Riley Mackenzie - Beautifully Done

“Hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“True.” She smiled. It was just like old times. My dick twitched. “So no tats then?”

“Nope. Virgin skin. Me and needles don’t mix. Never have. Never will.”

“Whatever. The Ace I knew was always such a tough guy. Scared of needles, my ass.”

If she only knew why I was so anti-needle. If I never saw another needle for the rest of my life it would be too soon.

“So something you never knew about me, and here I thought you knew everything, including my favorite color underwear and our favorite ice cream.” That was my futile attempt to lighten the mood and save us both from the conversation degrading to a depressive topic. “Need a refill?”

She nodded. “Prosecco, please. And god—what’s up with you bringing up all my favorite blasts from the past? Hot Tamales, now Grasshopper? Really? What are we, ten?”

“ What? My boxers’ color doesn’t interest you anymore?” She eye rolled me. “And for the record, I’m not the one with the high school craving—but I do remember making you a promise.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a mini box of Hot Tamales.

“HTs,” she moaned, peeling open my palm, claiming her prize and unconsciously popping one in her mouth. I chuckled. Totally addicted. “So please tell me what’s up with all the nostalgia?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who inked myself with our band name, I just brought the candy.” Her light expression hardened ever so slightly, looking more like classy Talia than TP. Shit. Why did I go there again? Curiosity always kills the cat . I kept talking. “So you’re a Dr. Pryce. Would’ve never guessed that.”

“Really? And what would the high-powered attorney have guessed?” She emptied the rest of the box of candy into her perfectly manicured hand.

“Honestly, I pictured you slaying the music world, creating your lyrical masterpieces.”

“Pffft. No, no.” She backhanded the air and shook her head. Her silky hair slid from her shoulder.

“Too bad, music industry’s loss.” I was dead serious. Damn, she wrote some sick shit.

The bartender set her fresh drink down and she took a sip. “Very sweet, Ace, but that was the teenage years and in the very distant past. Besides, the music world’s loss, as you say, was the medical world’s gain.”

I fingered a Hot Tamale from her palm and smiled. “Let’s be honest, TP. You’re a dermatologist. That’s not a real doctor.” I tossed the spicy guy in my mouth and washed it down with a swig. Her expression was priceless.

“You’re such an ass.”

And there it was, that smile. I missed that huge grin. The only thing better was the genuine giggle that erupted from her soft mouth after. We sat at the bar in our own little world for a good two hours straight, drinking and making fun of each other. I could lie and say it was like old times. But this seriously trumped old times.

“One more round?” Unsure of when we would have this chance again, I wasn’t ready to end the night.

“I better not. It’s late. Besides, don’t you have meetings all day tomorrow?”

Nope. I was a shmuck and made that shit up. “No, all good. I got a lot more accomplished today than I expected.” Erasing nineteen years between us being the greatest accomplishment. “Come on, one more. For old times’ sake.” I tried out the puppy dog eyes. No shame in begging. This was the first time in a long time I was enjoying a woman’s conversation. Lili didn’t count.

She tied her hair back into one of those ponytail/messy bun things. Add to the fact that she shed the suit jacket after the last drink and my dick, which was under explicit instructions to behave and not ruin this reunion, ignored my brain and twitched. Twice. I blamed it on the black silk and lace camisole that did little to hide her hardened nipples every time the air conditioning kicked on. Talia always had small tits. They fit her lean physique perfectly. Even as a teenager, when all the girls were wearing those Victoria Secret super push-up bras to showcase their assets, Talia refused to wear a padded bra, if she wore a bra at all. What’s the point of false advertising, you get what you get and don’t get upset. Damn, I loved her motto. Especially in the summer, when her perfectly round rose-colored nips strained against her tanks.

“Fine, one more. But that’s it. Some of us have work tomorrow.”

“Tal, you pop zits for a living, how taxing could that be?”

“I hate you.”

“Didn’t we already play this game tonight? Now try that again with a straight face.”

“I hate you.” Her attempt was entertaining.

“No, you don’t.”

Her caramel eyes twinkled when she whispered, “No, I don’t.”

My hand involuntarily reached over to cup her cheek, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I missed you.” Understatement, but it needed to be said. Shit, I was getting all sentimental.

She pressed her hand over mine and brushed her thumb over my knuckles. “Me too.”

Her eyes clenched when she spoke, and I could have sworn her voice almost cracked. Maybe it was the alcohol. But my gut told me there was something else. Tonight was too perfect, so I decided not to push. Besides, there was plenty of time. No way this woman was disappearing from my life again. Period. Listen to me getting all possessive . Possessive of my family, yes. Possessive of my best friend, yes. Possessive of a woman, hell no. What was she doing to me?

We took our refills and moved from the uncomfortable ass-numbing barstools to a now vacant lounge cube. Simultaneously propping our feet on the leather ottoman, we clinked glasses.

“What’s up with the wannabe champagne?”

“I like it. Like you’re one to talk. Heineken?”

“What? It’s a solid classic. Never disappoints, always delicious.” Come on. Was there an argument?

She sat back and stared at me, her crystal eyes speckled with every shade of brown. Parting her lips into a half smile she whispered, “Hmm. Sounds familiar, like someone I know.” Yup, tomorrow I was looking into setting up a West Coast office. No doubt.

Time changes sucked. Hangovers sucked worse. Lucky me, I woke up to both. While my East Coast inner alarm pounded behind my still closed eyes, yesterday played back in high definition. Her hair, her smile, that unbelievable laugh, the bickering back and forth, midnight nachos, her bare feet on my lap when we laughed through last call, the uncomfortable bulge in my pants when I watched from the backseat of the cab when she closed her front door. Three hours of sleep and a significant headache ... totally worth it. I had my friend back. And since I was a guy, my temples weren’t the only part of me throbbing. My morning wood solidified I wasn’t falling back to sleep anytime soon. I opted for the cold shower. The intensity of a release, even self rubbed, after last night and last night’s dreams would have been lethal considering the bounding vessels threatening to rupture in my head. Reaching for a towel, my phone dinged in the other room. No way she was awake already. She held her own with her Italian bubbly, but she was half my weight, if that. She had to be hurting. That realization sliced through me. Nice job, jack ass .

Had to bail, shit came up.

Hit the bags Monday?

Disappointed that it wasn’t her, I felt like even more of a dick. Chase got back from Japan last week, but with work being insane and my focus on all things Talia, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him. Like creatures of habit, we sparred twice a week and had since we were kids. It was our thing. We saved the punch for each other and when the other wasn’t available, which was rare, we resorted to hitting the bags. It was our go-to release for pent-up frustrations. The fact that he bailed didn’t sit well.