“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
We both settle in, the springs of the couch creaking as Bishop gets comfortable. I bunch up my pillow to get the right amount of neck support. Hudson is quiet from the bedroom, but his presence in the apartment feels heavy.
“Are you guys fucking?” I ask, even though it’s none of my business.
Bishop groans. “Do we seriously need to do this?”
I grind my teeth. Do we have to do this? Of course not. Do I want to do this? Not particularly. But fuck if the answer to that question isn’t plaguing me. The possibility didn’t occur to me until five minutes ago, and now I’m not sure I’ll be able to fall asleep without knowing.
“No, it’s none of my business.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” he agrees. “But, yes, Hudson and I hookup sometimes. I know you two have some mysterious issues with each other, but please don’t be a dick about this.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him exactly why I have such a problem with Hudson, but the words remain lodged in my throat. I don’t know why I’ve never told Bishop the truth. Maybe because I don’t want to open the conversation up to my own failings in the situation or because I don’t want him to tell me I’m overreacting and should forgive Hudson already. Both are undeniable, but the problem is it’s also so much more than the single event that broke our friendship. No one knows better than Bishop the resentment I built up over the years about the difference between Hudson’s family and mine.
When Hudson and I stopped talking senior year of high school, Bishop insisted that whatever he did couldn’t have been that bad. He said things would blow over between us like they always did. I understood why he thought that, because Hudson and I fought plenty over the years. During our eighteen year friendship we were either joined at the hip or about to come to blows, never anything in between.
Maybe, ultimately, the reason I never told him what Hudson did that changed the tide is because I didn’t think it was fair to ruin their friendship too. I still don’t think that would be fair.
“You’re an adult; you can sleep with whoever you want,” I answer.
“Thank you.”
“So, why exactly am I on the floor? You don’t have to sleep out here on my account if you want to go hop into bed with him.”
“Things are weird right now,” he confesses. “I told him last week that we can’t mess around anymore.”
“Why?”
The couch creaks again, and Bishop doesn’t answer for several moments. I roll onto my side and adjust my blankets, ready to drop the conversation and try to sleep.
“I don’t really know,” he finally confesses. “I think because I like him too much.”
My stomach clenches. I shouldn’t be surprised. They’ve been best friends all their lives, just like Bishop and me, but Hudson never picked up and left town. They have twelve more years of history that Bishop and I don’t. I want him too, so I can’t blame Hudson for feeling the same.
“Well, if he doesn’t like you back just as much then he’s an idiot,” I conclude.
“We both know Hudson’s always been an idiot,” he jokes, and we both chuckle.
Chapter 7
Hudson
It takes me several seconds to figure out if the tapping sound is coming from someone at the bedroom door or if it’s the sound of my brain trying to escape from my skull. I groan, which only makes the feeling of heavy gravel in my brain worse.
“Huds?” Bishop’s muffled voice comes through the door and settles in my chest like a soothing balm.
I open my eyes, wincing at the brightness of the morning sun streaming through the window. My jackassery from last night comes back to me with painful clarity, even more painful than my hangover.
If I climb out the window and go down the fire escape, is it possible Bishop will think he dreamed the whole thing about me coming over and making a fool of myself?
There’s another tap at the door, but this time he doesn’t wait for me to respond, instead easing it open slowly and sticking his head in. “Oh good, you’re alive.”
I swallow around my dry throat, taking in the sight of my best friend— his hair disheveled from sleep, lines from his pillow indented on his normally smooth cheek. I run my hand over the cold side of the bed. If he left me to sleep in here alone last night, where did he sleep?
Rather than spending too long pondering that question, I hold up the edge of the comforter in invitation. He closes the door behind him, the soft click echoing through the room, and arches an eyebrow at me.
“You think I’m going to fall for that old trick?”
“Trick?” I sputter with feigned offense. “Bish, I’ve never tricked you into bed.”
He snorts, inching closer to the bed but eyeing the open space warily. My stomach dances, and a smile curves the corner of my lips in spite of my pounding headache and distinct all-over garbage feeling too much booze has left me with.
“I meant it, Huds, we need to keep things platonic for right now while I sort some things out,” he hedges, his fingers curling around the hem of his shirt.
I hold the blankets up higher, and Bishop’s eyes widen a fraction as he takes in my mostly naked body.
“Look, I have underwear on and everything,” I assure him with a grin. “Come on, I don’t bite.”
He scoffs, finally closing the last few steps between us and climbing into bed beside me. “Tell that to the scar on my left nipple.”
I bark out a laugh, remembering that night three years ago when Bishop and I were ridiculously drunk and started to fool around. We stumbled into my bedroom, our hands all over each other, our mouths and bodies hungry for each other, dropping our clothes as quickly as we could manage. After we fell into bed, I found his bare chest right in front of my face, so I leaned forward and gently bit his nipple. Well, I meant to bite it gently, but I was drunk and apparently the move startled Bishop because he made a loud noise and jerked just as I was biting down and I may have bitten harder than intended.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, reaching up and rubbing his nipple through his shirt as if he can still feel the phantom pain.
“Relax, you still have both nipples.” His warmth seems to wrap around me as his body heat fills up the space between us. My cock thickens, and my body buzzes. He put the brakes on the sexual part of our relationship and as much as that sucks, I’m not going to push him. But cuddling isn’t sex.
“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously, eyeing me as I inch closer.
“Whatever you want me to do,” I tease, letting my voice dip into that low rumble I know always turns him on.
“Knock it off, or I’m getting out of this bed right now,” he warns.
“I’m not doing anything, Bish,” I say innocently, pressing my body against his and nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck.
“I can feel your dick,” he complains, a hint of breathlessness in his voice softening what I’m sure was meant to be a more scolding tone.
“Morning wood,” I reason, even though my hangover made sure I was plenty soft before my best friend slipped into bed beside me.