disqualify our friendship.

  A friendship I’d begun to count on. Finch even remembered my birthday.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Shot of Jäger.”

  He cringed. “Who the hell drinks Jäger?”

  “I do, apparently.” Because Jäger was the butthole of birthday drinks, and today was a butthole of a birthday. “I should order a double.”

  His gaze dropped briefly to my wet T-shirt, to the now-visible black bra that had looked miles better on the Facebook model. He leaned closer. “Are you drunk, Gwen Hamilton?”

  I met him the rest of the way, our noses an inch apart. “Not wasted enough.”

  The people and music and laughter swirled around us, so loud and distracting that for a second I was sure it was August’s Roman nose nearly touching mine, his lips within biting distance. His scruffy jaw. His firm chest. But there was no scar on Finch’s chin. August’s scar had been acquired the night we’d snuck into the abandoned Wheeler home. Finch didn’t have an untamable lick of hair that always shot heavenward or callused fingers from endless guitar sessions. He hadn’t written songs for me while lying in the grass and staring at the sky.

  But Finch was good for a laugh.

  “You’re lucky you found me.” He pretended to tighten an invisible necktie. “We may have grown up neighbors, but I don’t think you know I have a PhD in intoxication.”

  I rubbed my palms together in eager anticipation. “Do tell, Dr. Cruz.”

  “Well, if you’re aiming for sad wasted, I’d suggest we start you off with tequila shots, followed by a keg of beer. If it’s giddy wasted you’re after, Long Island Iced Tea should do the trick.”

  “I was thinking more pissed-off wasted.” Insane wasted. Furious wasted.

  If I hadn’t been so pathetically insecure during high school, I could be getting giddy wasted with August, instead of shooting the shit with his brother. The horrible choice to cut August off was a wake-up call if I’d ever heard one. Never again would I let a missed opportunity slip by. I wouldn’t coast through life, cowering at challenges, afraid to rock the boat. I would scare myself. I would push my boundaries. I would make life my bitch.

  Finch nodded sagely. “If pissed-off wasted is your mission, then stick with the nasty Jäger.”

  I almost did just that, but drinking more would dull this painful ache. I deserved to suffer every jab and twinge, each unforgiving pang. This was my fault. I should have admitted my feelings to August years ago.

  Instead of walking the easy road of inebriation and oblivion, I ordered a Red Bull.

  An insane amount of sugar-laced caffeine later, I stood in the crowded bar feeling more alone than when I’d been at home. The string of Red Bulls had done their job. I was painfully sober, and my revved brain kept reliving every different decision that could have resulted in a different outcome. Not this crappy outcome.

  I was angry at myself. I was angry at August. And Finch was here for the entire show, doing his Finch thing, teasing my surly scowl and telling god-awful knock-knock jokes until I cracked a smile. Some song about booties blared. Two chicks acted out the lyrics, putting on a show for the bar. August barely glanced at them.

  Dammit. Finch. Finch, Finch, Finch.

  I kept doing that—thinking, wishing he was his brother.

  Finch and his easy grin were facing me, like they had been all night. His chest rubbed my arm as he yelled in my ear about his summer backpacking plans, his voice battling against the loud tunes. I nodded automatically, barely hearing him.

  Warriors jersey dude, who hadn’t passed out yet, danced suggestively while ogling the bootie girls. The giant waste of space tripped into me again, sending my clutched Red Bull to the ground. Finch glared at him. Frustrated, I bent down to retrieve the fallen can being kicked to-and-fro like a pinball. Finch had the same instinct. At the same time.

  Our heads smacked together.

  “Fuck.” I pressed my palm to my forehead.

  “I’m not sure it’ll help with the headache, but we could try.”

  We could…what-the-what?

  Finch and I were crouched inches from a sticky floor covered in spilled beer and pretzel bits, a forest of legs surrounding our shoulders, and he was eyeing me like he wanted a closer inspection of my black bra.

  What the hell?

  I was strung out on Red Bull, my heart pounding a mile a minute, and my vision turned hazy. Blurred with sadness. I found myself craving more contact. Touch. Comfort in someone’s arms. No matter how hard I looked at Finch, he didn’t become August—the only person I wanted to fill that role. Did it matter?

  Finch was nice, fun. He was the only one with me on my birthday, and he wasn’t hurting in the handsome department, clearly. If August didn’t want me, why not have fun with his twin?

  Because August might find out and be upset, my unhelpful conscience whispered.

  If August had really pined for me in high school, the way he’d sort of admitted, he’d have confided in Finch back then, when they’d been close. He might be pissed if Finch and I hooked up. But August had a girlfriend with a promise ring. A life that didn’t involve me.

  My decisions weren’t his concern.

  Tired of my lame wallowing, I grinned at Finch, returning his flirtations. I turned my brain to silent as we walked to my apartment. I moved on autopilot as I fitted my key into the door and dragged Finch inside. I closed my eyes when our shirts hit the floor, his bare chest pressed to mine.

  His lips searched for purchase. “So long,” he murmured. “I’ve wanted you so long.”

  My belly cramped at those needy words. Passionate words. Words I longed to whisper to August. I’ve wanted you so long. He wasn’t here, though, and I was lonely. So, so lonely. Finch was undressing me, showering me with kisses. I tried pretending it was another man’s mouth on my skin. August. My August. If I couldn’t have the man I wanted on my birthday, I would steal a moment of abandon from his twin. Pretend. Dream. Live the lie.

  It was a wasted effort.

  The sex was mechanical, motions gone through, our bodies fitting together, my mind somewhere else. My faked orgasm sped the whole affair along. Finch, however, whispered endearments, hips relentless in pursuit of his pleasure. I was glad when it was over. And sad. Guilt returned as Finch kissed me gently and went to deal with the condom.

  Did he have a thing for me? Had he been crushing on me the whole time I’d been crushing on his brother? Did August know? It was likely why Finch had been so attentive this year, and here I was, only wanting a mindless night. God, what a mess.

  Letting him down after this would be another painful blow.

  A knock at the door cut through my worry, and I groaned. Last thing I wanted was a witness to this sham, but Clean Your Damn Area Claire must have forgotten her key again. That emo girl would lose her black fingernails if they weren’t attached.
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  Tossing on an oversized tee, I stood and breathed through the fog of bad decisions this night had become. I couldn’t even blame the Jäger.

  Unable to swallow past the lump in my throat, I hurried to the door and yanked it open.

  I nearly passed out.

  August Cruz was in my doorway, at my apartment, a crazed look in his stunning hazel eyes. “Happy birthday,” he said, a slight pant to his words, as though he’d run here.

  Then he kissed me. Callused fingers gripping my jaw, he crushed his lips to mine, devouring me like I was air in an airless world. This wasn’t mechanical. This wasn’t pretend. This was the love of my life twirling his tongue around mine sensually, moving his lips and body the same way he played guitar: with animal abandon.

  It was too good. He was too good. And I let it all go on too long. I somehow managed to push him away. “You gave her a promise ring,” was the first thing I said.

  Not, I slept with your brother. Not, your brother is in the next room.

  My brain cells had vacated the building.

  He winced. “You saw that post?” Before I could answer, he breathed harder, talking over himself. “I’d bought that ring for your birthday, and she assumed it was for her.”

  He tugged at the back of his dark hair. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop lately. Not sure why now—maybe it was your birthday coming up or the school year ending—but I knew I needed to set things right with you. I’d decided to end things with Kayla tonight. I got your address from your mother and planned to face you, then you sent me that text. And it was like…the whole thing kind of floored me.”

  Creases sank into his furrowed brow. “I’m sorry I lashed out at first. I wasn’t expecting for all that shit to resurface. But I think it’s good, you know? That we cleared the air. Now we can finally do this, be together. Because this thing with us?” He prowled closer and lifted the ring in question. “It’s always been you, Gwen. No one holds a candle to you.”

  That’s when Finch walked into the living area, nothing on but his boxers.

  That’s when I realized the extent of my Worst Terrible Fuck-up.

  Present Day, 12 p.m.

  August

  I couldn’t remember names to save my life. I sucked at Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit, and every video game ever created, but I could play guitar in my sleep, and if there was an Olympic procrastination event, I’d take gold.

  Gear slung over my shoulder, I joined the melee of sweaty men gathered around the soccer field. Being a full-time musician—touring, writing, recording—left me little time for my old obsession, but I missed soccer. The quick footwork. Working with a team. Plus finding a pick-up game meant I could put off the real reason I’d returned to San Francisco.

  Handshakes were passed around for a game well played. Others, like me, readied to hit the field next. The grins and laughs brought me back to my high school days playing in the California Regional League. It also forced a montage of a giggling Gwen front and center.

  Her shoving grass down my shirt as I dribbled around her.

  Me tickling her while she tried to steal the ball.

  I ground my teeth, something I’d been doing too much of since returning here. Since avoiding Gwen, specifically. Considering she was the reason I’d flown home, I needed to get over myself, or I’d end up with a hefty dental bill.

  I tossed my gym bag next to the clothes piled near the field. A game was what I needed. Sixty minutes to focus on nothing but marking an attacker, stripping the ball from him, and executing clean passes. Sixty minutes to forget why I’d cut my European tour short, and to pretend tomorrow’s April 12th date didn’t still affect me.

  My molars worked harder, as though chewing that memory into sludge. I even spat out a wad of saliva, but my tongue still tasted bitter—bitterness laced with guilt, the latter emotion new when it came to Gwen. But when she learned what I’d done, she’d have more right to punch me than the retaliation I’d unleashed on Finch nine years ago. Not that I regretted the sting of my fist connecting with his nose.

  Jaw locked, I yanked my cleats from my bag. I nearly snapped the laces tying them up. I’ll call her after the game, I told myself. Meet her face-to-face and say what I came to say, then get out of town.

  Unless this was like the April my second album had been due to the record label. That procrastination-athon had involved walking the Paris streets and a ridiculously clean apartment, forcing me to mainline coffee as I busted out the album in five endless days.

  If I didn’t get my head together, I’d have to ransack my hotel room like a bona-fide rock star, then spend my avoidance time tidying up.

  Tired of my looping frustrations, I swept aside thoughts of Gwen and tried to enjoy the sun on my back. It was a welcome change to Germany’s recent drizzly spell. The fresh air beat the smoke-filled clubs I’d played the past year, the stage spotlight nowhere near as nice as the California sun.

  Sunshine. Soccer. No insane tour schedule. Maybe being home wasn’t so bad.

  “August, man…where’d you come from?”

  I spun around and smiled in earnest. “Owen. Shit. How long’s it been?”

  The big guy shook his head, looking equally as surprised to see me. “Too long. Way too long. Last I heard, you and your guitar were winning over Europe.”

  I ran my left thumb over my callused fingers. “Not sure about the winning part, but it pays the bills.”

  “Modesty doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen YouTube videos. There were screaming girls.”

  I shrugged off the comment, never comfortable with praise. I may not have hit it big in the U.S., but my European audience had grown steadily, my singer-songwriter style hitting the mark with them. Downloads had recently shot through the roof, my fan base building, tours getting longer. And lonelier. Not that I could complain. Most musicians would trade their spleens to make a living doing what they loved.

  “What about you?” I asked, happy to deflect. Last thing I needed was him asking why I was in town. “Thought you were living in D.C.”

  I glanced at the tattooed guy beside him and offered a nod.

  Owen dragged a hand through his sandy hair, mopping up sweat along the way. “I was, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Been living here over a year now. Traded in my finance job for a woodworking business.”

  “Dude, are you trying to be an asshole?” The tattooed guy drew my attention, his grin a contrast to his snarky comment.

  I took in his rough exterior, catching a glimpse of familiarity under his dark scruff and shaggy hair. I squinted and leaned closer and…no fucking way. “Jimmy?”

  He motioned to his yellow jersey. “Is the color throwing you off?”

  I snorted. It may have been twelve years, and we may have worn red when the three of us had played soccer together, but the change in jersey wasn’t what had thrown me off. Teenage Jimmy had been a clean-cut pretty boy, not a tatted up, scruffy man. “You did something different with your hair, I think.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Nailed it. My girlfriend likes applying conditioning treatments.”

  We shook hands and pounded backs while I digested this biker version of Jimmy Giannopoulos. It wouldn’t have been such a shock if I’d kept in touch with the guys, but who had the time? Owen and Jimmy were a couple years older than me, had gone to different high schools, but we’d played in the regional league together. We’d been close. Staying connected into adulthood was still tough.

  The only social media I suffered through was to promote my music, never wasting hours scrolling through Facebook or Snapchat or Twitter. The meager news I’d hear about old friends came through accidental run-ins, the odd person attending my shows.

  Owen massaged his shoulder. “If you’re in town awhile, we should go for a beer.”

  This visit would be as short as possible, unless I decided to learn how to knit or speak Japanese before facing Gwen. “I’d love to catch up, but I have some things to take care of, then it’s back on the r
oad.”

  At least I sounded confident about getting shit done.

  Arriving here around the anniversary of Gwen’s epic betrayal wasn’t helping matters. The event may have been part of the reason I’d quit school and had become a musician, something I could thank her and Finch for, but the betrayal had festered a long time. I’d managed to block Gwen from my life the past nine years, but missing her mother’s recent funeral had felt wrong. I’d also found myself remembering our good times lately, more than rehashing that one awful night. Barely being civil with my brother was a whole other wreck, everything easier to ignore when across the globe.

  The sooner I saw Gwen, the sooner I could put her—and all of it—behind me.

  Instead I was winning my procrastination-athon.

  “If you change your mind,” Owen said, “let me know. This guy”—he elbowed Jimmy—“lives in Napa now, but he’s around plenty. We can coordinate soccer next time. Sign up for the same pick-up game.”

  “You running the winery now?” I asked Jimmy.

  He nodded. “My brother and I took it over. We’re doing some rebranding, and I’m organizing Napa festivals on the side. Actually…” He bobbed his head as though having an internal conversation. “Any chance you’d play at a function? It would be great exposure for the festivals.”

  Committing to anything in San Francisco made me itch, but I offered a vague, “Sure, we’ll work on it.”

  We all traded numbers as Owen’s brother, Emmett, joined us with his boyfriend—a pompadour-styled guy with more ink than Jimmy. A few short minutes of reminiscing settled me, but it was a reminder my life now was full of transient people, acquaintances. Not friends who remembered how I drank myself sick on tequila and had puked on Samantha Walsh. No one in Europe had a clue I’d streaked through Delores Park. These guys did. Built-in history. Easy banter.

  Owen smiled at someone over my shoulder, then headed toward his gear. I turned to check out the recipient of that affectionate look, and my internal organs slammed on their brakes.

  Gwen.

  The two girls beside her were watching the guys leave, but Gwen’s eyes were locked on me, and my pulse rocketed, like I’d already played my soccer game, had run a marathon, had summited Everest, my oxygen thinning at a rapid rate. I wanted to drop to my knees and apologize for what I’d done. I also wanted to tell her her actions had devastated me, but if she’d listened to my first angst-ridden album, she’d be well acquainted with my resentment.