need to know: andy. she/her. 24. reader, writer, middle child, scorpio. fan of hockey. caps & canucks. scorned lover of cole caufield. minors, do not interact with my content.
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MASTERLIST || MINIS
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Trevor dug the toe of his loafer into the plush carpet of the hotel hallway and rapped his knuckle against the door again. Behind the heavy wood, he could hear…well, precisely nothing, actually.
“Jimmy? You in there, bud? You – uh — need a hand with something?”
He looked, desperately, to his left — back in the direction he’d come, down the stairs to the venue hall two floors below, where ten minutes ago he’d been sitting on his spindly chair in the third row by himself, nailing a few levels of Candy Crush while the string quartet tuned up, itchy and pulling at the collar of his dress shirt. Until Rianne, Jamie’s Maid of Honor, had appeared, that is.
Why the fuck she’d hooked Trevor out of the ceremony and dragged him up here, he’d had no idea. She’d deposited Trevor in the hallway, hissed something about Jamie locking the door from the inside, and could he please fucking talk to her, like it was his problem to solve — and then she’d gone again, to find Jamie’s mom, maybe? That would be the sensible thing to do. Maybe Trevor should just wait until Tina turned up? Why was no-one else around? Rianne hadn’t exactly given him any instructions — which was to be expected. Trevor had never really got on with Jamie’s best friend. He wasn’t generally used to being disliked, but the way Rianne went out of her way to avoid talking to him had been obvious for years, at this point. He was surprised she’d come and found him at all.
Trevor scuffed his shoe against the door frame again and tried to discern anything — literally anything – from behind the heavy wood. The ceremony was supposed to have started already. Trevor had been to plenty of weddings — loads, actually, a big extended Greek family and a propensity to say yes to most invitations — and there’d been a couple of incidents where the rumors had ripped around the venue beforehand – bouncing from fake eyelashes that wouldn’t stay glued on, to a bride with feet the temperature of ice cubes. At the time, he’d been vaguely entertained at the gossip, watching great aunts and groomsmen alike attempt to surreptitiously whisper into their order of service, but the idea of people gossiping about Jamie, however, made him uncomfortable. God knows, Jamie hated to cause a scene.
So what the hell was happening, then?
He looked back down the hallway again. Tina Drysdale’s warm, friendly face failed to materialize. Trevor grimaced. Feeling wildly out of his depth, he knocked again.
“JD? Bud? Rianne said you’ve locked yourself in here? We’re kind of worried about you. You wanna let me in? Or — I can go and get someone else? I think your mom’s coming —”
There was a hefty click, a creak, and then the door was open. Trevor caught himself on the doorframe to stop himself from falling face down onto the carpet. Jamie was standing in front of him, in a silky white slip, her usually thick hair pinned and scooped out of the way. Trevor blinked, dragging his eyes away from the lacey neckline, back up to Jamie’s pale face, freckles in stark relief, twisted up with a frown. The mascara around her eyes was smudged, but she wasn’t — he didn’t think — actively crying.
“Jimmy?”
She turned away from him, slumping back into a chair, which had a suspiciously frothy pile of fabric pooled on the floor next to it.
“Can you lock the door again?” she said, in a weak voice, without looking at him.
“Uhm.”
Trevor wasn’t an idiot. No matter how long he and Jamie had been friends — since college lab partner assignments had thrown their unlikely friendship together — he knew the optics of locking himself in a room with the bride-to-be on the morning of her wedding. During her wedding, he amended. The guests must be restless, by now. Great aunts and grandmas would be involved. Jamie’s grandma was pretty formidable, actually, but she had a soft spot for Trevor, which meant he always got the choicest servings at Drysdale family gatherings, when Jamie used to invite him. Which was mostly before Brandon, of course. It had been years since he’d had a prime Grandma Drysy meal, and Trevor missed it.
But anyway — he probably shouldn’t. Rianne would for sure be pissed. He was clearly supposed to get Jamie out, not join her in here.
“Z. Please.”
Jamie had turned her head and her eyes were wide, all pupil, looking up at him. Trevor had never had much resistance to Jamie’s face when it looked like that — when she was really stricken by something, on the edge of panic, about to tip over — so, slowly, he turned and twisted the lock. Rianne was probably going to kill him. Possibly, he’d even deserve it this time, but oh well. He’d find out the consequences later. If the guests downstairs were really getting bored, they could ask the string quartet for requests. Right now, he had other priorities.
At the sound of the lock clicking back into place, Jamie slumped further forward, burying her head in her hands. Her thick hair was slipping out of the twisted updo it was wrangled into, flicking out into its usual slightly-unkempt style. Jamie had always scrubbed up pretty well, but the messiness was much more familiar.
Trevor hovered. What wasn’t familiar, was the rest of what she was wearing. He was acutely aware it was, essentially, bridal lingerie – a silky dress of sorts – and with her sat down like this he could see right down the lacy vee to her freckled skin underneath, and the — he tried to avert his gaze, but couldn’t — generous curve of her pale tits. The slippery material pulled at the outline of her strong thighs too; muscles she’d honed in the gym with him, plus shared yoga classes and 6am runs — endless mornings where he could barely get Jamie to say a word, but was always happy to fill the silence himself instead.
Trevor did not know how to fill this particular silence.
“Drysy, come on, what’s going on?”
Jamie took a shuddering — really worrying, actually — breath, and dragged her head out of her hands. They’d done something to her eyebrows, Trevor realized. They were all neat and sleek, and they changed the way her face looked. Objectively pretty, but like someone had edited her in photoshop, somehow. It made him feel weird.
“Is Rianne mad at me?” she asked, in a small voice.
Trevor blinked. The question was unexpected. “Rianne? Not sure I can answer that one, bud. She always seems mad, to me. But you know I rub her up the wrong way, or something.” He shrugged. “Always have.”
This answer seemed to both be expected, and also disappointing, because for a second Trevor thought Jamie might just bury her face in her palms again. But then she sighed and sat up. The dress pulled taut against her chest. Trevor flicked his eyes away. It was bright sunshine outside, streaming through the window, bouncing down on the cars parked up on the street below. Trevor stared at the blue sky above the roof of the buildings opposite and wondered why the atmosphere in this room felt so suddenly unstable — why he didn’t know how to stand without feeling self conscious about it — whether to keep his hands in his pockets or let them hang loose, or what.
“Z?”
He flicked his gaze back. “Yeah?”
Jamie was looking at him, with wet, wide eyes. “Do you think I should go through with this?”
Trevor rocked back on his heels.
Logically, deep down, he’d known this was what was happening, of course. That Jamie was nervous; had managed to freak herself out; had pulled him in because he’d long ago appointed himself the Jamie-whisperer. He prided himself on –- if not being able to talk her down — at least always being able to distract her enough to make her smile.
He hadn’t expected to fill the role today, though. Jamie could be fucking stubborn, and they’d never talked about it. The possibility of Jamie not getting married today had never been broached, ever, by either of them.
Weakly, he found himself laughing. The sound left his mouth without his permission, a stuttering, panicked huff rather than a real, full laugh. It made Jamie’s face crumple. Maybe it was just a question, but there was no mistaking the way Jamie was looking at him.
“Why — why are you asking me that?” he managed.
“Z,” Jamie replied flatly, her voice cracking on the one letter. She was standing up now, advancing towards him with a pale freckled arm extended, like she was now the one trying to gentle a nervous horse, instead of the other way around.
“No — seriously — why are you asking me that?” Trevor said again, trying not to rear away from her, and failing. He stumbled taking a step backward — had to shoot out a hand to steady himself on a table on the side. It was littered with lipstick-stained champagne glasses from Jamie’s bridal party getting ready earlier, a half full bottle of Moët still sweating in a cooler, right by where he was holding on.
“Trevor. Please —” She took another step forward. “I really want to talk about this —”
Wildly, Trevor swiped a still mostly full flute, uncaring of the germs he might be picking up, and swigged back the few mouthfuls, before wiping the moisture away with the back of his hand. The drink he’d been offered on entry seemed way too long ago, and his throat was dry. He’d thought — he’d only ever imagined it this way — that if he and Jamie ever got into this properly, if they ever got down to the brass tacks of it all — at least one of them would have to be drunk. Preferably both.
“You love Brandon,” Trevor stated, aware of the high-pitched climb of his voice. “You’ve been with him for-fucking-ever, Jimmy. What — what are you asking me this for? You’ve been engaged to the dude for half a fucking decade.”
“Three years,” Jamie corrected, still pleading with him with her eyes. “Together for six.”
Trevor hiccuped another laugh. “That makes a difference does it?”
She ignored his question in favor of another of her own. “Did you ever think — Z — Trevor — please look at me — did you never wonder why it took us so fucking long to get our wedding planned?”
“I don’t know!” Trevor swept out his arm. “Because it’s a wedding? Chicks always get caught up in planning this shit! And you like things the way you like them, Jim.”
Jamie — lovely, sweet, peaceable Jamie — looked like she wanted to strangle him, but also so crushingly guilty and disappointed in herself that Trevor almost, but not quite, stopped freaking himself the fuck out to comfort her. “Did it ever occur to you I was stalling, Z?” she rasped, as he let the two urges struggle, patience burning up. “You never thought that? Really?”
“No!” Trevor barked, before forcibly calming himself down. He had to focus on Jamie’s face to do it — the pinched corners of her mouth and the freckles, darker against her pale skin, like bruises under her eyes. He dug his nails into his palms and took a deep breath in through his nose. “I’m not a fucking mind-reader, Jimmy,” he reminded her, through clenched teeth — even if he had (of course he had) wondered over the many months it seemed to be taking Jamie to make minute decisions about fucking napkin colors if maybe her heart just wasn’t in it, after all.
But it had been a dangerous thought, and one easily banished the next time Jamie met him for coffee and started talking about Brandon’s optimized workout patterns, or his latest sleep-cycle-tracking discoveries and new 9pm bed time, or whatever the fuck — and didn’t seem to mind that she was engaged to the dullest man alive. Maybe this was just the speed that two very (and he said this with love regarding Jamie, and decidedly less so when it came to Brandon) boring people moved with.
Jamie was looking at him like he’d kicked her in the teeth, and he hadn’t even said the boring bit out loud. “I’m not good at this stuff,” she said, on a hitched breath — and oh God, was she going to cry? “I tried to tell you! Remember Halloween?”
Trevor flinched. He didn’t need any other prompting to figure out what Jamie was talking about: the halloween post-college, where Jamie had just started seeing Brandon, and Trevor had bypassed their usual matching costumes, took the opportunity of roping Christian into wearing the stupid blades of glory onesie with him instead, and Jamie had turned up dressed up as a cowgirl, clearly thrown together from stuff out of her closet, swearing that Brandon was going to come as a cowboy, too — only for him to not turn up at all.
Trevor had found her in the kitchen after midnight, nursing a beer all by herself, bathed in the light from the overhead light on the extractor fan.
“Nice costume,” she’d said, nodding at the onesie that was now rolled at the waist, so he was shirtless and slightly sweaty. “Think Dvo pulls it off better than me.” Her joke was weak, but Trevor heard the slight irritation buried behind her soft voice. Selfishly, it made him happy to hear it.
“Dunno,” he’d replied, waggling his eyebrows. “We’ll have to see next yeah, eh?”
“Shut up, Z.” The party was warm and she’d been flushed from alcohol, but Jamie’s cheeks still visibly darkened. When he said he was sorry Brandon had flaked, he thought he’d sounded genuine enough. Jamie grimaced and tried to pull herself up straighter, un-slumping from against the counter. “He said he had to work,” she’d sighed. Trevor had cracked the bottle cap from a fresh cold beer with his signet ring – his favourite party trick – and exchanged it for the luke-warm one she was clinging to. He’d snorted as he handed it over.
“What a fucking loser.”
Their fingers had brushed. Jamie’s smile was wobbly. She’d turned her head towards him.
Maybe it had been the fact that they were alone; maybe it had been the tequila in his system, or the way Jamie’s hair shined under the spotlight, the blush still stained across her cheeks, or the way she was looking at him, like he’d thought he’d noticed a few times, but never when she thought he was looking back. Maybe it was because Brandon wasn’t there, and Trevor had never quite trained himself out of a certain vindictiveness that made it seem like kissing Jamie would teach the guy a lesson about what happened when he took his eyes off the prize.
Whatever it was —- he leaned in. Jamie’s stuttered breath puffed against his chin. He saw the hesitation play across her face, minute spasms of indecision, before she leaned in, too. The kiss was tentative, on Jamie’s part — too zipped through with the thrill of doing something he shouldn’t be on Trevor’s. It lasted a few seconds, soft, hot, until Trevor had tried to slip his tongue, and then Jamie had reared back, breathing hard.
“Trevor,” she’d said. “I don’t — wait — this isn’t how I thought — “
Unfortunately, Trevor never did find out what Jamie did think, thanks to Christian choosing that exact moment to stroll into the kitchen. Jamie slid away from him immediately, taking a swig of her beer to cover her face. Christian seemed oblivious.
“My guys!” he’d enthused. “What’s hanging?”
And that had been that.
Now, Trevor dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends — too long to be respectable, his mom said. He’d stopped cutting it as much, recently. “Jamie,” he said weakly. “That was barely anything. It was one kiss, for all the wrong fucking reasons. And you never mentioned it again.”
“Neither did you!” Jamie spluttered. “Literally never!”
“You had a boyfriend!”
“You didn’t seem to care about that back then!”
“Jesus Christ,” Trevor hissed. “What are you saying, Jimmy? Are you saying that — what? That this thing with Brandon – “
“I’m saying —”
“ — this whole time, you’ve been — you can’t be serious — you’ve been —?”
“In love with you,” Jamie finished — miserably, Trevor noted. Her shoulders slumped as she said it. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Trevor wanted to throw his head back and howl. Loud enough to shatter the windows, maybe. It might be better than screaming, or yelling.
“What the fuck,” he said, instead, at a normal volume.
“Great,” Jamie muttered. “Yeah, exactly the reaction I was hoping for, thanks Z.”
There was an expanse of space between them. Jamie’s bare, freckled shoulders rose and fell with her uneven breaths, her loose hair just brushing the skin.
“Why are you doing this now?” Trevor said, even though it was a stupid question, just something to say while he processed everything. His brain felt like it was pedalling through quicksand.
Jamie shrugged. “Well, it was either now, or halfway down the aisle,” she replied, with the sardonic little twist of her mouth that Trevor had always liked. Jamie was funny, when she wanted to be. “Figured this would actually be the less dramatic option. My grandma’s heart isn’t that strong.” She paused, then added more seriously, “plus… you broke up with Sadie.”
Trevor swiped another flute. “That was three months ago,” he said, before knocking it back.
“Yeah, well, I had to see if it would stick this time,” Jamie shrugged. “You know that’s fair, Z.”
Trevor had to concede she had a point, there. He actually was pretty sure this was it for him and Saide this time – he was certain she’d finally actually blocked his number, anyway. There was some finality in that — she’d never gone that far before.
“I’ve been single plenty,” he pointed out – “me and Sadie have been on and off for years.”
Jamie gave him an unimpressed look and an eye roll, thick dark eyebrows scrunching down. God, it was hot. Jamie pissed off had always, unfortunately, been a turn on for him.
“Yeah, and that was really something I wanted to insert myself into,” she scoffed. “Trevor, you were crazy about her. You treated each other like shit, and you still kept going back.”
“So?”
“So!” Jamie huffed. “C’mon, Z. It’s not hard to see why I kept this to myself. Sadie’s, like, my complete opposite. I mean, if that’s your type — and it always has been — then why would I ever think I stood a chance?”
Trevor opened, then closed his mouth. Sadie was a bombshell, it was true. Sex on legs, and that’s pretty much all that had connected them, in the end. “Because you’re my friend?” he offered.
Jamie actually laughed, dry and brittle. “Right, yeah. Friends. Jimmy this, JD that, buddy, pal, Drysy — sure, when the signs are that clear, eh? You know, I can probably count on my hands the amount of times you’ve called me by my actual name?”
“They’re nicknames! I use them because I like you!” Trevor replied indignantly. “Jesus Christ!”
Jamie took a deep breath. “But do you love me?” she asked, her voice forcibly even. “Because I swear to God, Trevor — this is gonna blow up my whole life, and for some god forsaken reason, I’m willing to do it, but only if you want me to.”
Trevor felt the air whip right out of his lungs. “Jamie….”
“Maybe we missed our chance. Maybe it won’t work and we’re better off friends, or maybe you only look at me like that sometimes because you think I’m — fucking off limits or whatever —” Trevor flinched — “but it’s killing me that I don’t know, Z. Please can you tell me what you’re thinking?”
The thing was, it was easy to want Jamie, and he’d always imagined that maybe, if things didn’t work out with other people – eventually, when they were forty and Jamie was divorced, or whatever — when it was more safe — they’d choose each other. In a childhood spent bouncing from prep school to prep school to college to post-grad in LA, in a city he’d never even visited before moving to, Jamie had been a pretty good constant for him these last few years. Risking that had always seemed pretty terrifying. And he liked that other people looked at their friendship and found it funny, weren’t able to understand it, why quiet, good girl Jamie stuck around or why Trevor seemed to prioritize her over his hot girlfriends – a convenient in-built buffer. He liked upending people’s expectations. In the years since that Halloween party, when his friends asked whether he and Jamie had ever fucked, Trevor had developed a kind of perverse pleasure in telling them, truthfully, “nope. Not even once.” Jamie was more than that, anyway, is what he always justified.
Jamie had started to turn away. “Right,” she was saying. “Oh my God, just forget it, Trevor. Fuck.”
“Jamie — “ He stepped forward. “Fuck. Fucking — hang on.”
Slowly, Jamie turned around. Her face was carefully blank. He’d never seen her able to pull that off before. “You can’t — you can’t just drop this on me.”
Her face, if possible, shuttered even further, but there was a little downward tug to her mouth that felt exactly like an arrow through the heart. “Okay,” she said, monotone. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It was selfish of me.”
Trevor’s feet were sinking through the floor. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t open his mouth. He sniffed, squeezed his eyes shut tight, opened them again to Jamie’s face, watching him. He was being a coward. Maybe he always had been.
“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you since you got mad at me for messing up our Bio project in freshman year, and then still came to the frat party afterward, even though I could tell you hated those parties, but you’d already promised. I love you, because you’re like, the better half of me, and I love that I can be really fucking stupid and still make you laugh, and I love that you always listen to me. Like, properly listen. Jamie, of course I fucking love you.”
Jamie’s cheeks pinked up.
“Yeah? You do?”
“Of course I fucking do. I just — I never thought it was a good idea, I guess. And I thought you were happy.”
“I was lying,” Jamie said, and there were tears in her eyes, now. Trevor could see them sparkling, making them even more blue. “You make me happy. Who cares if it’s a good idea?”
Trevor choked on a huff of laughter. “Jamie Drysdale? Taking a risk?”
Jamie rolled her eyes again, though this time it was mixed with a watery smile. ‘Trevor, can you please fucking kiss me, now.”
“Oh, fuck, right,” Trevor said again, which transformed Jamie’s smile into a laugh, so that she was still laughing when Trevor pulled her in and set his lips against hers. It was a fumbled way to start a kiss – a relationship? – but it was so much better than Jamie’s hesitation all those years ago, and they both sobered up pretty quickly, grasping at each other’s shoulders. Jamie tasted of champagne, bubblingly sweet, and the heat from her cheeks burned his fingers when he moved to cradle her face to keep her close, licking into her deeper. She made a soft, desperate sound in the back of her throat that made him feel wild.
When they pulled apart to breathe, he looked back over his shoulder to the locked door. “I think your mom might be here in a second,” he panted. “I think Rianne went to find her? I really don’t want her to hate me again, Jim.”
Jamie buried her head against his shoulder, speaking into the crisp material of the dress shirt he was wearing, which now seemed kind of hilarious. “That’s why I asked Rianne to get you. She knows I’ve always liked you more than I should — sorry about that. I think she suspected this was what as I was going to do. And I actually texted my mom earlier. I told her to start telling the guests to go home. As soon as you left, I think that’s what happened.”
Trevor puffed out a breath of slightly surprised-slightly impressed laughter. “Wow,” he drawled, knowing Jamie would read his sarcasm. “That sure of yourself, huh? Atta girl.”
“I was actually planning on moving back in with my parents and becoming a recluse if you said no,” she replied dryly. “Maybe join a nunnery.”
Trevor slid a hand into her hair, holding her against him as they both shook with silent laughter. The spear of his fingers shook loose the last of her chignon and he took pleasure in teasing out the kinks, dropping the few bobby pins he could find to the floor, uncaring to where they landed.
“Well, we can’t have that, JD,” he said, into her hair.
Jamie lifted her head a little and leaned back to look him in the eyes. “No?”
“Fuck no. What a waste. Moving back to Toronto? Absolutely not.”
The idea that she wouldn’t have married Brandon either way — who was where, exactly? Trevor wondered for a split second, before deciding he didn’t give a flying fuck, actually — made him feel steadier.
“I swear you’d actually like Toronto if you spent any time there,” Jamie grumbled, but Trevor tipped her face up again to kiss her. This time it was deeper, a little bolder now that Trevor wasn’t subconsciously waiting for a knock on the door and an interruption. He was walking Jamie back before he realized he was doing it, until they hit the sideboard and the bottle of Moët rattled against its chrome cooler.
Jamie whimpered when her back hit the edge. Trevor moved his hand to her waist, before sliding it upwards, over the silky material to cup over her tit, thumb resting on her nipple. “Oh, God,” she said, on an intake of breath. “This is insane.”
“Insane good, right?”
“Well, it’s your brand of insane,” she replied, with a look heavenward. “So, yeah.”
Trevor kissed her again, grinning.
“How long did you rent this venue for?” he whispered, when he’d moved to sucking over a freckle just below Jamie’s ear — one he’d often fixated on, over the years. “You’re gonna have to pay the cancellation fee at least, right? Might as well make the most of it.”
Jamie gasped as Trevor’s fingers found the way between her thighs, dragging over the material between her legs, rucking it up. “I — I don’t know,” she hissed. “Oh fuck. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“C’mon, Jimmy — you cancelled your wedding for me. What did you think was gonna happen? Hope, even?”
Jamie’s cheeks were bright pink again. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
Trevor threw his head back. “Probably not, no.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
He sank to his knees on the plush, fancy patterned carpet, fingers on the hem of Jamie’s slip, and looked up at her face again — all eyebrows and pale skin and scorched blush — and felt electricity ripple through him.
“Drink some champagne, baby,” he told her. “I think we should celebrate.”
“Jesus, Z. Okay.” Pupils blown, she reached over to grab the bottle with an unsteady hand, swigging it straight down. Desire shuddered through him, taking him almost by surprise with how strong it was. God, they were both such fucking idiots.
Trevor watched her, wet his own lips, and then lifted her hem.
We’ve heard rumours (sexy rumours?) about Newhook???
I won't divulge too much just out of respect for the privacy of the person involved BUT I know someone who knows someone who hooked up with him.... and it was enjoyable to say the least😈 he's not kinky but I wouldn't call him vanilla either...
