Him

by Sarina Bowen

  I can’t help it. I start to laugh.

  “You’re not very good, huh?” Sam sighs heavily.

  Wes’s mouth twitches. “I may have underplayed my level of proficiency.”

  A part of me hopes Sam is one of those sensitive egomaniacs who can’t handle losing, but Mr. I-Teach-Second-Grade seems delighted by Wes’s awesomeness. He simply stands there and whistles as my buddy circles the table like the pool shark he is, even breaking out in applause after Wes cleans the table without once letting Sam take another shot.

  Sam accepts his defeat by chugging the rest of his beer, then slamming the empty bottle on the ledge behind the pool table. “Another one?” he asks Wes.

  Wes glances at me as if to check if I’m cool with it. I just shrug. I know there’s no prying Sam away from Wes right now. He’s too fucking enamored with my buddy.

  They play another game.

  I order another beer.

  They play a third game.

  I order a third beer.

  The drunker I get, the handsier they get. Sam’s palm grazes the small of Wes’s back as he leans in to line up his next shot. Wes glances over his shoulder and winks at Sam, his gray eyes gleaming.

  Eventually I wander back to the table, alcohol buzzing in my bloodstream as annoyance builds in my gut. Fuck this Sam guy. I take it back—he’s not decent. He seems to have no problem monopolizing my best friend’s time. Doesn’t even give a shit that they’re both ignoring me.

  And he won’t stop touching Wes.

  My fingers curl around the beer bottle. When Sam steps closer to Wes and whispers something in his ear, my knuckles turn white as my grip tightens. Is he asking Wes if he wants to get out of here? Telling him how much he wants to screw him right now? Offering to blow him in the bathroom?

  I drain the rest of my beer. Yeah, I’m buzzing hard now. And the alcohol has done something to my brain. Short-circuited it somehow, flooded it with memories I don’t usually allow to surface.

  The soundtrack of that last day at camp four years ago runs through my mind.

  “What are you waiting for, Ryan? Suck it already.”

  “Fuck, Wes, you’re making me come.”

  It bothers me that I remember every word I said to him. I’ve been on the receiving end of some pretty phenomenal blowjobs these past four years, but can I tell you what was said during them? Can I repeat, verbatim, every single word I uttered to those chicks? To Holly? Every dirty command that left my mouth?

  No, I can’t.

  My gaze shifts back to the pool table, locking on Wes’s mouth. My dick stirs, remembering that mouth wrapped around it.

  Shit, maybe I’m more drunk than buzzed.

  Sam and Wes’s laughter wafts toward me. Looks like Sam finally won a game, and knowing Wes, he’s taunting the guy about it being a fluke. Or hell, maybe Wes let him win. Maybe he decided to throw the guy a bone before he…throws the guy a bone.

  My chest goes rigid. The thought of Wes hooking up with someone tonight pisses me off.

  Jealous? a little voice mocks.

  Screw that. I’m not fucking jealous. I don’t care what Wes does—or who he does—but we were supposed to hang out tonight. Me and him. Not him and some random guy he met through a hook-up app.

  I abruptly hop off my stool and make my way back to the pool table. They’re not even playing anymore, just standing close together, chuckling about something. Sam’s hand rests on Wes’s hip. A casual gesture. Light, harmless.

  But it sparks resentment in my gut. Why the hell is he touching him? He doesn’t even know him. Presumptuous asshole.

  “Ready to go?” I raise my voice, because neither of them notices me standing there.

  Wes blinks. “Now?”

  I answer through clenched teeth. “Yes. I want to take off.” I can’t help but offer a cool look. “You’re my ride, remember?”

  Wariness floats through his expression. Then he gives a quick nod and turns to Sam. “Thanks for the games, man. Looks like we’re taking off now.”

  The other guy’s disappointment is impossible to miss. He glances at me, then back at Wes. “Uh, yeah…sure. Let me just grab your number before you go?”

  Asshole.

  I grind my molars as I watch them exchange numbers. Well then. I guess they’re going to meet up again. So much for getting to spend the summer reconnecting with my best friend.

  Wes doesn’t say anything as we head for the exit. The music in the bar had been too loud to hear what was happening outside, but when we step out the door, we find ourselves in the middle of a torrential downpour.

  A cold gust of rain slaps me in the face, soaking my clothes in seconds. “Shit. Run to the car?” I shout over the deafening pounding of the rain hitting the pavement.

  Wes stays put. His expression is as thunderous as the weather. “What the hell was that?”

  I can barely hear him over the wind and rain. “What?”

  “You acted like a total douchecanoe in there.” Then he stalks away, his boots splashing the puddles forming on the asphalt.

  The little awning spanning the side of the building does nothing to protect us from the rain. Our clothes are plastered to our bodies. Water clings to my hair and drips down my face as I hurry after him.

  “I was the one acting like a douchecanoe?” I yell after him.

  He stops, spins around to face me. “Yes. Jesus, dude, the way you treated that guy, you’d think he was carrying the Ebola virus.”

  “Maybe I just didn’t appreciate the way he was pawing you right in front of me!” I shoot back.

  Wes’s mouth falls open. “What?”

  My mouth slams shut. Jesus fuck. Why did I say that?

  “I mean…” I swallow. “It was rude.”

  Wes stares at me. Droplets run down his chiseled face, catching in the beard growth shadowing his jaw. His lips are slightly parted. I can’t stop looking at them.

  “What is happening right now?” he asks slowly.

  Misery lodges in my throat. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what’s happening. The rain falls harder. A flash of lightning slices through the black sky. I should be cold, but I’m not. My body feels like a furnace. Three beers shouldn’t be having this effect on me.

  Maybe it’s him? Maybe he’s making me hot?

  Wes’s tongue darts out to lick at the raindrops on his bottom lip, and I catch a glimpse of his tongue ring. It wasn’t there when we were eighteen. It wasn’t there when his tongue had circled the head of my cock the night he gave me the best BJ of my life.

  And there it is.

  Ryan Wesley had given me the best BJ of my life.

  “Canning…” He trails off, watching me again. He looks uneasy, but…there’s something else in his gaze. A flicker of confusion. A hint of interest.

  I take a step closer, but I’m not sure why. My heart is pounding harder than the rain. My eyes are glued to his mouth.

  “Jamie.” A note of warning this time.

  I suck a gulpful of oxygen into my lungs.

  Then I ignore the warning.

  His eyes widen as I shove my fingers through his hair and tug his head closer. “What—”

  He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because I’m smashing my mouth against his.

  14

  Wes

  Jamie is kissing me.

  Jamie is kissing me.

  Jamie is kissing me.

  Nope, no matter which way I run it through my head, it still doesn’t make sense to me. The pressure of his mouth? Makes no sense. The shocking sweep of his tongue over my bottom lip? No sense.

  But holy fucking shit, I want it.

  Rain pours off the awning and slides over our heads as my best friend’s lips latch onto mine. I taste the rain, beer, something addictively masculine. His mouth brushes mine, over and over again, and when I part my lips to draw a shaky breath, he takes full advantage and slides his tongue inside.

  It’s like a cattle prod to the spine. Desire surges t
hrough me and spirals down to my balls, drawing them up tight. When his tongue touches mine I damn near keel over. I have to grab the front of his shirt and bunch it between my fingers to keep from being swept away by the storm. Not the storm that’s lighting up the sky, but the one that’s roaring inside me.

  I know the moment he feels my tongue ring, because his tongue curls around the metal stud and he moans against my lips. Deep and husky.

  It’s that lust-drenched sound that snaps me back to reality. This might feel right, but it’s wrong. He’s drunk again. Not thinking clearly. For some reason he decided shoving his tongue down my throat was a good idea, but it fuckin ain’t. At the end of the day, I’m still gay—and he’s still straight. Even worse, I’m still in love with him.

  With a tortured groan, I wrench my mouth away. I can’t fucking do this again. I can’t let myself want him or get my hopes up about the two of us. He’s my friend. He’ll always be my friend and nothing more.

  His eyes, hazy with passion, absolutely wreck me. He blinks as if disoriented, as if he can’t understand why I broke the kiss.

  “Your tongue ring…” His voice is hoarse with excitement. “I want to feel it on my cock.”

  Oh sweet Jesus.

  Okay, he’s drunker than I thought. I hadn’t seen him pound back more than a couple beers, but he must have snuck a few more in when I wasn’t looking.

  “Yeah…” I manage a hasty laugh. “That’s not gonna happen, man.”

  Jamie narrows his eyes.

  The rain slows a bit, making it easier to speak without having to raise my voice. “We’re not going down this road again, Canning.” I swallow hard. “The last time we did, it ruined our fucking friendship.”

  He slants his head, those big brown eyes gleaming with challenge. “You’re saying you don’t want me?”

  Aw hell. “No, I’m saying this is a bad idea.”

  Jamie steps closer, backing me into the wall until my back bumps the wet bricks. Now he’s got me pinned in place. There’s a hard wall behind me and an equally hard one in front of me. Emphasis on hard, because holy hell, he’s rocking one hell of a boner. It presses against my thigh as he eases even closer, until his lips are inches from mine.

  “You’re the king of bad ideas,” he reminds me. “At least this one ends with both of us feeling good.”

  He’s going to kill me. The role reversal melts my brain, because I’m the one who’s usually in charge, who calls the shots, sets the limits.

  Jamie shifts his hips, a breath panting out as his erection brushes my leg. If he were sober, he’d probably be horrified. When he sobers up, he will be horrified. He’ll apologize for coming on to me, and we’ll end up having that awkward conversation we should’ve had after I blew him four years ago. He’ll tell me he’s straight, he was just fucking around, he’s not into me.

  And I’ll be crushed.

  I know all this, but it doesn’t stop me from stealing one more taste. I mentioned I’m a masochist, right? It’s the only explanation for why I curl my hand around the back of his neck and tug him toward me again.

  Our mouths meet in another kiss. Soft this time. Agonizingly slow. It’s not enough. I’ll stop it soon, any second now, but not yet. Not until he gives me more.

  Groaning, I push my chest against him and spin us around so he’s the one against the wall, and I’m the one grinding up on him. He makes a surprised noise, but it turns into a husky rumble when I deepen the kiss and drive my tongue into his mouth.

  I’m greedy now. Desperate. I fuck his mouth with my tongue the way I want to fuck him with my cock. Deep, hungry strokes that leave us both breathless, and now he’s the one clutching my shirt.

  To my right, the door of the bar bangs open. A female shriek rings out. She’s probably screaming about the weather, not the two guys against the wall trying to eat each other’s faces. Either way, her scream brings me back to my senses. Stumbling backward, I’m panting like I’ve just run three marathons.

  I’m under the downpour now, but Jamie’s not. So I can see his expression perfectly—the wide-eyed panic on his face. The disbelief.

  Fuck. My straight-as-a-blue-line friend is about to freak out. An hour from now, he’ll probably have one hell of an identity crisis, and for what? The best kiss of my life wasn’t worth screwing up his life.

  I’ve lived confusion. It ain’t pretty.

  Now I have to look away. If I don’t, he’ll see my eyes and know I’m dying inside. I want him more than anything in the goddamn world. It takes all my willpower, but I turn and walk off in the rain toward my car.

  The rain is coming down in sheets, so I start to run for it. I don’t even know he’s followed me until he slides into the passenger seat opposite me and slams the door.

  In less than thirty seconds I’ve got the engine cranked. We’re cruising back up 73 toward Lake Placid before a whole minute has passed. There’s a terrible silence in the car. If it weren’t raining I’d probably double the speed limit trying to get Jamie back to town.

  He still hasn’t said a word.

  “I’m sorry,” I croak. “Didn’t mean to let that happen.”

  He makes an irritated noise. I’m dying to know what it means, but too chicken-shit to ask. We are never speaking of this night again. Never. Even if we’re wasted the night before Jamie’s wedding. Even if we’re trapped in a mineshaft with thirty minutes of oxygen. Not even then.

  Earlier, I told him he’d acted like a douchecanoe. But that’s crap. I’m the one who’s in love with my best friend and pretending I’m not.

  The rain lets up. A few minutes later (even though it feels like hours) I pull up in front of the dormitory building and step on the brakes. Jamie doesn’t move.

  “I’m going to find a parking spot, and then take a walk,” I tell him. There is no way I can go back to our room right now. We need a time-out. I hope he understands.

  Later, when he’s asleep, it might be possible to breathe the same air as Jamie Canning again.

  He doesn’t move.

  Please, I beg him inwardly. Please go up to bed. It’s hard enough to look at his face each day and not feel heartbreak. I can’t be close to him right now. I’m afraid I’ll give in and kiss him again. The way his hard body had aligned so perfectly with mine is burned in my consciousness. I’ll be trying not to remember that for weeks.

  I wait, and I ache.

  Finally the door clicks open. I hear him exit the car. When the door slams shut, I feel it like a sledgehammer to the heart. Don’t look, I coach myself.

  But my self-control isn’t infinite. His fair hair glints under the streetlight as his long legs eat up the walkway in just a few paces. Seeing him walk away from me splinters something inside me.

  15

  Jamie

  I pound up the steps of the building, my heart thumping, my skin wet from the rain and sweat and nerves.

  “Jamie.”

  Shit, I’d almost made it inside. But Pat is sitting in stealthy darkness in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch. He’s probably on stakeout, watching for teenagers sneaking out. Instead he’s caught me sneaking in. And at the sound of his voice I feel at least as much terror as an escaping kid.

  Stumbling, I stop before reaching the door. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound normal. At least it’s dark. I don’t trust my face right now.

  “Got a minute?”

  Do I? What I need is to be alone for several hours to bang my head against a wall. To try to figure out what on God’s green earth just happened. But Pat is like a second father to me, and being rude to him isn’t something I can do.

  I don’t answer, but I do take the rocking chair right next to his. My hands are shaking so I curve them around the chair’s arms. A couple of very slow breaths help me calm down.

  Across the road, the lake is a dark void. Lights from the Lake Placid restaurants twinkle in the misty night air. Everything looks so calm and ordinary. The world would make more sense to me if the buildings were fa
lling into the lake, or the fudge shops were on fire. But the only thing quaking is me.

  “You okay, son?”

  “Yeah,” I grind out, my voice like a chainsaw. “Got caught in the rain.”

  “I can see that.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I just wanted to ask you how Wesley is holding up. Did the first week treat him okay, you think?”

  Just the sound of his name makes my gut clench.

  Well, Pat, I just threw myself at him. We made out like porn stars up against the side of a bar. Then he gave me the brush-off. And I don’t have any idea what any of it means.

  “He’s, uh, okay,” I stammer. I don’t really even remember the question he’d asked.

  “If he’s struggling out there, I hope you’ll tell me. I won’t fire him—I’ll just get him some backup.”

  I pull myself together and try to focus on the conversation. “Coaching takes practice.”

  Pat smiles. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Coaching takes practice, yes, but not everyone is a natural at it the way you are.”

  “Thank you.” The compliment is unexpected.

  “And I think the kids will get a lot out of their time with Wes—I wouldn’t have hired him if I wasn’t sure of that.” Pat’s chair squeaks as he rocks it gently. “It surprised me, though, getting that call from him. It was a few hours after the Frozen Four victory. I’d watched the game—it makes my year anytime I get to watch you boys on my television. But it’s funny—when I saw who was calling, I had this moment where I thought he was going to say, ‘I owe it all to you.’” He chuckles to himself. “That’s not Wes’s style, so I don’t know why I expected to hear that. But yeah, when he said, ‘I’m calling to take that job you offer me every year,’ I really was surprised.”

  So am I. In fact, many things about this information surprise me. “You’ve been recruiting him all these years?”

  “Sure. All my boys who become successful college players get a call from me. Wes never said yes, though. Then I get this call…” He pauses. “Took a lot of guts, really. He says, ‘I want to coach for you this summer. But you need to know I’m gay. Nobody knows, but if it bothers you—running a camp and all—I understand.’”