Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) by Claudia Burgoa Page A

face of the earth for almost a week and when I see you again, you're wasted. Is it your parents again?”
    My head drops.
    “This shit isn’t any of my business, but maybe you should seek some help.” He points at a trash bag filled with empty bottles. “You drank the entire supply of beers, dude. That’s sick. And apparently you do stupid things while under the influence. Twice. Or maybe more. What would I know?” He holds up a bar coaster which has the sloping writing presumably of the girl I fucked. What was her name? Cindy? Lindy?
    I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, while fighting to settle the plethora of emotions that are shaking my mind and my soul. Fuck, what have I been doing . . . thinking?
    “Tristan?” His concern invites me to unload my entire week, but as I release each word, I conclude that this—us—has to come to an end.
    We’re friends, friends that have a great time in and out of the bed. My issue is that he’s a man, and sooner or later I’ll break if we continue . . . what we have. Yes, this loving but hiding shit is just getting old. If only I could break every single chain and find a way to let myself be happy.
    “I think we should stop what's going on between us,” I blurt. Yes, what I say is the opposite of breaking the parental grasp. Fuck. “I can't . . . we can’t continue this, Matt. It's been weeks since it started. Pretending is killing us both. This is hurting you as much as it hurts me and I’m hating myself for that . . . for giving you some unnecessary pain because you’re not being truthful to yourself.”
    The weight on my back increases with those words. I don't feel any lighter than I did when I thought about cutting “the benefits” of our friendship.
    “That's for the better,” he says in a low voice. His crystal blue eyes don't change, and it's as if he doesn't give a shit. “You’re right, I can't continue hiding either.” He places a hand on top of my shoulder giving me a reassuring squeeze. “Look, things between us will never work out, but we can remain friends, don’t you think?”
    “I guess.” I act casually. Although the physical shit is important, I care more about my friend. I can feel my body beginning to relax, and I needed that. The knowledge that no matter what, I still have my friend. “As if I can shake you off, Decker. You're hard to get rid of,” I state, instead of telling him that I’ve learned to care for him and it’d kill me if I lose the only best friend I’ve had in years. “Glad we're not an item or this'd be considered a break up.”
    Neither one of us says a word, but we both laugh. The sound erases that buzz I carried, and the guilt of having to sneak around. Yes, this was the best solution for both.
    “I’m here to listen, dude.” Matthew pats me on the back, taking me into his arms. He gives me a quick kiss. “I will miss fucking you, but I’d rather see you sober.”
    One good thing came out of all the shit I've been through in the past months. Matt. I am going to miss fucking around with him. More than he will know. The words I read a few months ago come back to me:
    You're not alone.
    Today I believe them. I have a friend.

T he screeching sound coming out of the speakers is deafening me. I wish I could poke my ears and escape, but my hands are too busy preparing drinks. The music continues, as the singer is about to finish destroying Green Day’s “Walking Contradiction.”
    “I’m a walking contradiction, and I ain’t got no right.” The off-key, tone-deaf dude ends the song.
    “Thank you, everyone.” The clueless frontman looks around. “We’re Monopoly, a walking contradiction—like you.”
    Some giddy women from the audience holler at him. Others start clapping and suddenly they are asking for an encore. I bet an encore of another great band. Not these wannabe kids who actually seem to think they have a shot at hitting it big. Probably knowing that from time to time we have scouts