Page 4 of Licks

“Gwen!” A waving hand caught my eye. When I noticed the hand was attached to Finch, I cursed the birthday gods for making this the suckiest birthday in the history of sucky birthdays.

My mother’s curt phone call this morning had been as warm as a polar bear’s ass. I used to get a yearly birthday card from my aunt, but those had vanished when I’d turned twelve. My grandparents pretended I didn’t exist, and I’d just confessed my love to a boy who’d already given his girlfriend a promise ring. A freaking promise ring. Like it was 1950.

Now I had to spend the night looking at his identical twin.

A Jäger-bath and Ben & Jerry’s chaser sounded better and better, but that involved actual effort.

Grumbling, I maneuvered toward Finch. Not an easy feat. A foot from my goal, some oaf in a Warriors jersey stumbled and dumped half his beer over my boobs.

“What the hell?” I attempted to shove him off, but the giant barely budged.

“Sorry about your shirt.” His sleazy smirk suggested he wasn’t particularly sorry.

I pinched the front of my sodden V-neck, the thin fabric fighting me as I peeled it off my chest. I could now add wet T-shirt contestant to this year’s birthday of awesome. “Next time you wanna waste your beer, pour it over your head.”

His lewd smirk graduated to vulgar. “It’s not a waste if I get to suck it off you.”

College students sure were classy.

Rolling my eyes, I flipped him the bird and squeezed toward Finch’s spot at the bar. Considering most students crammed into the overheated room were underage, the San Francisco fake ID racket must have been thriving. Tonight mine was a godsend.

Finch squeezed my hip and raised his voice over the music. “Glad you made it.”

I peered at him, unsure why he seemed to be on his own. “Did we have plans?”

“You didn’t get my text?”

If it had been sent after I’d humiliated myself with his brother, his message would be buried with that damning evidence. “I haven’t checked my phone in a bit.”

“Then I guess this is fate, and I get to buy you a birthday drink.”

I tried to smile at his sweet effort. When we were kids, he’d raised hell with August and me, but as we’d gotten older, August would often tell him to get lost. Finch would sulk, but I’d been too focused on his brother to insist he tag along. Alone time with August had been a valuable commodity.

The past year and a half, though, after having cut August from my life, Finch had been more present. The two of us were at the same school now. He’d make an extra effort to check in on me, inviting me to lunch, the library. He and August seemed to have drifted since high school, but my childish silent treatment meant I couldn’t ask August why, and there was an unspoken rule between Finch and me: August was a classified subject. Any mention of him or his name would disqualify our friendship.

A friendship I’d begun to count on. Finch even remembered my birthday.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Shot of Jäger.”

He cringed. “Who the hell drinks Jäger?”

“I do, apparently.” Because Jäger was the butthole of birthday drinks, and today was a butthole of a birthday. “I should order a double.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my wet T-shirt, to the now-visible black bra that had looked miles better on the Facebook model. He leaned closer. “Are you drunk, Gwen Hamilton?”

I met him the rest of the way, our noses an inch apart. “Not wasted enough.”

The people and music and laughter swirled around us, so loud and distracting that for a second I was sure it was August’s Roman nose nearly touching mine, his lips within biting distance. His scruffy jaw. His firm chest. But there was no scar on Finch’s chin. August’s scar had been acquired the night we’d snuck into the abandoned Wheeler home. Finch didn’t have an untamable lick of hair that always shot heavenward or callused fingers from endless guitar sessions. He hadn’t written songs for me while lying in the grass and staring at the sky.

But Finch was good for a laugh.

“You’re lucky you found me.” He pretended to tighten an invisible necktie. “We may have grown up neighbors, but I don’t think you know I have a PhD in intoxication.”

I rubbed my palms together in eager anticipation. “Do tell, Dr. Cruz.”

“Well, if you’re aiming for sad wasted, I’d suggest we start you off with tequila shots, followed by a keg of beer. If it’s giddy wasted you’re after, Long Island Iced Tea should do the trick.”