Chapter Text
“You wanna bus tables or fill the salt and pepper shakers?” Kie asks, locking the front door and flipping off the “Open” sign.
I can’t stop my eyes from dropping while her back is turned, but I look away before she can catch me. Jesus, those legs. Her tiny shorts with frayed edges might turn me into a praying man.
“Yo, JJ?”
Her steps are heavy and I can tell she’s beat, so I say, “tables,” even though I wouldn’t mind sitting my ass at the bar to do the refills.
It’s her night to close at The Wreck, and since she got me this job bussing tables and doing dishes, I offered to stay late. Her dad told me he wouldn’t give me overtime, so I clocked out at nine, but Kie doesn’t know that. She would’ve called her dad a tight-ass, and the last thing I need is her picking fights with my new boss.
“Thank God.” She sighs and slides onto one of the barstools, while I pretend I don’t notice how much more skin that move bared to the wandering gaze of any creep around.
Me. I’m the creep.
“There’s no way in hell I’m hauling tubs of dishes to the kitchen after that shift,” Kie adds.
“Crack that whip, boss,” I add a wink just to make her roll her eyes.
I learned a long time ago that the trick to doing nice things for Kie is to pretend you’re just doing what you wanted to do anyway. She still gets suspicious if Pope holds the door open for her or if I offer to give her the last beer in the cooler.
Kiara turns the radio up and we get to work.
I’m not sure who’s getting less done. Kie with all her in-chair dancing—if only I hadn’t busted the camera on my phone ‘cause this is prime blackmail material—or me trying my best not to watch. Ok, I’m not trying that hard. I’ve already knocked over two half-empty cups of soda. At this rate, we’ll be here all night.
Rounding a table so my back is to her, I pretend to scrub at a spot. “Come on, man,” I mumble at myself under the music.
Only a piece of shit dude would be checking out his best friend this much. Especially when that best friend happened to date or kiss or whatever it was she did with his other best friend. Kiara is off-limits. On every single level.
So why can’t I get her out of my head?
A new song picks up, and from the first pick of the guitar, I know what it is: Alt-J. There isn’t a song out there that could be more John B than this one.
My lungs go on lockdown.
I close my eyes and try to pretend like my body doesn’t forget how to breathe every time I hear this song. Or that I don’t blast it out at the Chateau, whenever it gets too quiet.
“Well, my left hand's free…” Kie sings softly. Her voice is a little scratchier than usual. “John B’s favorite.”
I nod. What else is there to say? Honestly, couldn’t even count the hours he and I spent driving around in that ugly ass van of his blasting this CD.
She turns the radio down. “JJ?”
That voice means she’s going to come give me a hug in a second. Normally, I’m messed up enough to let her, seeing as it’s the closest I’ll ever get to holding her, even if it is fucked up that it’s only happening because our best friend is dead. But right now, with that song, I’d rather play in traffic than have both of us get any more up in our feelings about how much we miss that asshole.
I sniff hard and scrub aggressively at some dried ketchup. This doesn’t need to be a whole thing.
I pull a half-eaten basket of fries across the table to distract her. “Hey, you hungry?”
“Don’t you dare.” And that’s Kiara’s warning voice. She really should’ve learned by now that using it is the quickest way to make me do whatever it is she’s not happy about. “JJ…”
Meeting her gaze, pretending not to notice the extra bit of shine, I stuff a lukewarm french fry in my mouth. Not crispy, but they’re salty and they’re free. Good enough for me.
“You’re disgusting. That person could’ve had herpes or something.”
“Only one way to find out.” I shove another couple of fries in my mouth.
“There’s something wrong with you.”
“Want one?” I ask with my mouth full, just ‘cause I know it’ll piss her off. Dipping another fry in ketchup, I hold it out to her.
Only Kiara could look at a french fry with that much disgust. Like she just saw it personally wrap a piece of plastic around a seagull’s neck or something.
“Your loss.” I toss it back, but just because she’s looking at me, I miss my mouth. Epically. Ketchup smears my chin and the front of my new The Wreck uniform t-shirt.
“Dude,” Kiara snorts. She holds up her hands and mimes taking a picture. “I will literally cherish that memory for the rest of my life.”
“Fuck me.” I study the red smear on my chest. This is my only work shirt. “Does ketchup stain?”
Her smile falls. She knows how far my paychecks have to stretch and buying another shirt from her dad isn’t in the budget.
“No, wait!” She jumps off her stool and comes at me, before I go at the mess with a wad of napkins. “That will definitely make it worse. Give me your shirt. I’ll run it under cold water.”
“Kiara Penelope Eugenia Carrera, are you trying to get me naked?”
“That’s…not…even my name.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I brandish another fry at her and she crosses her arms, jutting out a hip. “Are you or are you not trying to coerce me into removing an article of my clothing.”
“This isn’t Law & Order, JJ. Just give me your stupid shirt.”
“Answer the question.”
“Fine, clean it your way.” She shrugs, even though I know the idea of letting me scrub the ketchup into the fabric is worse than nails on a chalkboard for her.
I slap my hand down on the table, making the dishes in my tub rattle. “Objection!”
“Whatever,” she says, turning away.
“Wait, here...” I eat a mouthful of my shirt trying to talk and pull it off at the same time. “Was just kidding.”
Holding it out, I look up, and…did I just catch her looking at my abs? I flex a little, just to feel her out. Don’t want to be too obvious. And yep, her eyes take another dive before studying my shirt.
“I’m going to run it under cold water in the back with a lil’ dish soap, so the stain doesn’t set.”
“Oh, I think I got a little on your shirt, too. You might want to wash it while you’re at it.”
“Cute.”
Come on, not even an eyeroll? I thought it was funny.
“Bring that load of dishes back. I’ll help you load the dishwasher.”
And since no one ever taught me to quit while I’m ahead, I run one hand through my long hair, making sure to flex my bicep as I do it. “Admit it, Kie. You can’t stand to let me out of your sight.”
“Yeah okay, Justin Bieber.” She turns away, shirt hanging from her hand, to head to the kitchen. “Don’t forget those dishes.”
Hefting the tub, I follow her to the back, taking every advantage of the view.
She pushes the swinging door aside and I sneak through behind her, eyes still glued to the way the faded denim threads move against the skin just below—
“For future reference, use cold water on stains and don’t—”
My first clue that she’s glanced back is when she hesitates mid-lecture. My eyes bolt back to her face, and she’s wide-eyed and surprised, and I’ve never felt worse because she’s fucking surprised. Because she’s supposed to be safe with the Pogues, with me, from that slimy dude bullshit.
“Were you just staring at my ass?”
“No, of course not. Maybe?”
Her eyes narrow when my voice goes up at the end like it’s a question. The tub in my hands gets slippery.
“Sorry, fuck. I wasn’t—” I realize halfway through the apology that she’s not going to buy this even if I could actually sell it. Which I can’t, because we both know I am that guy. Instead, I shrug, doubling down with my best lets-get-arrested grin. “What can I say, Kie, I’m a man. And it’s a really nice ass, even if it is a Pogue ass and technically out-of-bounds.
“JJ.” It’s too quiet, not her lecturing voice, or her warning voice, or even her your-balls-are-history voice. “Cut the shit.”
When I dare a glance, she’s tilted her head and her eyes are dark and way too intimate. She always sees more than I want her to.
“You’ve been weird all night. Stealing all these little glances like—did you stick something on the back of my shirt? Did I sit in something?”
“Yeah, Kie, I stuck a sign that says ‘I kick baby turtles’ on your shirt.”
Because what else could I possibly be doing, if not pulling some kind of prank? Act like a dumbass all the time, get treated like a dumbass.
“I’m serious. Is it…is it something about Pope?”
That gets me. I jerk the dish tub aside so hard the contents rattle and clash dangerously, and I try to sidle past her and out of the danger zone. “Yeah, Kie. I was checking out your ass because of Pope.” I’m not even sure what the fuck I’m mad about, but working up to a full head of steam as I head for the dishwashing sink and the Hobart.
She catches my arm as I pass, her hand closing on bare skin because oh yeah, guess she still has my shirt.
“I don’t know, JJ!” She wrenches the tub out of my hands—I hold on for a moment too long, just to be difficult—before letting her take it and set it down. She shoves at my shoulder, making me face her. “There’s something different about you and I just—”
“You.” The word is out like it escaped and it doesn’t even sound like me, the voice all strained and tight.
“What?” She frowns in confusion like I’m speaking another language, and Jesus Christ, even now, even when I’m about to put the noose around my own neck, all I can think about is how being this close to her…it somehow makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months. The fingers wrapped around my forearm are cool, but her touch might as well be branded onto my skin.
“Did you ever think maybe it’s just you? Why I can’t stop looking?” I glance away, glaring at the far wall and regretting the words even as I say them because I bet that’s what John B told her. And Pope. And every other guy on this freakin’ island.
I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the side of my head, and when her grip tightens, I sigh and lean back against the edge of the counter. Better settle in for a lecture about respect and the male gaze and anything else that basically means: not a chance in hell, JJ, because you’re buried so deep in the friend zone, you’d need a backhoe to dig yourself out. Not to mention, you are beyond damaged goods.
Kie wields silence better than anyone I know, and I last maybe five seconds before forcing myself to meet her gaze. Might as well rip off the bandaid.
She’s smiling, just a little at the corners, and her eyebrows quirk up in the middle like they do when she’s about to point out the flaws in one of my epic plans. I’m a little confused that she isn’t yelling, and I get a lot more confused when she steps closer, trailing the fingertips of her other hand across my stomach. Her touch is soft and this time, when my muscles clench, it’s involuntary.
“You’re such a dumbass.”
I let out a breath, embarrassed at how shaky it sounds, and try not to move. I don’t know what’s happening, but I sure as fuck don’t want to mess it up. “Uh, Kie, you’re kinda giving me mixed messages here.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her smile fades as she looks down, biting at the corner of her lip.
Don’t get hard. Do not get hard.
I think she makes a decision because squares her shoulders and meets my eyes. “If you weren’t so busy trying not to get caught staring, you would’ve noticed I’ve been staring back.”
Whatever comes out of my mouth next is not English. And when I don’t move right away, she grabs me by the neck and pulls me down to her lips. Because of course, she’s not going to wait for me to catch up.
Her lips are wider than mine. Softer. And fuck, do they feel good.
She steps closer until she’s standing right between my boots, and I’m drowning in her scent. That cocoa butter she uses so religiously that she keeps a jar at John B’s house for sleepovers. Who smells this good after an eight-hour shift around bar food?
She nips at my bottom lip, and somehow, I know this is Kiara for “let me in.”
Now I can’t breathe for the second time tonight.
But if I’m gonna die from lung failure, I’m gonna do it kissing the most amazing girl on the Outer Banks. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pull her tight against me. Kiss her deeper. Harder.
She pulls back for a second and sounds out of breath when she whispers, “Is this a terrible—”
“Who cares?” I kiss her like maybe this is the only time I’m ever going to get to do this.
Everything about her is soft. And I have to fight to keep from letting one hand slip down to cup the ass that’s been teasing me all night. She toys with the hair at the base of my neck and it makes me shiver in a way I know she’ll give me shit about later. She smiles against my lips.
Maybe I already died, because this is definitely heaven.
“Kiara?” Someone calls from the front room, but I pretend not to hear.
“That’s my dad,” Kie hisses, shoving me back, eyes wide. “Shit.”
I should be freaking out too, but the sight of her just-kissed lips almost shorts out my brain again. The only thing holding me back is the thought of what her dad would do to me, the charity case, macking on his daughter.
“Do…something.” She flutters her hand at my pants, before turning on the sink and thrusting my shirt under the water.
There’s no way I’m that hard after making out. I look down.
I am, in fact, that hard. Jesus, am I twelve?
“In here,” she calls. “JJ, move!”
“Right. Fuck.” Adjusting myself, I look for something to do. My eyes land on the dishwasher. It’s full from the first load we ran just before closing. I pull the lever, lifting the lid and releasing a cloud of steam. I wave it away, my heart pounding, just as the kitchen door creaks open behind us.
“There you are.” Mr. Carrera doesn’t sound pleased to find us back here.
“Hey, Dad.” Can he tell that her voice is just a little too high?
“Sir.” I nod in his direction and start stacking clean plates. Maybe he won’t notice I’m half-naked in his kitchen.
“Son, is there a reason you don’t have a shirt on?”
So much for that.
“He got sauce on it.” Kie holds up the sopping shirt as proof. “I didn’t want the stain to set before he can get it washed.”
“Hmm.”
Doesn’t sound like he bought it. I keep pulling out the clean dishes, afraid to look at either one of them. At her dad, who will see just how bad I want his daughter in a non-platonic-friends kind of way. At her, because maybe we just fucked everything up and I don’t want to know it yet.
“Did you need something?” Kie asks, going back to scrubbing the stain under the water.
“Have you seen my wallet?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hands still for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Did you check your desk drawer, where you always put it?”
Mr. Carrera disappears into his office and comes back out, holding the wallet up. “Don’t know how I forgot it.”
Yeah, I’m sure that was an accident.
“You could’ve texted me to bring it.”
But then he wouldn’t have had a reason to come back and check on us. On me, more like. I keep my mouth shut.
“Guess I didn’t think of it. You guys need my help?”
“Dad, it’s your night off. Go home!” Kiara smiles, but it’s just a little too wide. “We’re almost done anyway.”
“All the more reason for me to help. You guys finish with the sweeping yet?”
Kiara shakes her head.
“JJ, you wanna turn up the chairs and I’ll get the broom?”
“Yessir.”
Maybe this is for the best. At least, we stopped at a point where we’ll still be able to look each other in the eyes tomorrow.
Fuck, I need to be smarter than this. With John B gone, Kie and Pope are all I have left, and macking on Kie is probably the quickest way to lose them both.
I scrub at my face on my way back out to the floor, erasing any trace of Kie’s lip gloss. It doesn’t matter that I want her so bad it makes my bones hurt. The Pogues come first. Always.