“I liked it. Too much.”

I run a hand through my hair.

“Did you?”

I roll my eyes. “Do you seriously have to ask?”

“Yes,” she says emphatically. She juts out her chin. “Yes. I do have to ask.”

Then I hear the sound of the key in the lock. The door groans open loudly, and Kristen spills in, all keys and big purse and her black hair in a crazy mess.

“Oh,” Kristen says, surprised to see us on the couch. Two statues caught in unexpected lust. The roommate and the guy who was seconds away from claiming her sexy, pouty, lipstick-free mouth. “What are you guys up to?”

“Just hanging,” Harley says, smoothing out an unseen wrinkle in her shirt.

“You took one of my beers,” she says to me, zeroing in on me from behind those cat’s eye glasses.

“Yeah. That okay?”

“I can’t let you drink alone. Harley’s diet soda doesn’t count.”

Then Kristen grabs a Coors, and plops down between us on the couch. I’ve never been so ready to toss someone from the room, nor been so grateful to have a barrier in my life. “The movie sucked. I need to get the taste of it out of my mouth.”

“What was it?”

“Some Romanian film about a guy who leaves a goldfish on the roof of his car as he writes haikus while driving cross country.”

“Sounds wretched”

“It was. Let’s get drunk. Or caffeinated in your case,” she says, tipping her forehead to Harley.

“I’m in,” I say because I could use a few more beers right about now, that’s for sure.

Then my phone buzzes. I tap the screen to see Jordan’s name. “Shift’s over. Beer time?”

“Jordan wants to get a beer,” I say to Kristen and Harley.

Kristen holds her arms out wide, as if to say The answer is here.

Harley catches my gaze and raises an eyebrow, her reminder that she wanted to set them up. “Invite him over.”

“If you insist.”

Harley

“Never have I ever worn ladies shoes.”

Kristen nearly spits out her beer with laughter. She points at Jordan, who’s cross-legged on the blue carpet in our living room. “So not fair. We have to drink,” she says with an indignant whine.

“Obviously we’ve worn ladies shoes,” I add.

Trey smiles along with Jordan. “Drink up, ladies.”

Kristen shoots a wide-eyed stare at Trey, then Jordan. She parks her hands on her hips. “Well. The more interesting question is whether you guys have?”

Trey laughs and shakes his head.

Jordan holds up a hand, like a stop sign. “Once. I did it once and I did it for a chick.”

Kristen cracks up.

“Drink!” Trey shouts at Jordan, like he’s smack-talking him. Then he raises both arms over his head, victorious. “I am the only one whose feet are pure.”

I laugh as Matt Nathanson blares from my iPod. Kristen and I picked the music for the game and we love Matt Nathanson. He is sex in musical form.

Kristen is running at full buzz, and both Jordan and Trey are chasing their own intoxication. We’re down to one beer left from the two six-packs in the fridge.

“I’ve never had a threesome,” Kristen blurts out. She scans the rest of us quickly, first me, and I shake my head, then Jordan does the same. She stares at Trey, asking the question silently. He has a guilty look in his eyes. He shrugs and takes a drink.

My face burns. Jealousy slithers through me. It crawls and wraps around my internal organs as Jordan high-fives his friend. “Dude. Why have you never told me that before?”

Trey shrugs and laughs. “I guess I wasn’t drunk enough before,” he says, moving on easily. Making me wonder if that’s how he was with his women. Switching on and off. Seamlessly jumping from one to another. Or to three. “Never have I ever given a blow job,” Trey offers next, looking awfully proud of himself. Then he taps his chest. “I, obviously, have not.”

Jordan bangs his beer down emphatically on the coffee table. “Never have. Never will.”

Kristen rolls her eyes. “Plenty,” she says in a deliberately seductive voice. “And I’ve been told my blow jobs are quite spectacular.”

Jordan blinks, intrigued and then some. He grabs the neck of his bottle. “I have to drink just because that was a crazy hot thing to say.”

Kristen turns to me and eyes my Diet Coke. “C’mon. Drink up, bitch.”

I shake my head. “I don’t meet the qualifications.”

“For real? You have never given a blow job?”

Another shake. I run my index finger once across my lips as if I’m zipping them up. “These lips are pure, baby,” I say playfully.

“How does that happen?”

“Just happens.”

“No. Seriously,” she presses, and now I don’t feel so playful anymore.

“Just never have,” I say evasively. I could lie. I mean, who doesn’t lie in this game? But then, I’m kind of proud of not having blown a guy. Not like it’s some huge accomplishment. But I’m only admitting the truth for me. Because I’m glad I didn’t put any of my client’s dicks in my mouth. I drew some lines, and so I don’t take a drink.

I’ve done so much but yet I’ve done so little.

Kristen waggles her empty bottle. “So sad. No more beer.”

“Want me to get more?” Jordan offers.

“Hell yeah.” Kristen says. “I’ll go with you.”

She hops up from the couch, ready for more, and they head out.

“I guess his love for action flicks and hers for art house movies didn’t get in the way of their shared love of beer and drinking games,” I say.

“Evidently, they found common ground.” Then he yawns. “I should go,” he mumbles, but he shows no signs of leaving. Instead, he sinks deeper into the couch, and his eyelids start to flutter. I glance at my phone. It’s past midnight.

“Do you want to stay?”

He smiles weakly. “I’m so fucking tired,” he says and then he goes horizontal on the couch.

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

“I’m fine.”

“No. I want to.” I head for my room, grab a blanket and bring it to the living room where he’s already stretched out. He’s untying his shoes, kicking them off, and I dim the light.

“Are you going to tuck me in?”

I stick out my tongue. “No.”

“C’mon. Read me a bedtime story.”

“Three little kittens lost their mittens,” I begin, and he smiles. A sweet, warm, happy smile that erases the faint traces of annoyance I felt moments ago in the game. My phone lights up and I grab it from the coffee table, swiping the screen. I read Kristen’s message. “Hungry. Stopping at Wendy’s Diner for fries and burger. Want anything?”

I write back: No thanks.

I drape the blanket over Trey, but he pushes it down to his waist.

“It’s hot. Can I take off my shirt?”

“You don’t need my permission.”

He raises an arm behind his back and tugs in one swift motion. He’s shirtless, and he hasn’t been since the night we were together. My breath catches. Even in the dark, I can make out the outline of his chest, solid and strong, his arms, all muscled and corded and covered in tats.

Reflexively, I lick my lips.

“Lie down with me,” he whispers. He sounds sleepy drunk and sexy, and the invitation is far too inviting to pass by.

I slide in next to him, so he’s spooning me, and it’s innocent, I suppose, or I’m letting myself pretend this is an extension of the hand holding and the hugging and the sock removing. Right? We are simply two friends sharing a small couch, but then he wraps his arm around me, sighs happily, and exhales against my neck. A strand of my hair flutters.

“Harley,” he sighs, but it’s not a question. More a statement, an expression, and there’s some kind of wonder, happiness in it that I want to let myself believe in, that I want to cocoon in and hold in my hands, a fragile glass globe that could break. But yet, I’m pretty sure it’s the Silver Bullet talking when he whispers, “This is so nice.”

“You’re drunk.”

I feel him shrug against me. “Maybe a little.”