Boyfrenemy Read online

  But she just nods, and says a stretched out, “Yeah.”

  My shoulders fall along with my hopes. Jillie gives the former a little squeeze.

  “Aw, Jess. You’re too good for him. I love you. You’re like the coolest old person I know.”

  “I am cool.” I choose to ignore what Jillie said after the word “coolest”—what does she know? She’s nineteen—I won’t even turn twenty-eight for a few more months. That’s not ancient at all. If I was drinking, I wouldn’t have even noticed her exact words. Honestly, sometimes life is just too glaring when you’re sober. “But you know, Isabella did dump him for his brother just seven months ago. She should’ve never gone for Keats. Everyone knew Byron was really better for her. Anyway, this cool chick has to pee.”

  “Take off your name tag, you dag!” She laughs as I get off my seat.

  Good point. I pull off the lanyard, with my staff ID. Jess Haugen, Receptionist. Not exactly a high-powered job, nor a flattering photo. I should ask HR to take another one. I’m ten kilos lighter now—that’s at least one chin dieted away.

  For a Thursday night in the Brisbane CBD, Vantage Point—Jillie’s favourite bar because of all the hot guys that frequent it—is very busy. There’s wall-to-wall men in suits, and not all of them seem gay or taken or both. I pass one nursing a bottle of XXXX on my way to the ladies. He eyes my cleavage before uninterestedly turning to his friend and continuing his conversation.

  I shrug off the rejection as I use my hip to push open the heavy door to the loos—might as well use my heft for something. The door groans in protest and when it finally opens, smacks into someone’s bottom. As usual, there are only two stalls and a line of eight women in high heels and short skirts waiting for their turn. I press my legs a little closer together. This is going to be a long wait.

  “I never thought Blake would want to get married,” the blonde, long-haired girl in front of me says. She’s in a cobalt blue, satin dress fitted to every missing curve on her body.

  “Haven’t you learnt yet? Annie always gets what she wants. Six months and he’s already proposed,” comments her friend who has the most orange fake tan I’ve ever seen this side of a TV screen.

  “I have to ask her how she did it. My boyfriend doesn’t even want to get a dog with me,” Blondie complains. “Did you hear Keats’ brother is getting married this year? Engaged in February, married in November.”

  My ears prick up. How many Keats live in Brisbane with an engaged brother getting married in November?

  “Yeah. That’s all he ever wants to talk about these days—snore! But he’s nice to look at even when he’s moody. Oh, my God, he has the most gorgeous, blue ‘fuck me’ eyes.”

  They both place a hand to their chests like their wildly beating hearts need to be stilled.

  “Nine months is a long time for an engagement,” Fake Tan eventually resumes.

  “Not really, honey. That’s actually not enough time to get your first choice venues. The best places get booked up to two years in advance.”

  Shit. That reminds me. I was supposed to follow up on the church and hotels for Isabella this week. I’ll do it tomorrow. Churches are open on Fridays, right?

  “You reckon Keats is looking yet? His ex-girlfriend really fucked him up.”

  “You know it’s the same girl, right?” Blondie says, brows up to convey the weight of the scandal. “Keats’ brother is engaged to that ex-girlfriend.”

  “Yeah…” Fake Tan’s voice trails off. “I wonder if she ever did it with Keats? That would be gross, doing one brother, then the other.”

  “Are you kidding? I would do the McAllister brothers at the same time.”

  Aren’t you supposed to be in a relationship? I almost ask out loud. Luckily, Fake Tan voices what I was just thinking first.

  “He shoulda put a ring on it.” Blondie lifts up her unadorned left ring finger.

  The two girls cackle as the line moves one more down.

  “Well, now’s the time to jump Keats.” Fake Tan leans forward to scoop up her boobs, and refresh the cleavage revealed by her dress. “He’s such a wreck, he’ll sleep with anyone right now to forget his ex. He even—”

  I’m out the bathroom door before the orange girl can finish her sentence. Keats is here and undiscerning? Where?

  I look right, then left, then right again, my heart lodged just above where it should be. Jillie sees me and waves. I decide to enlist her help, pushing through the press of bodies in the bar.

  “Keats is here.” I have to yell this above the loud hum of voices, the clink of glassware, and the pop music blasting from the speakers on the walls and ceilings.

  “Shut up!”

  “And he’s looking for a rebound girl.”

  Jillie looks at me, blinks, then, “You could be the rebound girl!”

  “I know, Jillie. That’s why you’ve gotta help me. He’s gorgeous, about six feet tall.” A blank look. “About as tall as me, and the last time I saw him, he was clean-cut with short chestnut hair. He’s probably wearing a suit.”

  “Got it.” Jillie scans the room from our little booth. The place is filled with men fitting Keats’ description.

  I bite on my lower lip. Maybe Jillie won’t be much of a help after all. “Let’s spread out, meet back here in ten minutes. If I’m not here though, it means I’ve struck gold. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck, Jess.” She crosses the index and middle fingers of both hands near her beaming face.

  My heart races as I seek out groups that look like they’re celebrating someone’s engagement. There’s a girl with a princess tiara and a pink “I’m 18!” sash on, woo-hoo-ing about something I can’t hear. Nope, not unless Keats’ friend Blake is some kind of a cradle snatcher.

  My chest tightens. Maybe Keats has gone home. Maybe Blondie and Fake Tan have moved to another bar.

  This is ridiculous. And pathetic. And I really need to go to the loo.

  I head for the toilets again, pressing my hip against the door. It hardly budges an inch before closing again. Stupid hinges must need oiling.

  I dig my heels into the parquet floor, place both hands and my right shoulder flat against the door and push until the shaft of light from the gap grows. Slowly, slowly the door opens, then it suddenly gives, and I find myself hurtling towards the tiled floor with no more door to prop me up.

  A high-pitched squeal fills the small toilet as a hand catches my arm just before I land face first on the tiles. Despite the strong bruising grip, my helper only manages to turn me around. My momentum and weight still send me crashing down to the damp surface, and with the hand still on my arm, my rescuer slams on top of me as we both crash to the floor.

  Oomph. Ouch.

  My eyes flutter open, and standing by the door, is the dishevelled version of the same orange girl I saw in line before. Bathed in the Ladies’ halogen lighting, it’s easy to see her hair is mussed, her lipstick smudged, and her brows knotted into a frown.

  A soft curse draws my attention to my rescuer who’s still on me. And there, looking back at me, are very, very familiar, blue “fuck me” eyes.

  Chapter 3

  “Hog-gen?”

  My body coils at the sound of my high school nickname. I grit my teeth, glaring up at Keats McAllister. Or at least, I think it’s him under that facial hair, like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of weeks.

  At the reunion last September, he’d looked ready for the pages of GQ. Now, he’s scruffy, his chestnut hair curling at his nape and over his ears and forehead—like Isabella took his interest in grooming with her when she left him.

  He crawls off me, pulled from behind by Fake Tan.

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?” she screeches, triggering a throb in my head.

  “I’m…I’m okay,” I stammer, just as Keats answers in his Oklahoma twang, “I’m fine, darlin’.” He looks down at my stunned expression before distractedly saying, “I’ll see you outside, Kimmy” to Fake Tan.

  “I’m Kelsey.”
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  “All right.”

  Kelsey leaves in a huff, glaring at me like it’s my fault Keats isn’t interested enough in her to remember her name. He doesn’t seem to notice or care about her as he watches me with a worried expression. I wonder if I’ve hit my head and this is some kind of strange hallucination. I touch my scalp for damage.

  I thought I was in the women’s toilets? I look around. There are no urinals. And then it clicks. Gross. Was he just making out in here with Fake Tan? And yuck, I’m touching the cold toilet floor!

  “Here, let me help you up.” Keats steps over me, takes my hands in his and pulls.

  I scramble to my feet so he doesn’t realise how heavy I am.

  “Are you all right, Hog-gen?”

  Hands still holding mine, he studies me and all I can think about is: He does have “fuck me” eyes. And they’re even bluer and more compelling contrasted against his unexpectedly sexy facial hair.

  “I need to pee.” That’s as much as my addled brain could muster this close to him.

  Keats lets go of my hand and takes a step back, an embarrassed smile on his lips as he retreats towards the door.

  I didn’t mean I’m going right here, right now.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, a corner of his generous mouth turned up.

  Oh, God. I probably sounded like Forrest Gump. I put my face in my hands as soon as he’s out of the bathroom. That was the longest conversation I’ve had with Keats in over ten years—the first sentence I’ve uttered to him since high school, actually—and it had the word “pee” in it.

  The toilet door opens and the girl with the “I’m 18!” sash enters with a gaggle of her equally young friends. I run for one of the stalls before I need to line up again.

  Afterwards, I stand in front of the lone mirror above the only sink in the women’s toilets. My hands are shaking as I straighten out my hair. The adrenalin from my brief encounter with Keats is still coursing through my body. I look back at me. My face has always been thinner but below my neck I just balloon out starting with my boobs that have been blocking the view of my feet since I was fifteen.

  I sigh. There’s no way for me to tone up between now and closing time. Keats is just going to have to see me like this.

  “Excuse me, are you done?” the newly eighteen asks me.

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  I take a deep breath before I exit the bathroom. The smell of beer and the buzz of intermingled noises greet me. I better find Jillie and ask her if she wants to catch the bus together.

  “Howdy, Hog-gen.”

  I jump and find Keats right in step beside me. The nickname instantly has my hackles up, so I keep my gaze averted.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to check if you were okay. You took quite a fall there.”

  I look at him blankly. He’s apologising about that? What about practically ghosting me for the last two months?

  “I’m Keats McAllister. From high school?”

  I guess he didn’t see me ogling him for the few minutes he was at our class reunion last September. He’d probably been too busy at the time to notice me in my pink froufrou dress. Probably not a bad thing. A similar outfit had looked so cute on Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City. I’d thought I looked equally cute. Until I saw the photos.

  “I know who you are,” I snap. Hm, that didn’t come off as very welcoming. I take a deep breath, wanting a calmer, friendlier tone.

  “So, are you okay? Are we good, Hog-gen?”

  That damn nickname’s like nails down a blackboard.

  “No, we’re not ‘good’. My name’s Jess.” My voice comes out gruff. I can’t shake my annoyance. I should be past this by now. My stupid nickname shouldn’t still make me feel like hating the world. Why am I surprised that my secret high school crush is still calling me by the high school nickname that all the popular kids did? “You know, you’re not so perfect either. In certain lights, your hair’s got a tinge of red in it, but no one ever made fun of you, did they? No one ever called you ‘Ginger’. Or ‘Ranga’ for being a redhead.”

  He raises both brows at me, looking puzzled.

  “How did you even survive high school without getting teased about your hair, Ranga?” Okay, I’m obviously too frazzled for friendly tonight, and “hangry”—so hungry that I’m angry—from only having a salad for dinner. “Forget it.”

  I walk away before I can say more. I’m not good at hiding my feelings and I don’t usually bother, but my practical brain is telling me I have wandered into dangerous territory that I’m already regretting. If TV has taught me anything, the cranky girl never gets the hot guy in bed. Well, unless she’s a gorgeous supermodel, which I’m not. I don’t want to put Keats off me forever over a momentary annoyance.

  Jillie is not at our booth as I go past it on my way outside. The muggy night air puts an instant film of sweat on my skin. I look up and down Charlotte Street for the nearest bus stop. I spot it behind a line of taxis on the other side of Edward Street.

  “Hog-gen, wait! Um, Jess!”

  I ignore Keats. I am about to turn into the proverbial pumpkin and I don’t need him to witness me at my grumpiest.

  I’m almost across the street when he catches up to me, but I keep walking, eyes down, not wanting to talk to him. At this point, I’m the furthest from the perky, all-smiling girls he constantly fell for in high school.

  “Fuck me. This is about lunch today, isn’t it?” He runs his hand over his short beard, walking backwards to talk to me. He swears to himself again. “I totally forgot.”

  “No shit.”

  He stumbles a little where the road meets the footpath. It’s disappointing he doesn’t fall flat on his arse.

  “Can you please stop walking so I can talk to you?” he asks, a hint of frustration in his voice. He plants his feet a metre in front of me and unless I want to walk around him or bulldoze him over, there’s nothing else to do but stop. “Look. I’m sorry about lunch today. Friend of mine got engaged which was totally unexpected, and by the time I remembered, I didn’t have your number anyhow.”

  “I left you a voicemail message.”

  “Yeah, without your phone number in it. Your number comes up as ‘unknown’, you know.”

  Oh, that’s right. I made it unlisted so I could call my website’s customers when necessary without giving away my personal phone number. “Why didn’t you just ask Isabella for it?” I ask, my annoyance dissipating.

  He gives me a pointed look.

  “Byron, then.”

  Another pointed look.

  “Aren’t you the best man?”

  He lifts one sexy shoulder. “It wasn’t a good choice on their part. Are you Isa—her best friend?” His voice sounds tight like he almost choked on her name.

  They only went out for a month, but I would’ve thought he’d know things about her like who her friends were. I shudder to think how they’d spent their time together. I shake my head, both to answer his question and to halt the unwanted images provided by my overactive imagination.

  “So, you’re not close?”

  “That would be a big no,” I admit to him.

  He raises a questioning brow at me.

  “It’s hard to like someone who gets everything you want,” I say. Shit. TMI.

  He bites his lower lip with a thoughtful frown. “Byron was your date to the reunion, right? Do you have a thing for my brother or something?”

  He’s looking at me so intently with those expressive blue eyes, I can almost guess what he wants me to say.

  I inhale slowly, square my shoulders and meet his gaze. The air sizzles between us but maybe it’s just me because he’s showing no signs of sexual awareness.

  “Yes.” I force my eyes to stay on his, sure I didn’t pull off that lie. But I had to try—I’ve finally found an “in” with the guy I’ve been crushing on for over half my life.

  “I see. How long have you been hiding your feelings?”

  For Byron? Never. For Keats
? “A while.”

  He studies me some more, then nods. “Look. Can we try meeting again tomorrow? Here.” He pulls something out of his wallet and hands it to me.

  It’s a business card. So grown up. All I have in my handbag is a bus pass, a mostly empty wallet and two Tic Tacs floating around gathering lint.

  “It’s got all my contact details on it. If you stand me up, I’ll totally understand but can we try meeting again tomorrow? Twelve o’clock, same place?” He flashes me a sad, but no less sexy, smile. His “fuck me” eyes extend the invitation further whether Keats actually means to or not.

  “Yes,” I say to his eyes.

  “Great!” His smile widens.

  Wait. What did I just agree to?

  Chapter 4

  I scan the tables of the restaurant for Keats. I’m ten minutes late on purpose. It was a gamble. Every fibre of my desperate being wanted to be here ten minutes early. But if I’ve learnt nothing else in the last ten years, it’s overly eager girls never get the guy.

  And he’s not here. Again.

  I dither at the café’s entrance, wondering whether I should turn on my heels and leave. Did Keats wait for me for ten minutes and go when I didn’t show up? Or is he late, or worse, standing me up again?

  I start to head out but his bedroom eyes flash inside my mind, buying him ten more minutes of my time.

  I sit in a booth against the side wall of the café and take my tablet out. Might as well get some work done while I wait. Turning on the device, I check to make sure no one I know is around, before connecting to the café’s Wi-Fi and logging onto my website: Miz Peggy.

  Immediately, the centre of the screen is covered by a curvaceous cartoon pig in a long, blonde wig, fishnet stockings, red stilettoes and a French corset. She shakes her overflowing bosoms and the rest of her jiggle and undulate like a hypnotic lava lamp. I hurriedly minimise it and my logo goes to the upper right corner. Animated hearts and cartoon sex toys adorn the screen while the message in cursive font reads: Welcome to Miz Peggy where curves are celebrated, adorned and titillated.