Saturday, 20 February 2016

BOOK REVIEW: Fuck Buddy by Scott Hildreth

Having the hottest man in southern California as my best friend since childhood was a blessing and a curse. Hiding my true feelings while watching him half-naked on the beach was close to impossible, but I did so for years.

After countless failed relationships, I grew tired of all the jerks and made my proposition to Luke.

As fate would have it, he was ready to give a 'relationship' a try.

There were only two stipulations. One - we had to remain friends no matter what. And, two - sexually speaking, we had to play by his 'rules'...

The first one came easy. The second?

Nothing could have prepared me.

NOTE: This is a stand-alone full-length 275 page novel. No cliff hanger. HEA. No sex outside the relationship, No cheating. Due to the graphic nature of this book, please be over the age of 18 to enjoy it.

To have a lover is one thing. To have a best friend is another. To have your best friend and your lover
happen to be the same person is magical.
This book is dedicated to anyone who has had the luxury of falling in love with their best friend.
There’s nothing on this earth that can compare.


With my face buried in my pillow, I cried quietly, hoping not to wake either of my parents. I never

would have guessed girls in fourth grade could be so hateful.

A light tapping on my window startled me. I wiped my tears on the shoulder of my nightgown,

pulled the wrinkles from the fabric, and walked to the window. After pulling the curtains to the side

and peering through the glass, his smiling face caused me to do the same.

“Open the window,” he whispered.

I turned the lock, pushed against the frame carefully, and stepped to the side.

He grinned and pressed his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Bad day, huh?” he said as he climbed in the window.

I chewed against my bottom lip, embarrassed for the tears I continued to shed. “Yeah.”

“Girls are stupid.” He brushed his long blonde hair away from his eyes. “Except for you.”

“Boys are stupid, too.”

“Are you still sad?” he asked.

I nodded.

As we both stood at the side of the bed, he held out his hand.

I took his hand in mine and squeezed tightly. Together, we fell onto the bed, hand-in-hand. He

was different than the other boys. He was different than everybody. We were best friends, and one day

I hoped he would ask me to be his girlfriend.

We silently laid on our backs holding hands for some time. I stared up at the glow-in-the-dark

stars on my ceiling until I gathered the courage to speak. When I finally developed the nerve, I turned

my head to the side. He did the same.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

I rolled my head to the side and gazed up at the ceiling, feeling foolish for having asked.

“But I’ll be your best friend forever,” he said.

“Pinky promise?” I asked.

He extended his pinkie.

I did the same.

And we swore.

Best friends for life.

“Since when do you not have yogurt in here?” he asked.
I tossed the empty cottage cheese container into the trash and glanced over my shoulder.
“Since you ate the last of it yesterday. I’ll get some more when I go to the store.”
Standing barefoot with his head shoved so deep into the refrigerator it was well out of
view, Luke looked the way he did on any other day. Dressed in board shorts and an old tee shirt, at
first glance he resembled most of the other surfers in southern California. His skin was deep bronze in
color and he had the muscular structure of an athlete. With his handsome looks and a tasteful sleeve of
tattoos down to one wrist, he could have had a career as a model if he chose to. Instead, he spent his
time surfing and building the occasional custom surfboard for whoever he deemed worthy of his time
and effort.
“I wasn’t here yesterday.” He cleared his throat and pushed the refrigerator door closed.
“And if I would have taken the last one I would have said something.”
As he turned around, his hair fell into his face. Long and brown with occasional strands
of dirty blonde from exposure to the sun, it was one of his many appealing features, but arguably not
his most attractive. He brushed it away from his eyes as he walked past me and toward the wire
basket of fruit sitting on the kitchen counter.
I tried to remember when he ate the last cup of yogurt. “Those aren’t oranges, they’re
Cara Cara’s, the pink ones.”
“Even better,” he responded. “I love these things.”
My coffee in one hand, and my bowl of cottage cheese in the other, I grinned. “Me too.”
He tossed his head toward the countertop. “You’re out of oranges, Liv.”
With my mind still slightly foggy from my previous night’s drunken escapade, I stood and
stared at him, slightly jealous of his late winter tan. I envied the color of his skin, but realized when
we were much younger that there was nothing I could do to ever become as dark as he was. With a
mother who was half-Japanese and half-Chilean, and a southern California native for a father, he and
his three siblings were adorned with an odd mixture of skin tones and hair colors. One of his sisters
had light reddish-brown hair and the other a much lighter dirty-blonde, but both were fair skinned.
His younger brother’s hair was brown, and he had a very dark complexion similar to Luke’s.
“See how I did that?” he asked.
“What? Grabbed the oranges?”
“No, told you I was eating the last one. I’m polite like that.”
I cocked my head to the side and watched him pick at the peel of the orange with his
thumb as he walked past me and toward the living room.
Grinning at my memory of the Mission Beach Surf Shop tee shirt he was wearing, I
followed him into the living room. Several years prior, we had spent a day at the beach – he surfed
and I baked in the sun – and when it was time to go, his shirt was nowhere to be found. The restaurant
on the boardwalk wouldn’t let him in without one, so we went to the adjacent surf shop to buy one.
Initially we argued about the color of the shirt – he claimed it was a shade of gray, and I swore it was
light pink. We both loved how the shirt fit him, so he bought it regardless. The comments that
followed further confirmed his colorblindness, but everyone that knew him was fully aware of his
deficiency when it came to identifying colors.
I sat down at the end of the couch. “So, how was surfing yesterday?”
San Diego’s population was 1.5 million, but even as populated as it was Luke was wellknown
as a surfer. He was better than almost everyone in southern California and without a doubt
could surf professionally, but he refused to do so. To him, surfing was sacred and would never be
turned into a sport or competition. Somewhat of a local celebrity – and the recipient of more offers
from women than he could possibly act upon – he chose to be single immediately following the
breakup with his one and only girlfriend. He was twenty years old at the time.
As much as he was able, Luke lived a life of solitude and kept to himself. I had been in
and out of many relationships, none worth the time I devoted to them, and not a single one produced a
fraction of the satisfaction my friendship with Luke did.
Outsiders viewed him as antisocial, withdrawn and unfriendly, but they didn’t know him
the way I did. I understood why he was the way he was, and further knew him as being none of those
things. Luke was kind, caring, funny, and wanted nothing more than to be allowed to live life in the
manner he was comfortable with.
It didn’t matter if a person knew Luke well or simply encountered him by chance,
everyone agreed.
Luke was different.
He stopped in front of me and began to peel one of the oranges while resting the other
between his upper arm and chest. He glanced up, met my gaze, and caught me admiring the few day’s
growth of beard on his face.
“First things first. The date, let’s hear it,” he said.
I did my best to change the subject. “I like the little beard thing you’ve got going on.”
“I haven’t had time to shave, it’ll be gone tomorrow,” he said dryly. “The date, Liv. Spill
Although I found cottage cheese grotesque to look at or think about, I always enjoyed
eating it. I stared blankly into my bowl as I considered how much of the previous night’s events I
wished to share with him. The longer I studied the small curds, the less I wanted to eat it, and the
more disgusted I became over my failed date. I set the bowl on the table and picked up my cup of
coffee as he turned toward the kitchen. In a moment, he returned with both oranges peeled, separating
one of them into sections as he glared at me.
I wrapped my hands around the warm porcelain cup and peered toward the bowl of
spoiled milk curds. “Cottage cheese is so ugly.”
He slipped a section of fruit into his mouth, and upon swallowing it, cleared his throat as
if to demand my attention. “The. Date.”
I raised the cup to my mouth and tilted my head back slightly as I took a drink. As I met
his gaze, he pressed against the orange with both thumbs, pulled another section free, and poked it
past his lips with the tip of his finger. As he chewed, he playfully tossed the uneaten orange into the
air and caught in the other hand without shifting his eyes away from mine. Everything he did, he did
with grace. I sometimes wondered if it was the martial arts his father made him study when we were
kids or if it was the surfing that made his movements so fluid like. Whatever it was, I was grateful for
it – watching him do almost anything was pleasurable.
Although I felt I needed to drink the entire cup of coffee, I lowered my cup and smiled. He
cocked one eyebrow and pulled another section of orange free. I sighed heavily as if disgusted to talk
about the date. To be brutally honest, I was.
“We met at the bar,” I said. “He was married, and I left after maybe twenty minutes.”
He widened his eyes as the side of his mouth curled up slightly. “That’s it? You texted me
a fucking thesis last night and you’ve sworn off Tinder because of that?”
I stared blankly at his bare feet. Even his toes were perfect. I glanced at my feet. Little
sausage-like stubs surrounded the tips of my sandals. I had a reasonable amount of self-esteem, and I
was well aware that I was pretty, but there was no doubt my fat little toes would prevent me from
joining Luke if he ever chose a career in modeling.
“Well, it was just, I don’t know. I think maybe I reached a point that all the lies and the
bullshit were just too much. I’m sick of it. You know, every guy I met on there was a liar.”
He poked the last piece of fruit into his mouth. “You’re meeting people you don’t even
know. Men who can claim to be anyone or anything. All they want is to get laid. What did you really
How about great sex and a wedding ring?
He walked to the kitchen and quickly returned, flopping down on the couch beside me. I
sat and sipped my coffee, not sure if I even wanted to answer his question. I had tried online dating on
and off for the last four years, and in the past year had been on no less than a dozen dates from my
Tinder matches alone. From a relationship standpoint my life was an absolute disaster.
For a long moment he glared at me, which was something he often did when he wanted me
to continue talking about something I wasn’t necessarily willing to talk about. Eventually he grew
tired of waiting and broke the silence. “Really? That’s it? Nothing weird or funny happened?”
Lacking the desire to continue talking about it, I sat silently, hoping it would satisfy him
enough to move on to another subject.
“How’d you figure out he was married?” he asked.
I set my cup of coffee down and picked up the bowl. One glance at the cottage cheese and
I felt like I was going to barf. The three hours of grieving after my botched date was wreaking havoc
on my stomach. I had come home angry and disappointed with myself. A bottle of wine and two
romantic comedies later and I was ready for bed – and to swear off dating. Lying in bed, half-drunk
and irritated, I texted Luke a few rambling paragraphs explaining my disappointment with mankind in
I extended my arm and offered him the cottage cheese. “You want this?”
He shook his head lightly as he reached for the bowl. “I’ll eat it. But what I want is for
you to answer the question. All of a sudden you’re done dating, and all you can say is that he was
I gave my signature response. I shrugged.
“He sure wasn’t the first married guy you met on there.”
“It’s just…I don’t…I don’t know,” I stammered. “He was so perfect. He had a great job, a
nice car, seemed to have his shit together, and he was so fucking good looking.”
“A hot married guy.” He chuckled.
I nodded. “I just kept staring at him, thinking it was all too good to be true. I guess in the
end, it was.”
“Sorry it didn’t work out.”
I pursed my lips and shrugged in return.
“So, once again, how’d you find out he was married?”
I tapped my index finger against the ring finger of my left hand. “His ring finger had an
indentation on it from his wedding ring. I noticed it, asked, and he answered truthfully. He said they
were arguing. I mean, really. Who doesn’t argue?”
“Everyone argues,” he replied.
I shrugged. Again.
“Other than being married he sounds perfect,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
Yeah, he was. He reminded me a lot of you.

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