J. Kenner - Wanted

He flipped two sausage patties, then turned to me, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

I held up my hands in a gesture of innocence.

“You have that look. What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t have a look,” I countered.

“I’ve known you forever. Trust me when I say you have a look.”

“There is no look. But if there was a look it would be one of confusion.”

“And you’re confused because …?”

“I’m just wondering how you’re justified in giving relationship advice. I’m pretty sure you’ve gone out on a first date with every woman in Chicago, but somehow that whole second date thing eludes you.”

“I’m highly selective,” he said. He pulled himself up to sit on the granite counter. “This isn’t an exercise in dramatic irony, is it? You’re not going to blurt out that even though you’ve been pining after Evan all these years, now you realize it was really me you wanted all along?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “And I think your potatoes are burning.”

“Like hell they are,” he said, but he slid off the counter and turned down the heat, then started filling a plate for each of us.

I absolutely loved Flynn to death, but I wasn’t in love with him any more than he was in love with me, and I never had been. Of course, that hadn’t stopped me from sleeping with him all those years ago. He’d been angry at his father. I’d been angry at the world. He’d stolen the keys to his dad’s Harley, and we’d rocketed down Sheridan Road all the way to Wisconsin.

I didn’t remember which one of us initiated it. I only knew that he’d wanted to get laid, and I’d wanted the release. More than that, I’d wanted to get my first time over with. I wanted to make the fantasy that Evan would be my first go away. Because if I could put an end to that, maybe I could put an end to it all.

It hadn’t worked. Thankfully, our experiment in sexual healing hadn’t messed up our friendship. It had been weird for about a week. Then we’d gotten drunk on the beach, confessed that even though it had been fun and felt nice, neither one of us wanted a repeat performance, and continued on the way we’d been going. Only now I had the added benefit of being able to talk to him about sex stuff. Considering he came at the whole dating and girl thing from the perspective of a straight male, that was a pretty handy perk.

“Let’s back up to this idiot thing,” I said as he slid a plate in front of me. “Pretend you’re a guy—”

He cocked his head, cupped his balls, and lifted a brow.

I rolled my eyes. “Pretend you’re a guy who’s just walked away from a woman he’s attracted to.”

“We’re not playing this game, Ang. He didn’t walk away because you melted down when some assholes with knives came after you. He walked away because your fucking uncle made him fucking promise.”

“He damn sure managed to get over the promise in the alley before the assholes showed up.”

“He was thinking with his cock.”

“And he wasn’t when he went down on me?”

He opened his mouth to retort, then shrugged. “Score one for the little lady.”

I reveled in my victory, even though it was the purely Pyrrhric kind. And, frankly, the reason didn’t exactly matter. I’d thought for a shining moment that I’d get the man I’d always fantasized about, and then it had all gone to hell.

Honestly, I should have expected that.

“And you know what?” Flynn said, waving a spatula in my direction. “If he’s so worked up about keeping promises, he needs to keep the one he made to you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, a fact which must have shown on my face, because Flynn just shook his head in exasperation.

“What do you think happened on that dance floor? In that alley? Not to mention your bed.”

“Not enough,” I muttered grumpily.

He lifted his Bloody Mary in salute. “True, but I was going to say that it was a promise, too, right? He was promising you one hell of a good time, and then he went and cut you off. Do girls get blue balls?”

“Yes,” I said flatly.

He snorted. “Well, I know guys do, and he must have a serious pair. I mean, shit, the guy got you off, had you right there naked, and still didn’t fuck you. Do you have any idea how much self-control that takes? The guy’s freaking Hercules.”

At that, I laughed outright. I’d known coming here was a good idea. Already, I felt better. “Maybe he’s just not attracted to me,” I said, forcing myself not to grin.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

The smile I’d tried to suppress blossomed. “Well, duh. I’m not sleeping with you, remember? What good are you to me if you don’t lavish me with positive affirmations?”

“Good point.” He shoveled in the last of his eggs, then slid off the stool to go scrape the dregs from the pan to his plate. “You’re an exceptionally gorgeous woman with astounding acrobatic abilities in the sack. You have good taste in movies, terrible taste in candy, and you make a damn good Manhattan, thanks to my incredible teaching, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said graciously. “You’re wrong about Twizzlers. But I love you anyway.”

“As you should. But as for Evan Black …” He trailed off, shaking his head regretfully. “He’s an asshole who doesn’t keep his promises.”

“No, he’s not,” I said.

Flynn burst out laughing. “Oh, man. You really do have it bad.”

I sighed. Because I did. I really did.

Flynn took the last bite of his sausage, then glanced at my mostly untouched plate.

“I’m eating,” I said, shoveling a huge forkful of hash browns into my mouth. “Where are we going this week?” I asked, thumbing my nose at etiquette and talking with my mouth full.

Our weekly museum jaunts had started last May on the very day that we’d moved in together after I’d graduated from Northwestern. Before that, I’d lived on campus and Flynn had kept his tiny bedroom in the groundskeeper’s quarters that came with his father’s job on the massive Kenilworth estate just a few blocks from my uncle Jahn.

Flynn’s father, who rarely left his world of flowers and trees and shrubs, had taken the train into the city the day we moved into the apartment. He’d looked around the room, nodded approval, then pulled his son into a bear hug. I’m pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

I’d felt a knot of jealousy curve in my belly. The neighborhood was safe and affluent to satisfy my parents’ concerns, but we’d taken the cheapest one bedroom we could find. We’d both wanted to pay our own way, and my starting salary at HJH&A wasn’t exactly impressive. Not that Flynn was doing much better between tending bar and working as a flight attendant. But we figured that we’d make do with me in the bedroom and Flynn in the living room—and the Oak Street Beach just a short bike ride away.

While the setup might have made Flynn’s dad proud, it had only frustrated my father, who made it more than clear that he’d happily buy me a condo if I would just say the word.

I remained silent.

Pops, as Flynn’s father liked to be called, had taken us out to breakfast, then led us to the Red Line. We’d asked no questions, just gone with him until we reached the stop at Roosevelt. Then he walked us to the museum campus, bought a hotdog from a vendor, and pointed to the Field Museum of Natural History. “Whenever you two have a day off,” he said. “Here, there,” he added, indicating the aquarium. “The Art Institute, one of those boat rides that shows you all the buildings. You explore. You learn. You see the world that you’re part of and you live in it. You understand me?” He poked Flynn in the chest. “That goes double for you. The opportunities you have flying all over the country. All over the world.” He sniffed, then pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “If only your mother could see you.”