Page 29 of What About Us
“You ask her about it?
“No. She’s so independent, she’ll just brush me off and tell me she can take care of herself.”
He makes a noise, but I can’t tell what it means.
“What?”
Silence.
“You got something to say?”
“Unclench your cheeks, bro, I’m just looking at you.” He turns his head away from me and purses his lips, the smile he’s fighting evident from here.
“My cheeks aren’t clenched, dick.” I shake my head and tip up my chin in his direction. “Just ask the fucking question, Hutch.”
He lets out an amused sigh. “No question, Hudson. I just know you.”
“Bullshit. Spit it out.” Now I know how Hank must have felt when I was constantly grilling him about Wrenley.
He tips his head back and studies the trees like we aren’t having a conversation. It’s my turn to sigh.
“Christ, Hudson. You need to get laid before you really do turn into Hank.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m not turning into that grumpy motherfucker. I’ve just got shit on my mind.”
“Such as?” he asks, that fucking cocksure smile ghosting across his lips again.
“A place to live, for starters.”
He shakes his head at me. “You just said things were going all right at Finn’s. What’s the rush?”
I pin him with a look. “You know what,” I finally say.
He laughs this time. “You two should just fuck already and get it out of your system.”
I groan and drag a hand down my face. “Trust me, I don’t think that’s possible.”
He smirks. “Which part, the fucking or getting it out of your system?”
I glare at him. He’s such a dick.
“I have to get out of that house before I end up in bed with her again, but there isn’t shit available right now.”
He nearly chokes on his coffee and his head jerks back, eyes wide. “Back the fuck up,” he says, swiping a hand over his shirt where he dribbled coffee. “You two already fucked?”
My mouth twists with another groan and I climb to my feet, pacing. “No, we didn’t. Just stop saying that.”
He snorts. “What?”
I spin to face him, hands on my hips. “Stop talking about me fucking her. She doesn’t see me like that.”
“We always talk about fucking. So, get over it,” he says dismissively.
“Not when it’s my best friend, asshole,” I argue. “We don’t talk about fucking my best friend.”
“Maybe we should.” He shrugs. “Youdowant to fuck her, right?”
“Enough, man.” He’s starting to piss me off. He already knows I do, but it’s more than that. He knows that, too. Why does he have to keep saying it? “We’re just friends.”
