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Authors: Olivia Stephens
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I’ve finished telling the story, save for the last discussion with George.
“You can say that again,” I tell him, taking another long drink of my beer and surprising myself when I find that it’s already empty. I’m not a big drinker, but tonight I feel like I need it; the numbing effect of the alcohol is comforting, like there are too many emotions whirling around my body for me to make sense of.
“Holy shit,” Jake repeats, still stunned by what I’ve told him. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern in his eyes as he looks over me. He holds onto my shoulders, looking me up and down as if I might have visible wounds that I hadn’t bothered to mention.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, trying to ignore how my stomach flips when Jake touches me. “Except for losing all faith in the cops in this town and figuring that common decency has officially left the building, I’m fine.”
“Aimee,” Jake says, fixing me with his serious look. “You need to be more careful. You can’t go around telling people exactly what you think of them and not expect to get a reaction. You were lucky they didn’t hurt you,” he says, his husky voice sounding a little strained.
“They stabbed Big George in the hand,” I point out to him slowly. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and not do anything? ”
“No, but sometimes you have to pick your battles,” Jake tells me, his eyes expressing heated anger.
“Well excuse me for having a bad reaction to some guy who can probably barely spell his own name stabbing my friend,” I say louder than necessary, and immediately regret it when I see Noah making a concerted effort to look like he’s not listening in on our conversation. I take a deep breath, dropping my voice so it’s back to a normal volume. “I thought tonight was meant to be about us not fighting anymore,” I remind him pointedly, signaling Noah for another two beers.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Jake tells me, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “This is an argument-free zone.” He gestures at the space between us and the sweet expression on his face inevitably makes my heart hurt.
“Great,” I say, and nod at him in agreement.
“Great,” he repeats, catching my eye and holding my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than is comfortable until I look away, concentrating hard on the design of the label of my beer bottle. “Uh-oh,” Jake says after a few seconds. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer.” He nods indiscreetly in the direction of a guy at the end of the bar. He’s not bad looking, but hooking up with someone couldn’t be any further from my mind at the moment.
“Right. He’s not looking at me, Summers. He’s more likely to be looking at you,” I joke, nudging him gently in the ribs.
“Why do you do that?” Jake asks, turning round to face me again.
“Do what?” I ask, absently peeling off the label of the beer I’m drinking. I remember someone telling me that was a symptom of sexual frustration, so I stop playing with my drink.
“Ignore when someone is paying you a compliment, act like it's impossible that any guy could be interested in you,” he says.
“It was just a joke Jake,” I tell him, feeling uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just it drives me crazy that you can’t see how amazing you are,” he says quickly, and then falls silent. “Aimee,” he continues, putting his big, calloused hand over mine on the bar. “Any guy would give his right arm to be with you,” he assures me, and I can feel myself falling into the dark pools of his eyes.
I don’t say that he, of course, means any guy apart from him . Instead I opt for diffusing the situation and putting us firmly back in best friend territory in my brain. Things are much safer that way—safer and much less confusing. “What
“You can say that again,” I tell him, taking another long drink of my beer and surprising myself when I find that it’s already empty. I’m not a big drinker, but tonight I feel like I need it; the numbing effect of the alcohol is comforting, like there are too many emotions whirling around my body for me to make sense of.
“Holy shit,” Jake repeats, still stunned by what I’ve told him. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern in his eyes as he looks over me. He holds onto my shoulders, looking me up and down as if I might have visible wounds that I hadn’t bothered to mention.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, trying to ignore how my stomach flips when Jake touches me. “Except for losing all faith in the cops in this town and figuring that common decency has officially left the building, I’m fine.”
“Aimee,” Jake says, fixing me with his serious look. “You need to be more careful. You can’t go around telling people exactly what you think of them and not expect to get a reaction. You were lucky they didn’t hurt you,” he says, his husky voice sounding a little strained.
“They stabbed Big George in the hand,” I point out to him slowly. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and not do anything? ”
“No, but sometimes you have to pick your battles,” Jake tells me, his eyes expressing heated anger.
“Well excuse me for having a bad reaction to some guy who can probably barely spell his own name stabbing my friend,” I say louder than necessary, and immediately regret it when I see Noah making a concerted effort to look like he’s not listening in on our conversation. I take a deep breath, dropping my voice so it’s back to a normal volume. “I thought tonight was meant to be about us not fighting anymore,” I remind him pointedly, signaling Noah for another two beers.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Jake tells me, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “This is an argument-free zone.” He gestures at the space between us and the sweet expression on his face inevitably makes my heart hurt.
“Great,” I say, and nod at him in agreement.
“Great,” he repeats, catching my eye and holding my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than is comfortable until I look away, concentrating hard on the design of the label of my beer bottle. “Uh-oh,” Jake says after a few seconds. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer.” He nods indiscreetly in the direction of a guy at the end of the bar. He’s not bad looking, but hooking up with someone couldn’t be any further from my mind at the moment.
“Right. He’s not looking at me, Summers. He’s more likely to be looking at you,” I joke, nudging him gently in the ribs.
“Why do you do that?” Jake asks, turning round to face me again.
“Do what?” I ask, absently peeling off the label of the beer I’m drinking. I remember someone telling me that was a symptom of sexual frustration, so I stop playing with my drink.
“Ignore when someone is paying you a compliment, act like it's impossible that any guy could be interested in you,” he says.
“It was just a joke Jake,” I tell him, feeling uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. “It’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just it drives me crazy that you can’t see how amazing you are,” he says quickly, and then falls silent. “Aimee,” he continues, putting his big, calloused hand over mine on the bar. “Any guy would give his right arm to be with you,” he assures me, and I can feel myself falling into the dark pools of his eyes.
I don’t say that he, of course, means any guy apart from him . Instead I opt for diffusing the situation and putting us firmly back in best friend territory in my brain. Things are much safer that way—safer and much less confusing. “What
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