Lose the bet, Brooks, and the Abbott and the nan and the cat can all be yours. Lose the bet, lose the bet, lose the bet—those three words repeat in my head, over and over, and will probably haunt me for the rest of my damn life. Tell her you love her. Be a man and say it, pussy.
As if on cue, Desi mews.
Pitiful. Pathetic.
A feline actress sent to torment me.
“Well…I should go inside. As you can tell, the cat’s going crazy.”
I would hardly call a few meows going crazy, but I’m not about to argue with her when she’s already crabby at me. Abbott needs to cool off. In a few days, I’ll stop by her place and we can have a serious talk.
After I figure out what the fuck I’m going to do. How do I explain that I want and need her to fit into my life but can’t have her right this second—on the spot like this, conversing in the hallway of our apartment building where anyone could overhear us? Abbott might not think anyone is listening, but I know for a fact we have a few nosey fucking neighbors; we don’t see them often, but they’re lurking.
Which is hardly the point.
The point is…I need time to think.
23
Brooks
I stop by her place a few days later. Then the next day.
Then the next. And the next. And the fucking next, and I don’t know if Abbott has been home any of the numerous times I’ve knocked on her door, but she isn’t answering. My texts? They aren’t being answered, either.
She’s shutting me out, and it’s crushing me.
Crushing me in a way my heart hasn’t known since Stacey Kipplinger broke it in sixth grade, checking the “no” box when I passed her a note asking if she liked me and writing I would never date someone who wore hand-me-down jeans in the blank space at the bottom.
I wonder what that bitch is up to these days.
The Basement isn’t kind to me tonight, either. I arrive to a crowded bar, a crowded dining area, and my friends, who are already three sheets to the wind and itching to joke around.
They’re wearing their blue jackets while I’ve left mine at home, in no mood to wear the damn thing when it smells like Abbott and her baby powder.
I would know, because I checked.
Sulking, I slouch down in my chair, not thirsty, ill-humored and horrible company.
“Dude. What’s your fucking problem?” Phillip is shoveling one too many free mints into his mouth, feet propped up on the coffee table, dress shoes shined to an unnatural gloss. Where the hell did he shine those up, the airport?
“Nothing is my problem, dude.”
That’s not true, but it’s not like I can confess my girl problems to these idiots. They’d be up my ass so fast, calling forfeit and roasting me.
Lose the bet, Brooks, and the Abbott and the nan and the cat can all be yours.
Lose the damn bet and get Abbott back.
Back?
You fool, you never actually had her.
I shake my head, disturbed. These voices in my head have got to shut the fuck up—they’re messing with my work, my sleep patterns, and my fun.
Life without Abbott sucks.
I stopped by her place a few nights ago after work, gave her door a few knocks.
Nothing.
This morning before leaving for the office, I tried again, early enough that I knew she was at home. Abbott isn’t an early riser—the girl hates waking up, never skips breakfast. The only response to my knock?
Desdemona’s pitiful mewing at the door. Fucking tore at my heartstrings.
“You’re being a bitch.” The tip of Phillip’s dress shoe bumps the calf of my dress pants.
I throw my hands in the air. “I haven’t done anything.”
“It’s not what you said, but how you haven’t said it.” Blaine is suddenly the authority on my mood swings? Like I’m not allowed to feel like shit? Or be crabby? Or have a few fucking moments of peace and quiet?
Phillip pops an olive into his mouth, adding, “I speak fluent body language.”
“Is that so? What am I saying now?” I throw up my hands again, this time with two middle fingers tossed in his direction.
“You’re showing us the size and girth of your dick.” They both laugh, smacking each other in the arm.
It’s official: they’re the village idiots.
You’re their ringleader, Brooks. You’re responsible for their behavior just as much as they are. The club wasn’t their idea, it was yours. Blaine and Phillip are like two children, taking my lead and running with it. They’re not saying or doing anything I haven’t done myself or told them to do.
They’re simply playing by the rules we made; meanwhile, I’m questioning them.
Because you fell in love, dipshit, and refuse to admit it.
Refuse to lose.
Lose Abbott.
It’s one or the other.
Phillip interrupts my thoughts. “Wow, you sure have a lot on your mind. For real, bro—do you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah dude, you actually look like you might cry.” Blaine backs him up, as usual.
I look like I’m going to cry?
I run a finger along the bottom of my eye and sure enough—it’s damp.
What the fuck?
“I am not going to cry.”
“I didn’t say you were—I said it looks like you might cry.”
Too late.
I already am kind of.
Except I’d never fucking admit it to these two. It would only lead to more tears, not to mention twenty questions that I have no intention of answering.
“Guess I’m just…” I pause, searching for a plausible lie. “Stressed out.”
“Work?”
“Sure.” Let’s go with that. “The partners are breathing down my neck about a development.”
More like a social development.
“I thought you weren’t on that development at work anymore. You said you were promoted.”
Crap.
I didn’t think these numbskulls listened when I spoke. “It’s a new one. A new, um, development.”
A development currently known as: self-destruction of my love life and ruining the best possible relationship I’ll ever have for a vacation timeshare I’ll never use and a beat-up ATV I have no storage for.
Awesome, Brooks.
Just. Awesome.
Blaine nods knowingly. “Ah.”
Clearing my throat, I occupy my hands by shoveling in a handful of nuts then washing them down with bourbon. “What do you two have going on besides work?”
Phillip is all smiles. “Can’t complain. Finally got the temp in human resources to give me a blow job in the supply closet.”
Blaine’s brows shoot up. “Dude, that is such a violation of company policy on so many levels.”
“I know—before she’d blow me, she made me sign a document about not suing her for sexual harassment and confirming it was consensual.”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on—she made you sign something? You didn’t make her sign?”
Phillip considers this. “Um, no. She’s the one in a position of authority, duh.”
“But she was blowing you in the supply closet.”
“Exactly.”
“But…”