Page 2 of Honeyed
Shaking my head and reminding myself to keep up the scowl and stop eyeing my best friend—something I’m constantly reminding myself not to do—I raise an eyebrow as if to egg him on.
“I could have been anybody.” His deep voice should not do the thing it does to the spot between my legs, but it’s been four months since he’s spoken to me directly, and I’ve been deprived.
“What, like an axe murderer?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.
Warren’s spine snaps ramrod straight, and I know I fucked up. With his past, I should never bring that up in such a joking manner, but I’m rusty when it comes to him.
“I didn’t mean …” I trail off, feeling awkward.
I’ve never felt awkward around this man. Only one time previously, and we’ve silently agreed never to speak of it again. Other than that, we’ve always told each other everything. We shared every experience, every life moment since we were eleven.
Minutes pass, and streams of sunlight begin to fall over us and the towpath. Just the two of us out here alone, where no one else can hear or judge us. We could hash it all out, but fifteen years of unspoken feelings have constructed bricks around my heart. And I’m too stubborn to expose that all to him right now.
“You’re really mad at me for backing Cassandra up and going against your father?” His voice is gruff, like it always gets when he’s emotional.
I’ve never seen Warren cry; he’s much too jaded and reserved to show emotions like that. But I can’t deny I hear the catch in his voice, like I’ve really hurt him over this. If he only knew just how many nights I’d been tearing up into my pillow over this fight.
Over what it symbolized to me.
From the time we were eleven, Warren has looked up to my father like an idol. Like he is his hero. My dad has always treated Warren as one of his own boys, and the bond they share got in the way of me ever exploring the feelings I have for the best friend I fell in love with. How many times has Warren backed up my father when we argued about something? Too many to count. How many times have I asked Warren to defend me, put his neck out on the line where my father is concerned, or just talk back to the man? So many. If he’d ever done so, maybe we could finally be more.
But he never did, not until my brother’s wife, Cassandra, came into the picture. Her being a famous actress might annoy our father, but the fact that Cass lives in the house that her father, Butch, had always occupied until his death just made my dad dislike her more. He wanted Butch’s land and dispensed my brother Patrick to charm her into giving it to us. After a series of tragic events, Cassandra’s safety was threatened, and my father still held ill will toward her. Everyone yelled at him about it, including Warren.
Not once has he ever stood up to my old man like that for me or for us. I’m not just pissed; I’m hurt. Warren’s actions hold so much more meaning for me than just being about standing up for Cassandra. His defense of her, and his disapproval of my father’s words, have shown me that he’s capable of standing up to Thomas Ashton. Just not for me. Not when it could mean that Warren and I could be more to each other than just best friends. It means he’ll never go against the word he gave my father to treat me like a sister and look out for me always.
“If you really think that’s what’s happening here, you’re even more oblivious than I thought.” I cross my arms, pushing my sports bra up.
I don’t miss the way those gray eyes flick down to my chest and the blush that seems to be more present around him in my twenties than ever before makes its way to my cheeks. The tension between us has reached a fever pitch these days, even if we aren’t speaking.
“Al, don’t be like this. You know why—”
Warren’s phone rings, interrupting our disagreement. He glances at the screen, his brow furrowing, and then answers with a gruff hello.
“What?” I see his face pale a little as he talks into the receiver. “No, no, uh … thanks for letting me know. Yes, I will be there. Oh, a meeting? After? Uh, okay. Yes. I will be there.”
He clicks off without saying thank you or goodbye, and I’m desperate to know not only who was on the phone but what he was going to say before the call interrupted us.
The words “you know why” taunt my brain, tickling the suspicion that I’ve always wanted Warren to confirm; that he is just as in love with me as I am with him but that he won’t pursue it because he respects my father and family too much. My heart beats with the knowledge I want him to admit to, but he looks rattled after getting off the phone.
He looks like he’s seen a ghost, and I can’t help but walk closer to him and touch the corded vein and muscle on his forearm. “Who was that?”
“A lawyer for the estate. Arthur died.” Warren’s eyes focus on the water of the canal below, avoiding my worried gaze. “They want me to attend the funeral.”
And suddenly, it doesn’t matter that we aren’t speaking. It doesn’t matter that I’m in love with this man who won’t ever give himself permission to love me back. It doesn’t matter that I’m hurt and completely up in the air about what my life will be if I can’t be with him.
Warren’s adopted father is dead, and it’s time to be by his side. To be his best friend.
Just like I’m always destined, and doomed, to be.
2
WARREN
For a twenty-seven-year-old, I’ve attended far too many of my parent’s funerals.
My mother died when I was ten. I remember standing next to her closed casket with no one but a distant cousin of hers to stand next to me as people from all over poured in to give me their condolences. I had no idea why these people, who I’d never met before and some of whom had never met my mother, were even talking to me.
I just wanted to go home and lie down until that sick feeling in my stomach disappeared. Unfortunately, I’d never go back to the house I grew up in … which was a crime scene.