Sweet Ache

“Yeah, sure … sounds good.” I read the line I wrote, cross it out, and rewrite it. The perfect version of it is just beyond my reach, but I know it’s there.

“Or should we wait until after your court date next week?”

“No, this week is fine. Next week is crazy.” I blow out a breath, lyric lost at the sudden panic piercing through my concentration that all this could have been for nothing: the seminar, forcing Hunter to make empty promises I know he can’t keep, my inevitable fall from grace. Shit, the only good that’s come out of this whole situation is Quinlan.

“I added an appointment at Sledge’s on your calendar,” he deadpans, and now I’m sure as shit listening.

I snap my head up to meet his eyes when I hear the name of our tattoo artist. “Excuse me?”

“We made a deal, brother.” He smiles smugly. “I’m in the mix or there’s no proof.”

Irritation flickers and flames. “What exactly is it you’re looking for out of this besides just plain trying to piss me off?”

“You tell me, Hawke.” He stares, lips pursed, telling me to figure it out myself. “A bet’s a bet.”

“Yeah and an asshole’s an asshole.” I don’t have time for his games. He’s angling at a point, wouldn’t take this approach if he wasn’t, but I’m just trying to figure out what it is.

“I bet you’ll look pretty in pink.”

“And I think you’ll look uglier with my fist in your face. What gives, Vin?”

“What was the bet?” I look at him like he’s losing his mind.

“Tame the untamable. Sleep with Quin by lecture’s end, you in on the action for proof, or else I get the tat of stupidity.” I roll my eyes, exasperation setting in. “But that was before….” My voice trails off as I wave my fingers in a gesture of irrelevance.

“Before what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” I bite the words off, the unspoken confession hanging there that I don’t want to fess up to yet. I’m just not sure if my hesitancy is because I don’t want Vince to know or if I’m not ready to admit it to myself.

“Never mind? What, you got a thing for her?”

“No. Drop it.”

“Drop what?” Vince goads me with a smug smirk that irks me to no end. What the fuck is he trying to get at here?

“You wanted to know about the bet? What about it?” All I want is to change the subject.

He narrows his brow and studies me. “Did you sleep with her?”

I give Vince an are you that fucking stupid? look. “Nope.”

It’s his turn to give me the fuck you sigh so common between us. “Dude, the studio’s walls aren’t that soundproof. Jesus, the two of you almost got me off from audio alone.”

“Damn, that was hot,” I’m unable to resist commenting because fuck, it was. I don’t think I’ll even be able to play that guitar again without the image of her on it distracting me. Shit, I just might have to hang that puppy on the wall with some of my other favorites…. The best part is everyone will assume it’s there because I wrote this or that song on it. It’s none of their fucking business I wrote music on it but not the kind they’re thinking about. “But wait, if you’ve heard us, why do you need proof?”

“Because a bet’s a bet. Why not finish it?”

“Hmm. Who said I wasn’t going to?” I say although my head is screaming over my dead body. Sharing Quinlan and the goddamn perfection she is between the sheets and the kind I’m finding out she is beyond the bed—patient, feisty, naughty, thoughtful—is out of the question.

So now of course I’m between a rock and a hard place when the only place I want to be back between is Quinlan’s thighs. Do I go back on my word for the first and only time in my life with Vince, balk on our bet? Or do I just follow through, stay true to the wager, and hate myself for doing it?

But what about being true to myself?

I swear to fucking God women are like alcohol. They smell great, they taste delicious, and right or wrong, they kill you slowly, one way or another. But shit, death by the slow burn Quinlan’s lit within me sounds like a pretty fucking perfect way to go.

“Well, let’s see, I don’t hear you inviting me into the mix to finish the bet off.” I groan as Vince’s words pull me from my thoughts, from the vision floating in my head of Quinlan lying on my bed, legs spread, eyes inviting, and her lips begging me to fuck her. Jesus if the image was any hotter it would be a goddamn porno.

“Could it be that Quin means more to you than a romp in bed? That for once you’re seeing the one thing I’ve been trying to get you to see for the past … umm … forever? Might you be falling for her, Hawke? Might she actually think you’re worth it?”

“No.” Yes. He’s fucking with my head in this conversation, and I’m not too thrilled about it. We’re in uncomfortable territory for me. That place I don’t delve except for in my own mind. The dark inadequacies I refuse to speak about must be rather transparent since Vince is calling me on the carpet over them.

My pride, my ego, everything I hold on to tightly to prove that I am not the weakling my dad was. I can’t fall for anyone, because the one thing I know … is that love makes you weak.

I hate the bullshit pile of emotions I feel right now. That contradiction between what I’ve always believed and that weird stirring wanting to see Quinlan again. Gauging my days on if she’s gonna come around. Fuck, this is fucked.