Untying the Knot
Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Copyright 2022
Cover Design By: RBA Designs
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
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Copyright © 2022 Meghan Quinn
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Excerpt - A Long Time Coming
More Books by Meghan
Prologue
MYLA
“How does my hair look?” Nichole asks as she pushes the short blonde locks behind her ear.
“Still fresh, still curled, but don’t put it behind your ear,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Breath?” She blows in my face.
I take a large sniff—because that’s what best friends are for—and say, “Smells like nothing.”
“Good.” She tugs on the hem of her black dress. “I thought those nachos we had at the bar were going to make me have cheese breath.”
“Cheese breath is nowhere to be found.”
“Thank God.” She glances up the stairs of the townhome and then back at me. “He’s cute, right?”
“Uh, he’s more than cute,” I answer. “He’s hot.”
“Yeah, okay. I wasn’t sure if I was making it up in my head. But he’s hot. His jawline is incredible.”
“And his shoulders are broad,” I answer. “And even though his shirt is loose, you can tell he has muscles.”
“Lots of muscles, and what are we a fan of?” Nichole asks.
“Men with muscles,” I answer with a fist pump.
“And this place is pretty nice.” Nichole glances around. “I mean, it screams bachelor pad, but we’ve seen worse.”
“Totally. At least beer cans aren’t being used as decorations.”
“Just stupid sports flags,” Nichole says, gesturing to the large Phoenix Studmuffins flag pinned to the stark white wall.
One couch, one enormous TV mounted on the wall with loose cords, brown carpet that’s seen better days, and a single four-by-six picture of two guys hanging next to the TV, their arms wrapped around each other in a “bro hug.” There’s not much to the space, not even a dining table where a dining table should be. It’s just empty.
“Do you think they like the Studmuffins?” I ask. “That flag is very large. They’re obviously fans of the Triple-A team.”
“How do you know it’s Triple-A?” Nichole asks. “You don’t watch baseball.”
“I waited a table that just came from a game.” I shrug. “Either way, I wonder if they’re actually fans or if it’s more of an ironic thing. You know, like . . . they got it for free, and now it’s the only decoration they have besides the four-by-six frame that’s made for a side table, not a wall.”
Nichole taps her chin. “Hmm, well, the guy . . . God, what’s his name again?”
“Banner,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
Out of the two of us, Nichole likes to sleep around, and I have no problem with that. Get it in while you can is what I say, but we’re a package deal. Not as in threesome potential, but as in I have no shame in waiting for Nichole to get done with her business so we can walk out together, hand in hand.
“Oh right, Banner. Anyway, he seems more ironic than anything. The flowers on his button-up shirt scream ironic.”
“I could see that,” I answer just as the stairs creak.
“Oh God, he’s coming.” Nichole flashes her teeth at me. “Anything in them?”
“Nope, you’re good.”
“And breath is fine still?”
“It didn’t change in the past three minutes.”
She opens her mouth and closes it. Opens and closes. “How’s my range, you know, in case I need to slip anything in my mouth tonight?”
I chuckle. “Looking a little stiff, but I’m sure he’ll be stiff as well.”
“Ha, good one.”
“Hey,” Banner says from the doorway of the living room. “Uh, you want to head up?” He gestures toward the stairs with his thumb. When we arrived, he asked for a minute—most likely to clean his room, make his bed, you know, make things comfortable—so we took a seat, but it looks like planned sexual intercourse is about to commence.
“Yeah, sure,” Nichole says nonchalantly as she stands.
Eyes on me, Banner asks, “Are you just going to . . . sit there?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I say as I lean back on the couch and cross one leg over the other.
“You don’t want to go home or anything?” he asks, looking far too confused.
“Nope, I’m good. I’ll just wait for Nichole. The couch is comfy, and if you can just direct me to the remote, I’ll drown out the inevitable moans.”
“Uh, yeah,” he says as he walks over to the TV and removes the remote Velcroed to the side of it. Huh, they don’t have a dining room table, but they have the wherewithal to Velcro the TV remote so it doesn’t get lost. What kind of household is this?
He tosses the remote, and I do a fine job of not even coming close to catching it. It hits me in the arm instead.
“Ooof, that will leave a mark,” I say. Rubbing my arm, I ask, “I’m going to assume what’s yours is mine in this scenario?”
“What?” he asks, his brow furrowed. The patience in this one is wearing thin. Bet he didn’t expect to bring home a hot date . . . and a squatter, but here we are.
“Am I free to roam about the cabin? You know, eat and drink what’s available? I mean, my friend will be offering you one hell of an orgasm tonight—she’s already done mouth stretches.”
Nichole smiles brightly. “I did.”
“So am I free to make myself at home?”
“Oh, yeah . . . sure,” he answers and then looks at Nichole. “You did mouth stretches?”
“Always come prepared is my motto.”
I stand from the couch and walk over to them. I place my hand on Banner’s arm and say, “She’s very bendy. Have fun.” I give his arm a squeeze and then offer Nichole a thumbs-up. “Muscles are popping.”
“Oh, yay.” She takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs as I head to the kitchen.
Surprisingly more open than I expected, the kitchen is shrouded by dark oak cabinets, tan speckled countertops, and one window that looks out into what I’m going to assume is a backyard. Can’t quite tell since it’s past eleven at night. Not a single dish in the sink, the counters are shockingly clean, which means either they don’t cook or they can actually clean up after themselves, and there are only two appliances in the kitchen. A coffee pot—nothing fancy, something you can buy at Target for twenty dollars on sale or snag for fifteen on Black Friday—and the most enormous toaster oven I’ve ever seen.
I walk up to it and pull down the hatch. “What does this hold? A whole loaf of bread at the same time? My God, where do you buy something like this?” I then try the fridge. “Would you look at that? Fruit and veggies.” I bend down and push around Tupperware with precut vegetables. “This is real Tupperware. That’s impressive. Ooo, a Capri Sun.” I snag a fruit punch and then shut the fridge door. “Food, where is the food?”
I open a few empty cabinets, which makes me think they really don’t cook here since there’s nothing to cook with, and then I stumble across some food.
“What do we have here?” I push past boxes of oatmeal, protein bars—hmm, maple donut, wasn’t sure anyone liked that flavor—and tubs of protein powder. “Typical,” I mutter. Normally, I’m a healthy-ish person who can appreciate a solid tub of whey protein, but not after a sweaty night of drinking and dancing in a bar. I need some snacking food.
I move to another cabinet, and then another, and another but come up short. Hoping I can find something in the freezer, I whip that open as well, wishing for an ice cream bar of some sort but only find rotten bananas and ice packs.
“What kind of household is this?” Groaning, I go back to the fridge, snag the Tupperware full of grapes—plucked from the vine—and head back into the living room, where I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. I go straight to TBS, knowing there will be sitcom reruns, and to my delight, it’s The Big Bang Theory. “Oh Sheldon, you crazy fuck,” I say as I pop open the grapes and start inhaling them one at a time.
I’m in the middle of poking my straw through the hole in the Capri Sun when the front door opens and shuts. Locks are engaged, shoes are kicked off, and a bag of some sort slams to the floor before a man appears in the living room entryway.
Well, would you look at that? Hello, sir.
Tall, broad with brown hair, a man stands in front of me sporting a pair of baggy sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. His long fingers twitch at his sides as his sculpted shoulders set back when he realizes he’s not alone. Hiding under a Studmuffins hat is a piercing set of blue eyes that carry confusion as he looks me up and down.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks.
I toss a grape in my mouth and answer, “A guest to this residence. Who the hell are you?”
“The renter of this residence,” he responds.
“Ah, well . . . it would help guests greatly if you offer them more variety of snacks when they come over. Protein bars and grapes aren’t going to cut it.”
He glances around, clearly looking for any indication of what the hell is going on, and then turns back toward me. “Who are you here with? Banner?”
“Why yes, I am, technically.” I hold my finger up to my mouth and say, “Now, shush. You’re interrupting my show.”
He glances at the TV and then back at me again. “Where the hell is Banner?”
“God, you with the questions.” I roll my eyes. “He’s upstairs with my best friend having sex.”
“And you’re down here, eating grapes and watching a show?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what’s happening. Good job stating the obvious.”
He pulls on the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I don’t have the fucking patience right now to deal with this.”
“Good, then you can leave me to my show.” With another shake, he heads up the stairs when I say, “Uh, dude . . . man, guy.”
“Ryot,” he says.
“What’s that now?”
“My name is Ryot.”
“Oh, that’s an interesting one. Okay then, parents attempting to make you popular straight out of the womb. Anyway, do you happen to have a blanket? There’s a swift breeze coming from the window, and I’d rather not catch a chill while sitting here.”
“No, I don’t,” he answers.
“You don’t have one single blanket?”
“Not for you to use,” he answers again. This time, he starts walking up the stairs.
“Sheesh, what kind of host are you?”
“I’m not. You shouldn’t be here.” And before I can respond, he’s out of earshot.
Well, he’s fucking rude.
It’s not like I asked for a homemade turkey dinner. I’m just looking for an ounce of comfort here.
Comfort I now need to find myself.
I glance around the downstairs and wonder if there’s a blanket in a closet somewhere but realize that if he doesn’t have even a single piece of junk food in the house, he’s not going to have a spare quilt from a kooky aunt just rolled up waiting to be used.
Urgh, that’s annoying.
A chill races up my spine as the air conditioner kicks on. This is not going to do.
I consider slipping my body under the couch cushions, but sure, their countertops might be clean, but who knows what has happened on this couch?
Do I ask for a spare sweatshirt?
Not sure Ryot would be partial to sparing his warm-weather garments, and if I’ve learned anything in the past, never disrupt Nichole while she’s with a man—that’s how I found out she’s so bendy.
Hmm . . . I glance down at the cushion again . . . maybe I could unzip it and slip my body inside?
No.
Nope.
Not going to happen. People fart on couches, so there are farts in these threads and I just won’t do it.
I sigh and lean back on the couch just as my eyes connect with the flag.
Huh.
You know . . .
That quite possibly could work.
I set my grapes and Capri Sun down and stand to examine the flag. It looks to be at least six feet long. A nylon material won’t replace the warm cocoon of a wool sweater, but beggars can’t be choosers.
This will have to do.
I examine how it’s hung up and notice that it’s held on the wall by Velcro as well. What is with these guys? Have they never heard of Command strips?
Either way, I give the flag a solid yank, listen to the sweet sound of Velcro tearing apart from its long-lost lover, and then bundle it up as I bring it to the couch.
Oh yes, I can already tell this was a good choice. I snuggle in close to my Studmuffin flag, grab my Tupperware of grapes and my Capri Sun, and sit back and relax.
There, now this is living.
* * *
“Myla . . . Myla, wake up.”
“Two more minutes, Dad,” I murmur into my pillow.
“Myla, it’s Nichole. Wake up.” She shakes my shoulder, startling me out of a haze.
“Huh? What?” I ask, my eyes peeping open to find Nichole standing in front of me, her hair a mess and razor burn peppered along her face. “What’s happening?”
“Time to go, Myla.”
“Go where?” In my sleepy haze, I assess my surroundings. Where the hell am I?
“Home.” Nichole tugs at the fabric wrapped around my body. “What are you doing with this?”