Page 7 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Five Years Ago, December

In a word? Intrigued.

F or the second time that night, I was glad Nate couldn’t see my face. I needed a split second to comprehend his question.

Do you want to go back to my place?

The heat of his body against my back as we leaned against the bar was almost dizzying. I waited for my anxiety to kick in and make my decision for me, telling me to bail on the whole night as quickly as possible.

But then I remembered the words Gemma said to me again.

“Why not have fun for the night? It doesn’t have to be that serious, I promise.”

And she wasn’t wrong. Two consenting adults were allowed to do what two consenting adults wanted to do. A one-night stand didn’t have to be a high-pressure situation if I didn’t want it to be.

He doesn’t give off murder vibes, Oli , I told myself, and you wanted to live a little. So here is your chance. Live.

“Yes.” I nodded, our noses nearly touching when I turned my face toward his .

Nate held my eye for a beat too long, static and tension forming in the air between us. In sync, we each picked up our waters and polished them off. Then, he paid the tab, took my hand, and led me out of the club with long, confident strides.

I was grateful for the slight chill in the air that kept me grounded as we made our way out the front doors, around the side of the building, and down the sidewalk.

Something about the brightly illuminated streetlights and the open air of the quiet road around us made me assess Nate all over again.

I took him in without the shroud of darkness and strobe lights.

He was still tall, towering over me by an entire head.

But now I could see his deep blue eyes had a mischievous look to them, like there was always some smart-ass remark lingering on the tip of his tongue.

He combed his dark hair out of his face with long fingers, confirming my suspicion he did that a lot.

He gestured to a black car parallel-parked ahead of us.

“This is me,” he said, jogging ahead to open the passenger door for me.

His eyes caught mine again and I held his gaze, hovering just outside the open door.

He leaned in, and my breath hitched when he planted a soft, chaste kiss on my lips before I ducked into the passenger seat.

“Are you cold?” he asked as he pulled out of the parking spot and started down the dark road.

I was cold, but in a way that clears your head and makes you feel refreshed.

A much-welcomed reprieve after the alcohol and the stifling heat I didn’t realize was suffocating me slowly when we were inside.

I took deep, cleansing breaths, letting the crisp air fill my lungs, and rested my head back against the headrest.

“I’m okay. ”

“I’m only about ten minutes up the road here.” He pointed ahead with a wrist atop the steering wheel.

Why are guys so sexy when they drive?

“If you get cold, just let me know.” Nate fiddled with the radio, skipping through a playlist that was connected to his phone. My attention focused on the music, noting the artists’ names as he flipped through. I only recognized a few of them; the rest I’d never even heard of.

He finally landed on a song he was happy with and let it play. A few notes in, he glanced my way. “What kind of music do you listen to?”

I’d had an interest in music for as long as I could remember.

I learned to play piano when I was little and took music theory and music history classes in high school.

But it was my minor in music in undergrad that solidified my appreciation at a deeper level.

I listened to anything from classical to classic rock, pop to metalcore, and prided myself on having a wide interest in music with a record collection to match. It was my most prized possession.

“A little bit of everything, honestly.”

He nodded. “Same. I’m not particular. The only thing I get picky about is country.”

I had to agree. My taste was wide enough that having strong opinions one way or another was pretty rare. I could almost always find something to enjoy, no matter the artist.

While some spent their time pretentiously hating anything that wasn’t their favorite genre, I liked to look at it as more of a spectrum that shifted with life’s seasons.

I tended to lean toward classic rock and alternative indie groups personally but could sing along to Taylor Swift or Top 40 Hits like the best of them.

The way I saw it, music was quite literally made to be enjoyed. The beautiful thing about it was there was a genre for everyone .

Nate thrummed the tips of his fingers on the wheel and hummed along to the folksy melody playing.

“This song is good,” I nodded along.

“Isn’t it?” His wide eyes left the road for a millisecond to smile over at me. “They’re some of the most talented people making music right now. And they’re just as good live, if not better.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Yes, and they were amazing.” My eyes caught on his sharp jawline as he checked his blind spot. “What’s worse is, like, nobody outside of New England has heard of them.”

“Seriously? That’s crazy. They’re so good.”

I nodded to the rest of the song as it played, enjoying Nate’s quiet humming almost as much. When it ended, he turned on another song by the same artist. I loved it, too.

It was hard not to laugh at myself. I’d always imagined what it would be like to leave the club with a guy for a potential one-night stand.

I’d watched my friends do it lots of times.

They and their prince charmings (sometimes frogs, if I’m honest) would exit through the club doors in a whirlwind, not to be seen until the next morning, severely hungover but somehow looking exhilarated.

Sometimes, they would rave about the fun night they had, and other times, they lamented about their ridiculously embarrassing experience over brunch.

But I never thought about what happens in the in-between. After the club doors close, but before the clothes come off. I felt silly for my ignorance.

“You okay?” Nate asked, breaking my unintended silence. He smiled over at me with closed lips, showing off the dimple on his right cheek .

“Yeah,” I lied. I was getting more nervous the closer we got to his place. “Just thinking about something Gemma said earlier.” I waved dismissively. “So, are you and Grant close?”

Smooth subject change. Not.

“Oh yeah, we’ve known each other forever.”

“Childhood friends?”

“Yeah. Played tee-ball and everything. His brother and I are in a band.”

A band? You’ve got to be kidding me.

Now, I really had to fight the urge to snort a laugh at the ridiculousness.

Of course, the mysterious hot stranger I was going to be one-night-standing it with was in a fucking band.

How cliché. Did it matter, though? Even if he turned out to be the damaged, woe-is-me, tortured-poet type I was now certain he was…

he was still very hot and most definitely not a murderer.

“A band?” I played along. “Very cool. What instrument do you play?”

He’s going to make me listen to him play "Wonderwall" later, isn’t he?

Dry spell, Oli, dry spell.

“It depends on the song. I sing and mostly play guitar, but sometimes I play the piano. Grant’s brother, Jared, is mainly on drums.”

I noted his use of the word “mainly,” implying they all played other instruments, but I chose to protect my peace by not asking him to elaborate.

“What’s the band called?”

“Crescent Light.”

I nodded. “Cool name. I’ll have to check you guys out sometime.”

I waited for him to force feed me one of his songs through the speakers while he had a captive audience in his car, but he just kept tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel as the next song played .

My palms turned sweaty when we pulled into a nice-looking apartment complex. My fingers twisted together in my lap. My clothes felt too tight, too itchy, too warm.

Relax, I self-soothed, just have fun with it.

Nate led us through a side door of the building and up a set of stairs. I couldn’t help but study his movements as he climbed the stairs in front of me and fiddled with his keys to unlock the apartment door, the way his body moved with careless relaxation.

When he opened the door, he walked ahead and leaned against it for me to pass, putting a hand on the small of my back to guide me through.

“So, this is my place,” he said, his voice holding an almost imperceptible apprehension.

Glad I’m not the only one.

He flipped on a light, pointing across the open concept space to a floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the living room wall, and the large cat perched on a cat tree there. “And that’s my cat, Billie.”

I made a beeline to the cat. Billie was quite possibly the cutest thing I’d ever seen—dusty gray and fluffy with a mostly white face and pink nose. The cat lounged lazily but slowly unrolled from the ball it had been lying in for me to give it a scratch under the chin.

“Oh, hi, Billie,” I cooed to the cat as I traced a finger between its eyes, over the top of its head, and around its ear. Billie’s head turned, leaning into the touch.

“She’s the light of my life,” Nate said in an exasperated tone from behind me, “and she’s spoiled as all get out.”

“As she should be.”

Billie let out a low rumble of a purr, closing her eyes against my hand.

Reluctantly, I turned away from her to take in the rest of the apartment. Maybe I had a preconceived notion of what it would look like based on the fact he was a single guy in his twenties who was also in a band, but the place was shockingly nice.

I’d been in some truly heinous bachelor pads before, the kind that shakes you out of a lust-filled stupor and tells you to run for the hills.

I half-expected the floor to be littered with dirty laundry and take-out boxes, or worse.

But alas, Nate pleasantly surprised me. The apartment was clean and simplistic, with high ceilings, tidy, faux-marble countertops, and sleek furniture.

There were even a couple of house plants scattered on the countertops and on floating shelves in the only small hallway.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.” He put his hands on his hips and looked around, too, as if he was trying to take it in the same way a first-time visitor would. “It’s pretty bare bones. I’m not here all the time, and I don’t have that much stuff, so I never have a reason to get settled in.” He pivoted in place. “Water?”

“Yes, please.”

As he grabbed two glasses out of the white cabinets, I watched his shoulders flex under his shirt, and my stomach fluttered again with a new wave of butterflies.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

He gestured around the corner. I just needed a second to shake out the buzzing nerves in my fingers and toes. Gather my thoughts. Get a grip.

As soon as I was alone in the bathroom, I shut my eyes and wrung my hands violently.

Be cool, Olive, be cool.

I crossed to the sink and ran my hands under the cold water, pressing them to the back of my neck, hoping it would help ground me.

It didn’t. The hand towel next to the sink was soft and fluffy against my skin and smelled like dryer sheets.

A far, far cry from the crusty frat boy towels I’d had to endure before.

Is this a bad idea? Should I turn back now and pretend tonight never happened?

My head was starting to ache as the drunkenness left my body, and the first signs of a mild hangover set in.

When I faced myself in the mirror, my cheeks were flushed. Whether it was from alcohol or rosacea, I had no idea. But it didn’t matter because, under the nerves, I recognized something else, too.

Excitement.

Thrilling, eager, anticipatory excitement. Despite the anxiety, I knew what the next step of the night was. Shit, I was blushing at just the thought of kissing Nate again. The thought of going further? It made me damn near giddy.

Looking myself in the eye, I mentally repeated the mantra I’d adopted for the evening:

Fuck it.

I’m doing this.

I left the bathroom with newfound confidence, vowing to embrace whatever the rest of the night brings, no matter what.

I am sexy. I am desirable. And damn it, I deserve this.

Nate was still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with two glasses of water next to him. Soft music played through the apartment; some indie guitar rhythm accompanied by a slow, steady drumbeat. He gave me a soft, close-mouthed smile as I approached him.

“I think I’m going to need a shot for courage,” I blurted. We both knew where this was going. No use in trying to be coy about it. “What do you have that’s strong? ”

His smile spread into an amused grin. “Okay.” He let out a low chuckle. “You sure?”

“Yep.” I popped the p when I said it. “What do you got?”

“Let’s see…” He trailed off as he turned to face the cabinets above the sink.

He grabbed two shot glasses, handing them to me one at a time.

When he reached back up to rifle through the bottles of liquor stashed there, my eyes drifted to the inch of skin that came exposed in a line above the waistline of his pants.

“You up for whiskey? I think it’s the best I have up here.

Or I have red wine if that sounds better. ”

I made a face. “Hard pass on red wine. Whiskey is perfect.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any vodka. I know you’ve been drinking clear liquor all night.”

Sweet of him to notice. “Whiskey will do just fine.”

He smirked at me over his eyelashes as he poured amber liquid into the shot glasses. “Not in a celebrating-slash-‘fuck it’ mood anymore, I take it?”

“Nope.” I shook my head once. “Just ‘fuck it.’”

“Okay, well, we can only take one shot of this stuff. I still need my dick to work.”

I guess he doesn’t see the point in being coy, either.

Heat rose higher on my cheeks as he handed me one of the shot glasses, then held his own high in the air in a toast. “Fuck it.”

I clinked the rim of my glass with his. “Fuck it.”

We downed the shots in one go, and before I could even put my glass back on the counter, Nate was plucking it out of my hand and closing the space between us.