Dirty Rowdy Thing
: Chapter 8

I CHECK THE ADDRESS Harlow gave us as we turn off the street. The restaurant is packed, and I blow out an exaggerated breath as I circle the lot.

“Looks like it might not be our night,” I tell Oliver, pretty sure that if my shifty eyes don’t give me away, my horrible acting will. “Guess we better just head back to the house. Try this another time.”

I turn the truck toward the exit but his hand on my forearm stops me. “Everyone’s already here so just keep a lookout. Too late for a change of plans anyway,” he says, peering out the passenger window before he adds, “No thanks to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it took over an hour to get you out of the house, and you look like you’re being dragged to the dentist, rather than a night of dinner and questionable humor with your best mates.”

“That is absolutely not true.” It’s completely true.

“Ansel flew back to surprise Mia again and wants to see us. And despite what you said last night, you’ve been bodgy all week.”

“I’m fine. It’s just weird to be gone while so much is going on at home,” I say, and offer a casual shrug for good measure. Keep it cool, Finn. Don’t fidget. Don’t avoid eye contact. “Not used to having so much free time is all.”

The radio plays some random pop song in the background and Oliver reaches over, shutting it off. The click of the dial seems to reverberate around the cab and I make a show of squinting out the front windshield, still in search of a parking spot.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Oliver knows me too well and would rip off my arms and beat me with them if he found out I talked to Harlow about all this before him.

“I’m your best mate, Finnigan. Wouldn’t lie to me, would ya?”

I start to answer but he’s immediately distracted by a spot opening up just ahead of us. “Oh, hey . . . right there, right there.”

I pull into the spot, shutting off the engine with a heavy sigh. So I guess we’ll be going in.

I AM PRETTY sure I have never looked guiltier than I do in this moment. Ever. Like a criminal just casually strolling by the house he’s robbed.

As expected, Harlow gave me epic amounts of shit, and did what I’ve come to know as her thing: cracking jokes and using sarcasm to make light of the situation. But the look on her face when I explained why I couldn’t tell Ansel or Perry or even Oliver hit me like a punch to the chest.

I’d managed to put it out of my mind until later, with Oliver snoring down the hall and me still wide awake and staring up at the dark ceiling, thinking, Should I tell them? Was it wrong to keep my closest friends in the dark and open up so easily to Harlow? Up until that point, I hadn’t put much thought into Harlow and me. She’s been a lot of things—a wild story, a distraction, and eventually a friend—but now none of that seemed enough.

And fuck, I do not want to face her tonight. Because not only do I have no idea where we stand or how I feel or how we should even interact, but now she has this giant secret. One I couldn’t even tell my best friends.

I should have manned up and told Oliver.

I should never, ever have told busybody Harlow.

What if they can tell I’m keeping something from them?

What if she lets something slip?

Fuck.

Inside the restaurant it’s dark and loud, so loud in fact that I wonder if I could sneak away at some point, disappear without anyone noticing.

Despite the number of bodies and booths crowding the small space, it’s a good twenty degrees cooler inside than out. Which means it’s only then I realize I’m sweating, the frigid air prickling at the damp skin along my forehead and down the back of my neck. Jesus Christ, Finn. Get yourself together.

We hear them before we see them. Even above the din of voices and music and clinking silverware, Harlow’s distinct laughter carries all the way to the door. Harlow is never quiet.

“That is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” Ansel yells, dissolving into a fit of giggles. You wouldn’t think a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer would giggle, but this is Ansel and, well, you’d be wrong. Insecurity hums along the edges of my nerves as their voices get closer, and I feel my mouth pinch down into a frown.

“Sounds like they started without us!” Oliver shouts over his shoulder, and I can only nod, following him across the room and toward the table while trying to look like I’m not about to throw up.

They’re all seated at a large booth near the back. Ansel is on one end, his long arms splayed across the back of the seat, and he leans forward, grinning while he listens across the table. Mia is next to him, Lola sits on Mia’s right and—not for the first time since I met her—is lost in something she’s doodling on a napkin. Harlow is on the edge, eyes wide and expressive as she relays some story to Ansel, who laughs. Again.

“Having a good time?” Oliver asks, stopping at the other side of the table. “Could hear you lot clear outside.” Everyone’s eyes snap up to him—and then me—before they call out in greeting.

Everyone except Harlow.

Her gaze locks on mine for the longest five seconds of my life before she blinks away, addressing Oliver. “Finally,” she says, smile a little too bright. Nervous, maybe? Guilty?

“Did you—” she starts to say, but I interrupt.

“What was so funny?” I snap, and immediately want to smack myself.

Everyone turns to me, each of them with varying expressions of What the fuck?

Lola looks up, and I register that while she might not look like she’s paying attention, she hears every single word. “Harlow was just telling the story of the time we locked ourselves out while skinny-dipping and we decided she was the one who had to climb through the upstairs window. Naked.”

“Oh,” I say, too horrified by my own reaction to linger over the mental image of Harlow, naked, scaling a wall, a window . . . anything.

Harlow watches me through narrowed eyes, and Ansel is looking at me like I’ve just shown up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.

“Right,” Oliver says. “Gonna replace the toilet, order me a burger if they come around, would ya?”

With Oliver gone my only options are to stand here like an idiot, or take the seat next to Harlow.

With a sigh, I steel myself and slide into the booth, careful to keep at least a few inches between us. Lola and Mia start talking about . . . something, and Harlow leans in.

“Take it down a notch there, Finnick,” she whispers. Any other moment and I’d tell her exactly where she can put her cute little nicknames. But right now, I’ll settle for just keeping my shit together.

“What?” I ask, trying to look confused. “I was curious.”

“Curious? You looked like you were ready to flee the scene of a crime there for a second. You’re all fidgety and . . .” Her eyes make a circuit of my entire face. “Jesus. Are you sweating?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I wipe my palms across the denim on my thighs and exhale as I lean back. “Just, you know. Feeling a little weirded out by all this.”

“By what? You didn’t think I said something, did you?” She actually looks a little offended and so I answer quickly.

“What?” Probably too quickly. “No. Absolutely not. Just worried that, you know, maybe you don’t have the best poker face.”

“A poker . . . what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re always meddling and shit. I thought maybe you’d slip.”

Before she can answer—or, you know, elbow me in the balls—Oliver makes his way back to the table and refills everyone’s glass, before dropping into the seat at the end of the booth, jostling me toward Harlow.

I straighten and mumble an apology but she shakes her head and laughs, leaning close and whispering so quietly I have to close my eyes to focus on her words: “I got news for you, Finn. I faked orgasms for six years before you and have more secrets than you could fit in that giant empty head of yours, so if one of us is gonna give away your big dating show secret, it’s not going to be me.”

“It’s not a da—” I pause, and take another deep breath before reaching for my beer. “Never mind.”

I know I’m being ridiculous, and yet, I don’t relax. Because now, not only am I waiting for Harlow to slip up, but I’m watching her so closely I notice everything. I’m sure I’m staring at her like some kind of a serial killer, but the thing is, she’s not looking back. At all.

A waitress appears at some point and takes everyone’s order, and I’m so lost in my head that I have no idea what I’ve asked for until she returns, setting a giant salad in front of me. Wonderful.

Not-Joe stops by and helps himself to a beer, even crawling under the table to pop up next to Harlow, wedging his way against her side.

“Have a seat,” she tells him with a laugh, and scoots over. Her thigh is pressed against mine and I have to force myself to keep my hands where everyone can see them, and far, far away from where they’re currently itching to go.

“Watching your figure there?” Not-Joe asks, pointing to my plate with a giant fry he’s snatched from Lola.

“He’s not as young as he used to be,” Harlow says.

And she’s still not looking at me.

Instead she nods to Oliver. “So, how’s the Wonder Woman situation?” she says, grinning while she cuts into her steak. I wanted a steak. “Any improvement?”

Oliver shakes his head and drains the last of his beer. “Don’t ask.”

Ansel, who up until this point has had some part of his face latched onto Mia, suddenly speaks up. “What Wonder Woman situation?”

“Jesus Christ,” Lola says. “Got a little thing for Princess Diana, do you?”

Harlow breaks into giggles and Ansel blushes clear to the tips of his ears. “I . . . uh . . .”

“I’ve got to hand it to her,” Harlow says, reaching for an onion ring. “Wonder Woman just keeps proving she’s got it.”

“I’m completely confused,” Mia says.

“That’s because Ansel’s over there trying to suck your soul out through your mouth like some sort of Dementor,” Harlow says, and then whispers in my direction, “It’s a Harry Potter reference, Sunshine. Keep up.”

Oliver explains the situation and if possible, Ansel’s face is even redder.

“I wonder if anyone’s had sex in there,” Lola says, and we all turn to her. “What? I’m just saying, a little voyeuristic rendezvous surrounded by nerd porn?” She offers a small shrug. “I get it.”

“Of course you do,” Harlow deadpans.

“Well, I’m not having sex in that bathroom,” Not-Joe says. “The couch? Maybe.”

“Nobody is having sex in my store!” Oliver shouts, and then almost as an afterthought adds, “And don’t get any ideas, because that includes all of you.”

“Thank God there aren’t any cameras back there,” Not-Joe adds. “Can you even imagine the terrifying things you’d catch on film? The coolest, weirdest people come in there, it would make the sickest reality show.”

I choke on my beer, coughing like I’m losing a lung.

The entire table jumps, arms go flying and cups falling over like dominoes, beer and foam soaking everything in sight.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Mia asks.

I cough again, and feel Harlow’s hand on my back, patting and moving in small circles.

“Pull yourself together, man,” she mumbles, and I nod, reaching for a napkin to wipe off the front of my shirt. “He’s fine,” she tells the rest of the table, “just went down the wrong pipe.”

When I finally get myself together, I sit back, carefully sipping my beer and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Like a psychopath.

I focus on the feel of Harlow pressed to the side of my body, and how natural it seems. I keep waiting for her to give me shit, or make some joke at my expense, but she’s completely poker-faced—cool and steady—barely sparing a glance in my direction. I’m trying to decide if it’s intentional or not; is she really not looking at me, or is she just not looking at me as much as she normally does?

I manage to “accidentally” bump her arm once or twice, tap my knee against hers. I even manage to sneak over and fork a piece of her steak. Nothing.

And the more I watch her, the more I want her to look at me, talk to me, pick me out of all these other assholes. I like how she talks to everyone, always focused on that one person without overdoing it or having it ever come across as flirting. And why would she? She’s easily the most beautiful person in this place. She doesn’t need to chase anything.

But . . . she did chase me, I remind myself. In Vegas, all the way to British Columbia and here, too. Fuck, I want to brag about that to someone.

And I want her to flirt with me, maybe just a little.

Not-Joe’s phone vibrates across the table, and he climbs out of the booth, insisting he needs to go. Everyone else follows soon after. I note that Harlow hasn’t checked her phone for close to an hour, but when she does, there’s a visible change in her posture. Her shoulders stiffen and I’m pretty sure I watch the color slip from her cheeks.

Harlow has barely had anything to drink, but as the others head for their cars or start making the walk home, she hangs back.

“Want a ride?” I say.

She lifts a brow and I laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Olls and I came together; would you like a lift back to your apartment?”

“Actually, yeah. That’d be great.”

Her entire demeanor has changed, but I don’t ask any questions. She hitches her bag over her shoulder and follows us out to the truck, insisting on climbing into the backseat and letting Oliver have the front.

The drive is quiet, and my eyes instinctively flicker to her reflection in the rearview mirror. I can’t see much of her, only the briefest flash of light and shadow as we pass beneath the city streetlights, or she looks at her phone, but she’s just so fucking beautiful. I blink up once to replace her watching me and it’s all I can do to look away, focus on the traffic, and not kill us all.

I have no idea how it happened, but I like Harlow Vega. A lot. I respect her. I want to get to know her. I want to fuck her for reasons that have nothing to do with distraction or my instinctive need to release semen.

I am so royally fucked.

We pull up to her building too soon and I jump out, opening her door and helping her climb down.

“Thanks,” she says.

I nod. “And thank you,” I tell her. “For listening and . . . for keeping it between the two of us.”

“No problem. I’ll catch you around, okay?” she says, before adding, “Bye, Oliver!” over her shoulder.

He peeks his head out the window and says his own goodbye, and then she’s gone, making her way up the winding path and to the glowing building.

Harlow Vega walking away, still one of my favorite views. And definitely the image I’m going to use when I get home.

OLIVER AND I get back to the house and after a quick good night we each head in the direction of our rooms. I don’t waste any time, clearing the hall in just a few long strides and closing the door behind me. I don’t even think, can’t manage to walk to the bed, or even do the respectable thing and make it to the shower, before I straighten against the wood and reach for my belt. My brain is fuzzy, my muscles tense as I fumble with my fly and push my jeans down just enough to get to my cock.

The relief is so instantaneous that I hiss through my teeth and have to still my hand, remind myself that Oliver is at the other end of the house and the walls here are paper-thin.

If I close my eyes I can still feel the press of Harlow’s thigh against mine, the heat that radiated through the denim, the brush of her hair when she reached across me. I fill my lungs and huff out a breath, letting my mind go and conjuring up every dirty, lewd thought I’ve been trying to tamp down since we decided to just be friends.

I imagine things having gone a little differently tonight. That I went to the bar to get a drink and she followed, telling me to meet her in the bathroom. Maybe I fucked her in the stall, from behind with her legs spread wide, both her hands trapped in one of mine. I could spank her like that, just enough to see my handprint bloom across her skin and make her so wet it gets all over her, all over me.

Sweat pricks at my forehead and down my back. My shirt clings to my skin and so I pull it off, dropping it at my feet. The sound of my hand on my cock is obscene, the frantic clink of my belt in the otherwise still house. Somehow, it makes me harder, pre-come dribbling from the tip to help with the drag, leaving my hand slick.

I think of the last time we fucked and how amazing she looked all tied up, how much she wanted it. Did the cords leave a mark, a gentle abrasion on her skin that was there even after I was gone? I wonder if she’d press on them, make it hurt just enough to remind her of what we did, how it felt to be bound and just knowing that I would take care of her.

I’m almost blindsided when it happens, and I come with a choked-off sound, biting my lip to stay quiet as a Novocain numbness spreads heavy over my body. I work through the last of my orgasm, skin slippery as I slide over it in slow, lazy strokes. I manage to reach for my shirt and wipe off my hand before I cross the last three steps and fall, face-first, onto the bed.

I don’t open my eyes again until morning.