Page 44 of Licks

My mind kept replaying how he’d felt, how my body still sizzled and swelled with want. On the drive here, I’d almost slipped my hand between his thighs, over his thick denim, to cop a feel of his girth. Fear had kept me fisting the steering wheel.

I sat immobile now, the car key clutched in my hand. I debated turning the ignition and tearing off as he rounded toward my side. I could leave right now, forget this journal and August and everything that had the power to break me, but I played my Popsicle game.

He opened my door and poked his head inside. “Come out here. We need to talk.”

His no-nonsense tone brooked zero argument. The dominance of it was kind of sexy, but mostly scary. We need to talk only ever meant heavy subjects, and I had all the heavy I could handle.

Instead of complying, I said, “Beetlejuice.”

August snort-laughed. The sound calmed a fraction of my panic.

Beetlejuice had been our safe word. When he’d pinch my underarm skin to distract me from his Monopoly cheating? Beetlejuice. When I’d twist his nipple until he’d give me the remote control? Beetlejuice.

Blurting the word now was easier than facing his ominous we need to talk.

He straightened slightly, taking his face out of view. He leaned his forearm on the car roof. “You don’t need a safe word for this conversation.”

“Says you.” But I could hear the smirk in his voice. I also liked the view.

The way we were situated—his crotch at face level, me strapped into my seat—I could undo his belt buckle, slip his zipper down, and take his length into my mouth. I salivated.

He backed away and crooked his finger, beckoning me. “Stop looking like you want to lick me, Possum. We need to talk. It won’t be a nice talk, but we can’t go into that club before it happens.”

“That’s quite the sales pitch.” It was downright alarming. Unfortunately, I saw no other options.

I worked methodically, going through the steps of shoving the journal in my purse, leaving my car, and locking up extra slowly. Delay, delay, delay. A hot dog vendor was down the block, thick scents of charred meat teasing my nose. My belly rumbled. Our cheese and fruit earlier had only been a snack. I was hungry for food. I was hungry for August. I was not hungry to learn about the thing that wasn’t nice to discuss.

I moved to the sidewalk and anchored myself against the car. “Go ahead. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

His right hand was in his pocket. The fabric bulged rhythmically. He probably had a guitar pick in there. Whenever August was nervous or uneasy, he’d spin his pick restlessly. Like now. He gnawed on his bottom lip. “Finch manages the Blue-Eyed Raven.”

I pitched forward slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Exactly.”

Well, wasn’t that just my luck? The day I made love with the brother I’d always wanted, I had to stand in a building with him and the one I should never have fucked. Good times, Gwen Hamilton. “How is that even possible?”

“How is it possible I show up at your door the same day as your mother’s lost luggage?”

A slew of impossible impossibilities. I glanced toward the club, then to August, then at the inky sky. Nerves twisted my insides. I replayed Rachel’s comment earlier, how she’d thought her birthday wish had been touched with magic and that believing in the unbelievable had given her the push she’d needed to fulfill her resolution. My self-imposed sink-or-swim deadline was in twenty-six hours, and fate had been dumping a pile of life preservers on my head.

August was entwined in this search, for some reason. Now his brother was, too. Trying to figure out why would drain energy and time I didn’t have. The bigger issue was how seeing Finch would affect August now. The confrontation could shake the rickety suspension bridge we were navigating.

Maybe it already had.

Questions built in my throat until it burned. “Do you regret sleeping with me?”

He was on me in a heartbeat, his hands cradling my face. “No. Not for a second. Why would you think that?”

Relief flooded me, but barbs still chafed my windpipe. I hooked my thumbs through his belt loops. “The drive here—you were so…distracted? I mean, I get that seeing Finch now isn’t ideal, but he’s your brother. We can’t avoid him forever.” Which implied August and I had forever. Seconds, I reminded myself. This was nothing more than seconds and right now and enjoying the moment. I had a life here. A job. He was leaving. The barbs dug deeper.

He loosened his hold on me, enough that the scratch of his calluses became more pronounced. “The only regret I’ll ever have with you, Gwen, is taking too long to pull my head out of my ass to understand we’re bigger than what went down between us. This thing with Finch—my moodiness on our way here—is partly because of that, but there’s more to it. Stuff I didn’t want to discuss tonight.”

“What stuff?”

Spine rigid, his attention drifted over my head, to the club beyond. “You sure you want to hear this now?”

“We’re about to see Finch, so I think the answer to that is obvious.”