it just then to Honey, making his throat hurt.
God help him this weekend when it came to keeping his hands off her. She looked angelic, with her thin, white T-shirt tucked into a short, flowery skirt. What did it say about him that he only wanted to get that angel on her ever-loving back? Naked and moaning, the way she’d been Thursday afternoon in Queens.
No. Maybe his logic was twisted, but he needed to keep Abby . . . untouched. At least in the final way that mattered. If he could manage that Herculean feat a while longer, just until he knew a future between them was even possible, that he could give her a happy life, he’d be a candidate for sainthood.
Russell tipped his head back and breathed through his nose. “I am not my dick. My dick does not make decisions for me.”
A passing woman started walking faster, and Russell sighed. Best to keep his new mantra internal the next time he felt the need to repeat it in public. And he had a feeling he’d be chanting it like a motherfucker before the weekend was over.
“Russell,” Roxy yelled from across the street. “Did you forget where we live?”
“Hint,” Honey chimed in, gesturing with her coffee cup. “We’re sitting right in front of it.”
Russell smirked at them as he crossed Ninth Avenue, sufficiently reminded that although his dick would be having a rough weekend, the rest of him would have fun. While his focus was always on Abby, he’d developed a pretty serious soft spot for his buddies’ girlfriends. Not that he was insane enough to let them know it. Once women knew they could smile and get a favor out of you, they turned into loaded weapons. Some women, at least. Abby waited until he offered, then smiled.
One of the first warning signs that he was lost over Abby had been one month into their friendship. Louis threw a surprise party for Roxy one night after she’d landed her first big acting role. He’d noticed Abby walking into the apartment with liquor bottles, setting them on the counter and heading back out into the hallway. Twice she’d done it before he’d gotten frustrated enough to ask her if she needed help carrying something. Turned out, there’d been three heavy cases of liquor for the party sitting downstairs, and she’d planned on carrying the contents up, two bottles at a time. Instead of asking for help.
Russell had stacked the three boxes on top of one another and brought them to the apartment, grumbling about stubborn women the entire way. But when he’d set them down in the kitchen, he’d turned to find Abby beaming at him like a certified hero. God, if she’d asked him to jump out the window at that moment, he would have leapt without a thought.
As he approached the girls, however, Abby wasn’t looking at him like a hero. She wasn’t looking at him at all, and it instantly fucked him up. If he didn’t suspect it would show his hand, Russell would have flung himself down on the sidewalk and begged Abby to ask him for a favor. Anything. Anything in the world so he could go get it for her. A pink armadillo. A flower from the highest peak in the Swiss Alps. A baby goat. Whatever. He just wanted her to look at him the way she always had. Before he’d slapped her ass and sent her back to Manhattan. Jesus, he was a prize asshole.
You’re going to fix it. Just hang in there.
“Hey,” he said, his voice reminding him of sawdust. “Where’s your old ball and chains?”
Roxy appeared to register Abby’s lack of greeting but didn’t comment, thanks be to God. “Louis is picking up the Zipcar—or Zipvan, really. Ben is—”
“Right here,” Ben said from behind Russell, opening his arms just in time for Honey to fling herself into them. He kissed his girlfriend’s forehead and tucked her against his side with a smile that had contentment written all over it. “Louis is en route. Roxy? Try not to freak out.”
“Why?” the actress tilted her head, but Ben stayed quiet. “Shit. What did he—”
A series of three loud beeps interrupted Roxy, her face not even bothering to register shock as a white, stretch limousine glided to a stop at the curb. Louis popped out through the sunroof and spread his arms wide. “Did someone call for a ride?”
“Louis McNally II.” Roxy stomped her foot. “You did not.”
“I did.” When Roxy