Page 20 of Licks

She placed the bible down and rustled through an open box while I stayed silent. I clutched the guitar with one hand, spun my pick around the fingers of my other. Over. Over. Under. Under. The smooth edges flew in a familiar pattern.

Gwen faced me, her neck and cheeks flushed. “I found a few mementos the past month, stuff I couldn’t toss.” She moved closer, by my knees, and held out a felt circle.

No matter my raging turmoil, I couldn’t fight my laugh. “You still have that thing?”

“And our old class pictures, which I won’t let you see.”

“But you rocked those braces.”

“It’s more the frilly blouses my mother made me wear. They’ve all been burned.”

I eased the guitar to the floor and smiled at the badge Gwen had made for me. In the middle, stitched with wonky black thread, it read:

August Cruz

Badass PI

She’d made them, one for each of us, when our neighbor’s garden gnome had gone missing. Our sleuthing had never turned up the ugly statue, but she’d pull out our badges when we’d hunt down clues about her father. Those hours had often revolved around Gwen riffling through her mother’s purse, finding stray business cards, then trolling the internet for leads, sure her father’s name would turn up. We’d stalk men she’d find and show them photos of Gwen’s mom.

All futile searches, but I’d loved the softness of the felt PI badge in my pocket. A connection to Gwen.

She stepped between my knees and placed the badge over my stuttering heart. “It was stupid to keep it, but…” She shrugged, flattening her palm on my chest. Her chest expanded as fully as mine, more color flushing her olive skin.

I spun the guitar pick around my fingers, faster, faster. My thoughts skittered as quickly. And bam, the Zap was back. An electric surge.

I wanted to latch my hands around her hips and tug her to me. Slip my hands down the front of her pants and stroke her silky heat, feel everything I’d been denied. Slam my cock into her, hard, fast, dirty. I also wanted to press my forehead into her abdomen and whisper how much I’d missed her.

Surprisingly, I didn’t want to tell her off. Not anymore.

Especially since the anger I’d nursed hadn’t been directed solely at her.

As twins at the same school, Finch and I had occasionally lusted after the same girls. He’d even fooled around with Kayla before we’d hooked up. I’d made sure he was cool with me asking her out before anything happened, but he knew how I’d felt about Gwen. I’d told him, grumpy and often, how worried I’d been to make a move on her and screw things up, lose her friendship.

Not just for me, but more for her.

I was all Gwen had. If I’d ruined that, she’d have been left with nothing.

I’d nearly pulled out my hair when I’d heard about her dating that Jared douche. I’d been miserable about it, and Finch knew. He’d even promised to look out for her after she’d cut me off, because I’d been worried about her. He’d agreed to my request. Not without asking for a favor in return. A doozy of a favor. I’d held up my end of our bargain.

Turns out “looking out for Gwen” translated to Finch as “banging her.”

There was intent with that. Premeditation. Especially after what I’d done for him. It had ignited our growing tension, stress Gwen never knew about. I’d assumed Gwen had been screwing with me, too. That they’d gone out of their way to hurt me. Nine years later, she confessed her actions had been a result of her messed up childhood, her past warping her choices.

And here she was, hand pressed to my aching chest, affection in her eyes.

As though my limbs had a mind of their own, I anchored my hand over hers, flattening our palms. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

So tightly clasped against me, I felt her hand flinch. I damn well flinched: I hadn’t planned to blurt the question that had dogged me since knocking on her door.

She bit her lip and shook her head. “Not for a while.”

I exhaled heavily.

Her fingers dug deeper into my chest, her thumb sinking between my pecs, and my cock thickened. “Do you?” she asked, almost breathless. “A girlfriend, I mean. Women must throw themselves at you.” She winced slightly, as though a headache had set in.

“No one important,” I said. No one worth writing songs about, good or bad.

“Oh.”