Page 36 of Summertime Friends

Sometimes, crazy is good. Great really. Every sane human is a bit crazy. And whatever this feeling is. . . it’s abso-fucking-lutely, making me crazy.

My pull to Emerson is easy. Too easy that it should be wrong, but I can’t get enough of it. Enough of her.

That’s why it’s crazy. Yeah?

Do you know what crazy leads to? Impulsive and improper, nonsensical decisions.

That’s why I lied to her about today. When she told me she was heading to Lagos, I told her we were too. We weren’t.

From the hotel hallway, I barge through the suite’s front door. I pound on the door leading to Callum’s room and follow it with a loud fist to George’s door.

“Rise and shine! We’re leaving in twenty minutes.” My voice rings loud enough to wake other guests on the floor, maybe the whole hotel.

There’s no sound of movement coming from either room.

Callum won’t take long to pack; he’s not as much of a slob as George. I don’t even try to imagine what I’m about to see when I walk into the room he claimed. Clothes might not even be my biggest concern either.

The door creaks open. Taking in the room, it’s not as bad as I expected. Clothes from the previous night everywhere, but that’s it.

My eyes catch what else is thrown about the floor—a set of black lace knickers haphazardly next to a neon pink minidress and a pair of Prada heels.

“George!” He groans as Beatrix Archer’s head pops out from under the duvet. The white sheet and duvet fall down her body as she sits up against the headboard. Her bare chest pointed directly at me.

“Oi, Bea, what a pleasant surprise!” I toss her a smile and George’s shirt from the ground.

“Good morning, Hayes,” her floral, feminine voice replies. She tosses George’s shirt back at me.

“Heading to Lagos for the day. I’ve booked us rooms at Avenida. Train leaves in an hour,” I say to George.

“Is the sun even up, mate?” George asks grogily.

“You would know, assuming that’s when you two went to sleep.”

George growls at me but reluctantly climbs out of bed, naked. Bea looks over at him, rolls her eyes, but leaves them on him, and watches with longing.

“Didn’t realize you were in Lisbon,” I tell her.

There isn’t another female I know who is confident enough to pull off that shade of pink. Beatrix Archer, Bea for short, is the love of George’s life, despite what he tells anyone—it’s painfully obvious, though. Bea puts thebeain beautiful. Quite fit that one. Darker olive skin. The richest brown hair that matches her eyes. Tall, barely shy of six feet.

They met at boarding school. George and Bea went their separate ways after sixth form, but kept in touch through university. She’d appear for a weekend, and George would disappear the following weekend.

We never knew if they were ever properly together or not. They flaunted relationships in front of each other or dared the other to decide who to hook up with that night during visits—a game Ihated watching because she is like a sister to me. Anytime Cal and I tried to stop it, they ignored us.

“Neither did I.” George flashes her a glare over his shoulder. “Even told her last week we’d be here.”

Her face pales. Her tone is raw when she responds, “I told you I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” George asks crossly.

“Georgie.” Beatrix frowns.

“Care to fill me in on how this happened, then?” I ask.

“Left the bar last night and bumped into her on the street with another, but that didn’t last long. Pointed at her, then in the direction of here.”

“And I followed him.” She exhales. “As if I could stay away,” I hear her add on in an embarrassed whisper.

“Want to tag along? Lagos?” I ask Bea. “I miss you. It’s been, what, six months since we’ve seen you last?”

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