Page 13 of The Last Person (Baker Girls #5)

CHAPTER TEN

brIAN

I’m hanging on the precipice of death.

I know I’m not actually dead because there wouldn’t be this kind of pain and suffering. Even the devil isn’t this cruel.

My head weighs 3,427 pounds and is full of bees and pain.

If my limbs are still attached to my body, they don’t work. So that’ll make running down a football field and tackling people fun. Maybe they can hook me up to strings like a marionette.

Clearly, my brain isn’t doing well either, but that’s probably because I drowned it in alcohol last night. I could’ve stayed in and crocheted while Hardy binged more Dawson’s Creek.

But, no. I had to encourage going out and celebrating and him hooking up with a random girl.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

We’re all fine here.

And by we, I mean the separate parts of my body that I’m convinced are scattered around the room.

Like Luke Skywalker attempting to use the force to lift his ship while doing a handstand and balancing Yoda, I try to get all the parts of my body to reunite because as pathetic as I am this morning, I will not be piss-the-bed pathetic.

I can do this.

Open eyes.

Eyes open.

Eyelids, I command you. Open.

Slowly something happens. Light filters in, and I hate it immediately, but there’s no going back now.

Blinking, my vision finally clears, and I lift my head.

Mistake, but I don’t have another option.

Okay, time to make the rest of my body work. My arms get their shit together first, and I crawl out of bed, waiting for my legs to catch up. By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m somewhere between squatting and hobbling, but I manage to stand straight up for long enough to pee and wash my hands.

The walls are my friend as I make my way back out to my room.

Hardy’s gone. Assuming he slept in here last night and it wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

Glancing around, I find my nearest pair of shorts, fumble my way into them, then take the agonizing walk out to the kitchen, praying Hardy will know where the painkillers are because I need a handful of them.

Smells and sounds assault me as I turn the corner from the hallway into the kitchen, where I find Hardy dancing and singing to…

Beautiful Soul by Jesse McCartney. Leaning against the wall because I don’t fully trust my legs to hold me up, I watch Hardy bop around the kitchen while singing along with the lyrics.

Only Hardy could make me smile when I feel like rotting garbage.

This is one of those moments where I couldn’t imagine not living with him. He’s my bright spot when everything is dark.

A therapist would probably have a lot to say about that.

Something about codependency or that I’m relying on him in unhealthy ways.

Which is why I have no intention of ever discussing this with a therapist. If they told me to stop hanging out with Hardy or put space between us, I’d walk out and never go back.

And that’s a thought I’m not touching with a ten-foot-pole, especially while I’m battling the worst hangover of my life.

“Encore,” I say as the song ends. I whistle, then wince because my head is still buzzing and achy.

Hardy spins around and grins at me. “The cave troll lives.”

I groan all the way to the island, then drop onto a stool. “How can you be so upbeat and bounce back from last night so quickly?”

“Because I’m not an eighty-year-old man in a twenty-five-year-old’s body.”

I stick my finger up at him as I rest my head on the kitchen island. “Counter. Cold. Good.”

He ruffles my hair and sets something down next to me. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“If it’s green, I don’t want it.”

He laughs and rubs my shoulder, and it instantly brightens my mood. I shouldn’t get used to this—shouldn’t rely on him to make me feel better. It blurs lines that need to stay crystal clear. But everything else is blurry this morning, so why the fuck not?

“It’s not green. It’s black like the pit you crawled out of.”

I lift my head slightly and look at it.

“It’s a chocolate banana milkshake,” Hardy says, then sets a glass of water and a little white bottle beside it. “With a painkiller chaser.”

I sit all the way up, my head throbbing in protest as I do. “More like an appetizer.”

I dump a couple of pills in my hand, then glug them down with some water before reaching for the smoothie. It’s cold, and as the chocolatey flavor coats my tongue, a bit of relief hits me.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Plus, I need you semi-functional before we have to be at the stadium this morning.”

I groan again, and he shakes his head.

“Seriously, how are you this”—I gesture in his direction—“you this morning? We drank the same amount last night.”

“First, it’s okay to accept that you’ll never be as awesome as me. Second, we did not drink the same amount last night. I had twenty gallons of tequila, you had about fifty.”

I lift one shoulder, not particularly wanting to recall that moment.

Dancing with that girl between us was as close as I’m ever going to get to dancing with Hardy like that.

Then she turned to him, and I knew what was happening.

It’s been a while—and my feelings for him have unfortunately grown since the last time I had to witness it—but him hooking up with a random girl isn’t unusual.

It had just been long enough that I let myself get comfortable with our friendship being his focus.

Our friends have said Hardy could—or does—have feelings for me too. But all it takes is one night like last night to remind myself how untrue that is.

“What can I say? I was bored, and you took forever getting your dick wet.”

He scrunches his face up, staring at me like I’m an idiot.

“I was gone for fifteen minutes, and I told you when I got back to the bar that I didn’t hook up. Okay, I know you drank more than me, but how much? What got into you? I’ve never seen you drunk like that.”

I blink at him, torn between feeling relieved that he didn’t hook up to being frustrated that my reaction to him hooking up was to drink that much. He’s right. That’s not who I’ve ever been.

I drink to unwind or maybe get a little tipsy. I don’t drink to avoid my problems.

Maybe moving in with him was a mistake. But then I look at the chocolate banana milkshake he made me, and I can’t imagine not living with him. My life would be boring—and much emptier—without him.

And that right there is the problem.

I’m enjoying all the things about our friendship that give me the closeness and intimacy of a relationship, while not actually having a relationship with him. It’s messing with my head and my heart.

But absolutely none of that is something I’d admit to Hardy, so I fall back on an easy excuse.

“Eh, it’s been a bit since we went out, and I forgot how overwhelming it can be. I had a bit of an introvert spiral and thought alcohol would help. Won’t be making that mistake again.”

He folds his arms over his chest as he looks at me. “You know, you don’t have to suggest going out if you hate it.”

“You don’t have to stay home with me just because it’s not my scene. Contrary to how the team teases us, we aren’t an old married couple. You should do what you want to do, not cater to me.”

He frowns, then turns and focuses on cleaning up the few dishes he made. “Who says I’m not doing what I want to do?”

“Because you were never the guy to skip out on a party or going out with the team.”

“Oh, so a man can’t grow, change, or mature?”

“I’m sure a man can, but you?” I tilt my hand back and forth.

He clutches his chest. “Hey, I can be mature. I’m more mature than at least a quarter of the guys on the team.”

“Comparing yourself to TJ, Beckett, and those types of guys is a low bar.”

“Well, let the record reflect that I’m the one who helped you home last night and put you to bed.”

“You did not put me to bed. You followed me to my room.”

His smile turns feral, and something whirls in my stomach. “Technically, you dragged me.”

“I… did?”

I frantically replay everything I can remember about last night, horrified that I might’ve said something—revealed something to him.

He laughs and smacks my shoulder. “Relax, man. It’s not your fault. I know I’m irresistible.” Then he winks at me and walks toward the hallway to his room, calling over his shoulder. “Be ready to go in thirty!”

I hang my head, but not in frustration at his bullshit. Because I’m a mess, and if I want to keep our friendship safe in its perfectly manufactured box, messy is one thing I can’t be.

But I’m sure getting my shit together—or better yet, getting over my feelings—will be simple. Easiest thing I’ve ever done. Might as well make the game-winning touchdown at the Super Bowl while I’m at it.

I meander back to my bedroom, sipping on my milkshake. There’s no way I’m rallying before practice.

Thirty-six hours and two showers later, I still smell like alcohol.

Thank god practice yesterday was mostly game footage and weight lifting. I still almost puked toward the end of weight training, but I held it together.

Today is our day off for the week, and I slept like the dead last night.

I’ll probably have to change my sheets tonight because they stink of sweaty alcohol. With a pinch of Hardy in there. I’d like to keep that. Bottle it and spray it everywhere. That wouldn’t be weird, right?

Ugh, I’m hopeless.

I can’t get Hardy out of my head, and a part of me doesn’t want to. That fantasy where he’s mine is too delicious to get rid of. Even if it is slowly killing me.

Not as much as Hardy walking around the apartment in low-slung gray sweats and nothing else this morning.

Steam spills out as I open the shower door and climb in.

I just need a hot shower. Let it all wash away.

Except that’s not what happens at all, because the second I close my eyes, Hardy’s face fills my mind, and all the blood in my body rushes to my cock.

Sometimes I fight off these urges. I don’t want to complicate things with him or make it too difficult to be around him. But other times… it’s too overwhelming, and I shamelessly give in.

Like right now as I soap up my hand and run it down my hard cock, groaning as I do.

My mind drifts back to the other night, and Hardy sharing my bed. How I wish he’d share my bed for real. Then I’m back in the moment a few weeks ago, him pinned beneath me. I imagine letting every fear go and kissing him. Him kissing me back. Us tangling together on the floor.

And then my mind is torn between whether I’d rather see him come and listen to every sinful noise he’d make or have him take care of me.

Never mind. It’s that one.

“Fuck,” I moan, stroking myself faster.

My heart rate ticks up, and I rest one hand flat on the wall to steady myself as that weightless feeling washes over me.

I imagine the sounds of him choking and gasping around my cock. The way his head would bob. How he’d look up at me from under his lashes like he knew it was the best blow job I’d ever have.

My balls tighten. I’m seconds away from erupting all over the wall when there’s a tickling sensation on the hand against the wall.

I flash my eyes open and see my worst nightmare. A spider crawling across my hand.

The scream that erupts from me is loud and high-pitched, but I can’t stop myself. I hate spiders. I’ve always hated them.

Staggering backward, I swing my arm around, trying to fling the spider off me. I shove the shower door open and tumble out, looking all over for the spider, still screaming every time I think I feel it on me.

I’m spinning and flailing around the room, my still-hard cock bouncing with each movement.

“Brian?” Hardy’s urgent voice comes from beyond the door before he charges inside, buck naked and cock as hard as mine.

Don’t look at it.

I just looked at it.

Holy fuck, I can’t breathe.

Am I having a heart attack?

“Why are you naked?” I yell.

“I heard you screaming. And I was… about to take a shower. What’s going on? Why are you naked?” he asks.

“I was in the shower. And there was a spider!” I shriek, jumping backward as it crawls out of the shower.

Hardy stares down at the rapidly moving black horror. “You do realize you’re a two-hundred-sixty pound outside linebacker, right? You could kill it with barely the flick of your fingers.”

“That would mean I’d have to touch it!” I jump back again.

Hardy sighs, grabs a paper cup off the counter, and scoops the spider up. “Sorry, little guy. He looks scary, but he’s really a scared little kitten.”

He takes the spider over to the window and puts it outside, then dutifully closes the window again.

“Are you sure it’s gone?” I ask.

“Positive.”

My chest heaves as I suck in air, and suddenly, my eyes are back on Hardy. His muscular chest and abs. And his hard cock.

This is fine.

We’re just two besties hanging out naked in the bathroom with hard-ons. Situation normal, nothing to see here.

Except his dick, which my eyes are still locked on.

Come on, eyeballs, get your shit together.

I finally look up at him, and he’s staring at me—and my dick?—mouth agape.

“Thank you,” I squeak.

He clears his throat. “Uh, no problem. I’ll just let you get back to it.”

“Right. Good. You get back to it too.” I cringe at that because I’m fairly certain he wasn’t getting in the shower. He was probably about to get off, and now I’m imagining him doing that, stroking his cock over and over—

“Right. Later.” He hurries out of the room, giving me the perfect shot of his ass as he goes.

I toss my head back and reach for my cock again.

I’m losing control. I wouldn’t even care if he walked in and saw me. Some sick part of me wants him to.

I’m aching with need for him, precum dribbling from my tip, which must be why—after a thorough check of my shower—I climb right back inside and fuck my hand until I spill all over the shower wall.

It’s a mess, just like me. Like this entire situation.

I can’t keep doing this or I’m going to ruin everything. I have to figure out how to move on.