Chapter 7

The fraternity house is heaving,which is usually my jam. I fucking love parties and hanging out, socializing. There’s even a decently stocked liquor table for me to make my specialty shots.

But I’m not feeling it.

It doesn’t dim the smile on my face. Nor does it impact the volume of my laugh at something Jeremy, one of the team’s sophomores, says. And Stacey, who’s flirting with me? I flirt back, because of course I do.

The latter stops me from seeking out my friends. Bentley. Yeah, there’s no lying to myself, as much as I might try.

But this is what I’m supposed to do. Flirt, be the life and soul of the party.

Be looking to hook up with the hottest girl in the room.

The beer in my Solo cup is flat and warm. I’ve been nursing it for so long, it could be used as a prop in a documentary about tepid beverages or some shit. If not that, maybe a “what not to do” series about falling for your best friend when you had every intention of playing the straight card and burying deep down inside the fact that you’re gay.

The series would be a hit.

It would lay out my woes and shine the spotlight on what a prick I am. I could dazzle the producers with my guide about how I’m the worst best friend in the world by stuffing all my feelings for Bentley so far into the closet that we’ve started a support group for lost socks.

It stands to reason that I’m the president.

I may not have my ducks in a row—in truth, the ducks are synchronized swimming in a lake of chaos, each quack perfectly timed to the sound of my “good friend” awards splashing into the water—but I’m the king of pretending everything is fine.

Yeah, nothing to see here, folks.

“You can always come back to my dorm.” Stacey does a weird finger walk up my arm. Goose bumps burst to life beneath her touch, but think classic Alien reaction rather than sexy awareness.

If Bentley’s looking this way, he’ll know my smile is faker than a Liberty Haven Lions player claiming he never committed a foul. But I dare not check.

Is it because I’m a pussy and don’t want to see his hurt expression? Abso-fucking-lutely.

I don’t play this game to make him jealous or get his attention. I’m not that much of a shithead.

“Sammy.”

I startle when Stacey says my name. The tone suggests she’s said it a couple of times. Spacing out has made her drop her hand, at least. Thankfully.

“Sorry, Stace. I have to be in the gym by five in the morning,” I lie. “You’re a sweetheart for asking.” Like the gentleman I am, I kiss her cheek. It’s not her fault that I’m a prick and Bentley is the only person I’m interested in.

Interested. Ha.

Yeah, right. If “interested” means I’m full-blown gone for the man and so fucking in love, I could spout poetry or some equally romantic shit, then yeah, I’m “interested.”

The narrowing of her eyes lessens a little after my peck on her cheek. “I get it. Another time, maybe?”

The hopeful lilt in her tone has me fixing my smile in place. “Sure, another time.”

She nods, seemingly happy with that, but it’s my time to retreat.

Keeping up the charade is exhausting. Especially sober—though it’s a damn sight easier not getting shitfaced and forgetting I can’t eye-fuck Bentley from across the room.

I could, though.

I can’t think about that possibility. Instead, I search for my housemates. They’ve likely taken over a quiet spot somewhere.

Dean’s laughter catches my attention. With his arm around Kieran’s waist, whose arm is draped over his boyfriend’s shoulders, Dean’s looking at Kieran like he hung the damn moon.

Envy twists my gut.

I could have that.

I clench my jaw. Those thoughts are so fucking dangerous.

What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’m fifteen anymore.

I can’t handle the scenarios that try to encroach on my brain. They consume me too easily, and now is not the time or the place to lapse into a pity party for one.

What I can’t do is hold back anymore.

I search him out, my pulse spiking as I look for gray eyes the exact shade of storm clouds. Though, to be fair, the shade is more of a sage when the sun’s out and high in the sky.

Whatever the color, whenever he captures my gaze, I’m lost, adrift in the sea, absolutely without an anchor.

Bentley would be my anchor. If I let him.

Fuck my reckless thoughts all to hell.

My stomach dips when I don’t find him.

“Where’s Bentley?” I say by way of greeting, drawing the group’s attention to me.

Tyron, leaning against a wall, his arm around Logan’s chest in a hold that’s completely claiming, answers, “He left.”

Our gazes connect, and my heart flips at the intensity directed my way. Sure, Tyron often wears a mask of either indifference or impermeable stoicism, effectively telling everyone not in our close group to stay the fuck away. Neither of those are the emotions he’s firing at me right now. But no way am I engaging with anything Tyron, with his big brain and terrifying ability to read people, wants to say to me—whether silently or verbally.

The fucker knows things.

I cannot be scrutinized by our resident FBI agent wannabe.

If interrogated, I wouldn’t last more than ten minutes—and that’s being generous.

I focus on Tyron’s words instead of what he’s not saying, then turn to Kieran, our team captain. He’s more levelheaded than the rest of us. Though, when it comes to his protectiveness of Dean, maybe not so much. But Dean is a firecracker, and I don’t think he will ever need anyone to protect him. “When did he leave?”

“About thirty minutes ago. Leon and Tiller went with him. We want to head out too. Just wanted to see what you were up to. You hooking up with Stacey tonight?”

As casually as I can manage—which is tricky, as my pulse skyrockets and guilt presses down on me—I shrug and shake my head at Kieran. “Nah. Not feeling it. Too much to drink as well.”

When none of them call bullshit, even though I only passed around a single shot to our group, I’m home free.

“I’m good to head back,” I continue. Bentley leaving sours my gut. What’s worse is that I’m not even surprised.

Bentley’s been hit on so many times. Hell, all the damn time when we’re out. He’s fucking hot and an even better guy. And apparently, chicks dig the whole tall, handsome, and quiet man vibe.

Not that he’s shy.

He’s actually super confident. He’s also intelligent and so fucking good with his hands.

My dick twitches when I think about just how good he is. But his skill is with landscaping. From design to creation, he’s freaking amazing. The muscles that flex and move, holding strength and so much power, are not all made in the gym.

But back to me being jealous as fuck, because that’s absolutely the point I was trying to make. When he’s being hit on, and he’s all smiles and sweet blushes—for real, he does not comprehend just how fucking sexy he is—I turn an unattractive shade of green and become a grumpy fucker.

And that’s without him flirting back. Because, of course, he wouldn’t flirt back. Not when he’s with me, even though there’s technically no “we.” That would require discussions and opening my heart, and we’ve already established that I’m a chickenshit.

What I should do is stay true to Bentley and stick with being his best friend. We’ve done it so well—the whole best-friends relationship—and for so many years already.

But somewhere along the line, our signals got crossed. My heart and my dick were challenged, fucking changed irrevocably, and, honestly, brought to life by Bentley’s kindness, his compassion, his… everything.

Once we’re outside, starting the short trek to our rented house, I tune out the conversation between the couples around me. The wind is biting, a cold front having swept into Georgia a little earlier than usual. The cool air is refreshing. If I were drunk, it would definitely help sober me up.

I wonder if the cool breeze can make my uncertainty fly away. Maybe it can shake my core and help uproot the fear keeping me grounded.

I want nothing more than to be true to Bentley and myself.

I want to be ready. Want to give him everything he deserves.

Not that he’s ever asked for a single thing from me. He’s never asked for my faithfulness. However, I’ve absolutely stayed true. He’s never forced me to discuss what we do when I stumble into his room pretending to be drunk so I can take what I want.

Instead, he gives willingly, without question.

It makes pulling away impossible. How the fuck do I walk away from someone like Bentley?

The truth is, I can’t.

I won’t.