Page 4 of Our Long Days
I’m certain I’m hallucinating until large fingers flex on my lower back, digging into my bare skin. I wet my lips, and he follows the movement, throat working as he swallows. There’s an invisible string tugging deep in my stomach, pulling me further into his touch. Everywhere he touches, anywhere his eyes land, a fire erupts.
It’s quickly extinguished when a drunken partygoer loses their footing, colliding into our huddle and drenching us in sticky, ice cold liquid.
CHAPTER TWO
dexter
I’ve never claimedto be a sage man.
I like to believe I possess some good qualities. My friends and family don’t complain, my customers speak highly of my work, and no one has ever punched me in the face.
I lead a simple life, exactly the way I like it.
So, when Our Place’s annual New Year’s Eve party came around, I turned up with zero expectations apart from chatting with friends, getting a little buzzed, and passing out on my sofa with a pie from the local pizzeria. Same shit, different year.
What wasn’t simple or expected was having my hands on my best friend’s little sister.
A woman almost eleven years my junior.
Florence peered up at me as the crowd counted down, long lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks and emerald eyes sparkling. The sensation that coursed through me was like grabbing a live wire with wet hands.
There was no mistaking it. Her body relaxed into my touch, lips parting as the gap between us closed. That sliver of bare skin under my palms around her waist was forbidden and sofucking tempting.
Only one drink down—there was no blaming the alcohol.
I’d officially lost my fucking mind.
Thankfully, sanity washed over me when Florence’s drink went flying, soaking us both.
Now, my sticky shirt hangs on the door handle of the office hidden at the back of the restaurant. Standing in the middle of the room in jeans and a black undershirt, I’m trying my best not to follow the gentle swell of Florence’s breasts and dip of her waist as her white T-shirt clings to her lace bra.
Trying and failing epically.
There must be something in the water, or the bar staff doubled up my whiskey and coke.
I’ve known Florence Sadler my whole life. One summer, I found her crying on her porch because she needed braces. Then, she got too drunk at her junior prom and called me for a ride because she didn’t want her brothers knowing. Every interaction and thought that has ever involved Flo was innocent.Like my little sister.
Her discomfort was obvious as we stood around watching the happy couples interact. My hand on her back was instinct, intended to be a friendly gesture.
We were ushered in here after the spillage and left alone to clean up.
Since stepping foot in here, we haven’t uttered a word.
Silence is my foe. It literally haunts my dreams, and I’m about to crawl out of my skin if one of us doesn’t speak soon.
I hate wearing my hearing aid, but with the large crowd and loud music, following conversation proves difficult without it. Now, though, the lack of background noise in the office amplifies small sounds, like the ticking clock, pipes groaning in the wall, and Florence’s loud sighs.
The hearing in my left ear started fluctuating when I was fifteen. My mom took me to the doctor, who couldn’t see anything wrong. When my parents noticed me messingwith my ear and complaining about it being blocked, they pushed and pushed for further tests. It was only when the tinnitus became unbearable and intense vertigo knocked me unconscious that the doctors took their concerns seriously.
At seventeen, I was diagnosed with Ménière's Disease—no cure, no idea if or when I’d lose all hearing, and a constant ringing on the worst of days. Almost two decades later, I can’t remember a time before my diagnosis. The hearing in my left ear has slowly deteriorated. Everyone knows I prefer not to discuss my condition. It’s also why I “forget” my hearing aid more often than not. Without it, the odd stares and second glances don’t happen.
It’s easier to pretend.
Which is why I unhooked the device and shoved it into my pocket the second we walked into the office.
Florence struts back and forth, wound tighter than a garden hose. She fists a handful of paper towels and dabs at her chest between frustrated huffs.
“You good over there?” My voice cuts through the quiet like butter.
