The Best Friend Zone

Call it cheesy as hell, predictable even, I don’t fucking care.

There’s always been this weird polarity between us, and it’s only gotten worse.

Her touch resonates the same energy she had all those years ago.

I’d stopped touching her much then, the more we grew up, even holding her hand. It was like being struck by lightning every time and enjoying it.

And the older I got, turning from a boy into a man, I started to figure out just what that feeling really means.

I’m about to drop her hand like a hot rock when her grip tightens.

She steps closer. “Thanks, Quinn. It’s been fun. Exactly what I needed to get my mind off some things back home.”

Oh, hell.

She’s close enough to kiss, and I rediscover just how weak I am when it comes to her.

Because I’m fighting like mad to keep my lips to myself, damn scared of what I’ll lose if I slip up and put my mouth where it doesn’t belong.

“No need to bullshit.” Fumbling a step back like I’ve been shot, I say, “Who ever had fun putting in a washer and dryer?”

“I did!” she insists, her pitch turning into this jittery, adorable squeak. “Hanging up the swing and trying it out was fun too. I swear, I could lounge around on it all day.”

Damn her, maybe it was fun, but I have more reason now than ever to keep things platonic, simple, and easy. Far more reason than I’d had even years ago.

Then it was because she’d been so young, and so different, this high-class creature who felt downright otherworldly to an Oklahoma farm boy.

Now? It’s because I’m a danger to her.

My shit could hurt her, pull her in, and all over nothing she ever had anything to do with.

It ain’t fair.

With easy talk over the town and old times, I drive her home, walk her to the door, and flee like the dickens without touching her again, ignoring the hellfire pulse in my lips.

Trust me, it’s a major feat.

An achievement I have to be proud of, blue smurf balls and all, because the alternative is a whole lot more fucked up than torching bridges with my childhood best friend.

I won’t have an innocent, bright, vulnerable woman getting hurt on my conscience.

Not again.

Not after what that freak and his brother did the first time I crossed swords with the Pickett machine.

After a somewhat sleepless night—because if I’m not thinking about Tory Three Names, I’m helplessly dreaming about her—I head to the police station to see if Sheriff Wallace ever had a chance to run the plate number on that thug from Oklahoma.

I’d called him shortly after leaving Carolina’s and left the info with his secretary.

When I reach Main Street, though, I head west instead of east. I’m taking a short detour past Dean Coffey’s place.

It’d be helpful to have a list of places where his goats are being hired, just so I can check up on Tory.

She’s too frigging stubborn to call me herself.

I don’t even want to imagine what might’ve happened if I hadn’t called her at Carolina’s place when I did.

With a list, I can keep an eye on her without her knowing it.

That’ll be better for me, too. Keeping space. Not being up in her face for a few days.

A cold shower hadn’t eased the voodoo effect she has.

Neither did an angry, gut-wrenching wank this morning. The guilt I’m feeling now jacking off to her was almost worth the release that turned me inside out.

Hell.

But it doesn’t help one bit that we’re both grown-up, and she’s all woman.

When we were kids, the age gap was like the Grand Canyon. Now, she’s twenty-six, and being a few years older than her ain’t the issue holding me back from claiming that sweet ass.

Her life, her safety, is.

A far better reason to keep us apart than our age did years ago.

I find Dean sitting outside in his bathrobe with a shotgun and cleaning gear leaning beside his chair. He’s an eclectic guy, but that’s funny even for him.

I pull up and park right beside his mostly camo-painted Jeep.

Painting cars was another gig he’d tried out last year.

He’d quit just before finishing his own showcase vehicle. Go figure.

“Mornin’, Dean,” I say, climbing out of my truck.

“Faulk.” He gives a single head nod like he’s been expecting me.

His bushy blond hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed since his last cut, which was probably months ago, judging by the wilderness look.

“Going hunting?” I plant a foot on his bottom step and lean a hand on my knee.

“Nah.” He looks up and shakes his head. “Just been sitting out here since about two this morning, waiting around.”

I frown. That’s mighty strange even for Dean Coffey.

“What’s up? You in some trouble?” I ask.

“I caught something prowling around the goats last night,” he tells me, lifting a cup of coffee I’d bet my right leg is loaded up with Bailey’s.