29. Huckslee

Huckslee

March

S hades of green flash before my eyes, different hues ranging from dark to neon.

Twinkling string lights in the shape of little shamrocks are draped over the bar's low ceilings, and green and gold streamers are hanging down low enough that I have to dodge them. An Irish band stands on a small stage in the corner, stomping their feet to the fiddles they play while people dance and swing about. I've never been to this place before, but the owners of the Prospector sure know how to throw a St. Patty's Day party.

"What can I get you, love?" asks the bartender, a tag on her green dress displaying the name ‘Juanita' and salt-and-pepper curls falling over her shoulders.

"Is there a special?" Giving her a relaxed smile, I follow her finger when she points to a chalkboard above the mirror behind her .

"Midori Sour," she says with a wink, green eyeshadow glittering. "It's got Midori liqueur, vodka, lemon juice, lime juice, and seltzer."

I already know what's in it, but I grin in response. "Sounds delicious, I'll take two."

Chuckling, she goes about making the drinks while I watch the Jazz game on a flatscreen hanging from the wall. March Madness is in full swing. Basketball was never my thing, but I know enough to get by, thanks to Dad making me watch every game as a teen.

"Never seen you in here before." Juanita pushes two drinks over to me in green plastic cups, ‘I'm Feeling Lucky ' emblazoned on them.

I take a sip as I hand her some cash. "I'm meeting a friend."

And I'm nervous as hell. I don't know why; I have no reason to be. Though I haven't seen him since I left, we've kept in touch. It's not like he's a stranger. Far from it. So why am I sweating?

Probably because he thinks this is a booty call.

Well, it's not. At least, I'm pretty sure it's not. Just because this last month has been the loneliest, most depressing month of my life doesn't mean I have to fuck him. I won't.

Honestly, Logan's desolate mood has started worsening my own. Even the fact that I now have my own room is overshadowed by the knowledge that it used to be Salem's darkroom for her photography. Seriously, I've never seen my best friend cry harder than when he was helping me move my stuff in, and I felt so bad for him.

As upset as I am at Salem for breaking his heart, I can't help but also feel like he deserved it. The idiot proposed to her on Valentine's Day. If that's not cliche enough, he also did it knowing her views on marriage fully well, and I mean...what else was he expecting? Still, though. Harsh deal, man.

"Who is it?" The bartender's voice drags me out of my thoughts, and I blink at her in confusion.

"Who's who?"

She laughs softly. "This friend you're meeting. We get a lot of regulars here, maybe I know them."

Doubtful because he said he's never been here before, but I open my mouth to say his name right as I catch him walking through the door.

"Royce!" Waving a hand, I call him over to the bar with a grin that I hope comes off as laid back. Honestly, I feel like I'm grimacing. Smiling is hard these days, just like sleeping.

Royce makes his way through the crowd, ducking around streamers, his eyes brightening the closer he gets. His dark brown hair is longer than the last time I saw him, pulled back in locs that tumble down his back. A gold sweater hugs his frame, matching the gold blush on his cheeks that sets his dark skin a shimmer. Green Air Jordans are on his feet.

"Huckslee, it's so good to see you." He tugs me in for a tight hug before pulling back to gaze over me. "Look at you, dressed like a snack!"

Look at me. A fucking mess.

Royce chuckles deeply. "It's a good thing you're wearing green, or I'd have to pinch you."

Swallowing hard through the pain in my chest, I force a smile as I glance down at my dark green flannel and black jeans. "Same. "

Handing him the other drink I ordered, we make our way over to one of the only empty tables in the back next to the pool hall, where it's quieter and less crowded.

"This place is a bit of a dive, but my sister's boyfriend swears on their smothered burritos." He slips into the seat across from me, taking in the exposed ceiling beams and black-painted walls covered in graffiti art. "So far, I like the vibe though."

"The bartender is nice," I shrug as the band switches up the music to something slower.

"So, how's your dad? Last we talked, he was getting his surgery last month." Royce takes a swig from his cup and grimaces, sniffing the concoction before gulping at it again.

"He's doing much better. Out of the hospital now, thankfully, because I had a hard time visiting him when he was there. He's recovering well."

It's been an adjustment for him and Maisie, but they're getting through it. According to the doctors, it's not a definite fix. Time will only tell if the cancer comes back even after removing his bladder, but for now, we're holding out hope. Once he's back to his full health, I can start arranging to return to Cali. Or wherever the NFL might send me next month if my name comes up in the Draft. According to my coach, it likely will.

"Good, good, that's great news," he smiles warmly before his eyes tighten. "Seen that asshole stepbrother of yours yet?"

Of course, Royce knows about what happened at prom. He was there. He saw Taylor step away from the curtain, and when I basically went dark afterward while in the ICU—on suicide watch—he reached out to Logan and discovered it all .

"Uh, not...not in a while." It's not a lie. I really haven't seen him in weeks.

And I fucking hate it…

A wary flicker crosses his features. "I'm glad you asked to meet, Huck, though I'll be honest, I am surprised. We haven't met up in...how long has it been? Four years now?"

Running a hand through my curls, I blow out a breath as I nod. "Yeah, 'bout that long. I, uh... haven't been back since I left. So I figured while I was in town, why not see an old friend?"

Plus, Logan's moping was causing me to spiral, and I desperately needed to get out of the apartment. I'm sympathetic to the guy, I really am, but there are only so many nights I can spend patting his shoulder while he sobs into a beer. It makes me feel like a shitty friend, but my own mental health has already been on the fritz after...what happened at the cabin. I just needed to breathe. And the only other person I want to talk to probably hates my guts now, so it was a toss-up between texting Royce or visiting my parents. Royce won.

"Cheers to that!" He clicks our cups together before taking another sip with a pinched frown that gets a chuckle out of me.

"It's called a Midori Sour. Not your thing?"

Shaking his head, he licks the liquor off his lips. "I'm more of a wine person, myself. All these fancy cocktails have way too much sugar."

"Good to know. How's the business running?"

"Like a dream. Growing every day."

Royce owns a small shop that prints decals on things like tumblers and coffee cups. It's on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he can print on material like t-shirts, but the question gets stuck and dies in my throat. Not like the offer Salem made me last month would still be on the table, anyway. After thinking about it daily since then, I realized that it's something I really want to do.

But I fucked that all up.

We chat for a long while, catching up on life. We've texted occasionally, but there's still so much you miss when you don't see someone for years. We talk about football—he hates it— and he mentions seeing someone and how he's only caught one of my games over the years, which I try not to feel too stung about. Things have been good for him, and it makes me happy because Royce is the kind of guy who just puts great energy into the universe. He deserves to have it come back for him.

Eventually the band finishes their set, a DJ taking their place on stage, and Royce is on his second glass of wine. I'm on my third drink (or fourth?) and starting to feel pretty relaxed, busting up at the story he's telling me about a wardrobe malfunction while sledding.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." He presses his lips together, clearly trying to keep from laughing himself. "I hope it happens to you the next time you're on a sled. I still have ice burns on my ass cheeks."

A cold wind blows in as the front door opens, but I focus on Royce as I chuckle. "Don't you put that evil on me, Ricky Bobby. Seriously, who decides it's a good idea to wear latex pants while sledding–"

An odd electric current crackles the air, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. I go rigid in my seat, back stiffening, and I can already feel his gaze on me before I look toward the group of people that just walked in.

My gaze clashes with a pair of familiar ocean eyes.

Eyes that are narrowed, bouncing between me and Royce as he stands near the bar, arms crossed. Christian and Matt are beside him, along with someone who looks like his high school friend Xed but minus the mohawk. Of course, they're all clad in black except for Matt, who's wearing a tan hoodie. Christian leans over to kiss the bartender on the cheek, and as they all give their orders to her, Taylor's attention never leaves me. A frown pulls at his lips.

There's something different about him…

When he reaches up to adjust the snapback on his head, dark hair shifts around his jawline, and I realize with a bit of a jolt that the red-dyed tips are now pink. Bright fucking neon pink. Jesus.

Royce doesn't seem to notice I'm distracted, instead laughing about another story involving torn clothes. I try to listen attentively, but every fiber and molecule is pulled toward my stepbrother across the room.

The stepbrother I haven't seen in a month after I violently throat fucked him and left him curled on the floor.

My entire body flinches at the memory, turning the vodka in my stomach leaden.

Why is he here, in a bar? Isn't he two years sober?

After they'd gotten home that night on Valentine's, I'd asked Logan how Taylor had been, but he'd shrugged through his tears and had said that the drive back had been awkward as hell. I'd taken his dad's Range Rover when I'd left, and the three had to squeeze into Taylor's truck .

I felt horrible about that, but how was I supposed to know they'd break up? When Salem moved her things out, Taylor helped, but I'd been visiting my dad, so I hadn't been there. Thankfully. Because honestly, after what I did, I didn't think I could ever face him again. Didn't plan on it.

And now here he is, marching over with his eyes trained on the back of Royce's head, and–

Wait, what?!

He's doing what?!

My eyes nearly bug out of my skull as he approaches. I shake my head at him, but he's not looking at me.

Don't you do it, Taylor. Don't.

Royce has noticed my face by now, and he's gazing at me with furrowed brows, asking if I'm alright, when my stepbrother stops at our table. He looks like shit, with dark circles under his eyes and lines beside his mouth, yet still so heartbreakingly beautiful that I want to scream.

"Hey, Royce," he chirps almost cheerfully, smirking.

Oh, you motherfucker.

Royce looks up at him in surprise before his expression morphs into fury.

"You," he points, nostrils flaring, and Taylor's eyes flutter.

"Me."

Royce launches out of his seat, hand fisted into Taylor's denim jacket while his other arm clocks back to throw a punch. I'm beside him instantly, holding his arm to prevent the hit while Taylor grins.

"Royce, stop." Trying to tug him back, I lose my balance slightly. "It's not worth it. He's not worth it. "

Something flashes in Taylor's eyes, but he keeps them on Royce as his friends hurry over, followed by the bouncer who's got muscles in places I never even knew muscles could grow. Christian's fists are already raised and ready to jump in while Matt and Xed crowd around us.

"Is there a problem here, Tay?" The bouncer puffs his chest, apparently on a first-name basis, but Taylor shakes his head quickly.

"Nah, Robbie, we're all good. Just saying hi to my bro and his friend. Right, guys?"

I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood, I swear.

He and Royce stare each other down, a tense moment passing before Juanita swoops in and sets two shots down on our table.

" No pelees ," she says firmly, lips pressed into a harsh line as she meets everyone's gaze before heading back to the bar. I know enough Spanish to understand the gist of what she said.

Don't fight.

"B-but we didn't order anything," I frown.

Taylor wraps a hand around Royce's wrist. "They're from me. A peace offering on my open tab. Order whatever you want."

A minute passes before Royce releases Taylor with a shove, pushing him back into Christian's chest, who's eyeing us like he's more than prepared to hide two bodies.

Taylor straightens, smooths down his jacket, and then throws an arm out toward the shots with a bow. "Bone-apple-teeth. Enjoy your date."

He grabs his best friend by the shirt and drags him into the pool hall, Xed following after giving me a death glare. Matthew stands there momentarily, looking awkward, but he throws us an apologetic smile as he leaves with his friends.

Royce scoffs, gazing after them until they take up a pool table on the other side of the bar. "Fucking douche. I just got deja vu."

"From prom?" Huffing a dry, empty laugh, I look toward the DJ as 'Something Real' by Post Malone starts up. "There's even a stage and everything."

Just minus Logan and Salem. I'm surprised she's not here with Taylor, honestly. Logan seems to think they're probably dating again, and I hate how much that possibility makes me feel nauseous.

Royce picks up the shots and hands me one. "Well, we aren't having a repeat of that night. Here, bottoms up."

Clinking the shots together, we drink them down, Royce grimacing while I smack my lips at the taste of sweet Southern Comfort whiskey. He stares into the empty glass before his hazel eyes flick up to mine, a spark of mischief in them.

"Did he say order whatever we want?"

"Uh, maybe we shouldn't, Royce." Running a hand through my hair, a hint of unease skitters across my skin, but he's already grinning broadly.

Clapping me on the shoulder, he tells me he'll be back before going to the bar. So I slide back into my seat and pull out my phone, genuinely trying not to look over at Taylor, but as always, he's like a gravitational constant pulling me in, and I can't help it. The minute my eyes find him, I feel my mouth go dry.

His denim jacket is gone, and a loose black tank top hangs from his shoulders. There are holes cut into the fabric on the sides, the tattooed skin of his ribs playing peek-a-boo as he racks up the pool balls, his inked biceps flexing, and the pink tips of his hair fall across his face.

Fuck, he's hot.

And I'm not the only one who notices. A group of women surround the pool table, introducing themselves to him and his friends. Or maybe re -introducing with the way Christian throws his arms around some of them like they've met before. A blonde chick with a low neckline and ample cleavage puts her hand on Taylor's arm while he chalks the tip of his pool stick, and he looks down at her with a sultry smile that makes my stomach clench. He hasn't even glanced my way when I know he can feel my eyes on him.

A loud thunk draws my attention to where Royce is sliding back onto his stool with a pitcher of beer, two glasses, and six shots on a tray before us.

"Jesus, Royce. What happened to wine?"

He laughs as he starts pouring up the beer. "If it's free, I'll drink anything. We're getting wasted tonight, Huck."

"Is it even legal for the bartender to give us this much at once?" Taking the glass from him, I take a sip of whatever dark Guinness he gave me while he shrugs. It's bitter and not my usual, I'm more of an ale drinker, but Royce has a point. It's free, so I won't complain.

"Maybe we should just go to a different bar," I mumble, but he's already shaking his head before I finish.

"No, no way, babe. We aren't gonna let them ruin our night. I don't care how close they are to the bouncer, bartender, or whoever. We were here first. "

Yeah, true, but Taylor's currently got Blondie bent over, pressed between him and the pool table while he shows her how to break from behind, and I don't want to see that shit.

Oldest trick in the book, asshole . Very original.

He whispers something in her ear that causes her to giggle, a high-pitched noise that carries over the music. My grip tightens on the glass so hard I'm surprised it doesn't break. As she pulls the stick back to hit the cue ball, his hand flutters to her side, sliding down to her hip in a caressing touch, and I feel like I'm on fire, painfully melting to ash.

Why do I feel like this? Isn't this what I wanted? For him to leave me alone?

No, I wanted revenge . And I got it. But it feels like the cost for it was my goddamn soul.

"Holy shit!"

My gaze swings back over to Royce, who's currently gaping at me with his eyes bugging out, a hand over his mouth.

My brows slam together. "What?"

"Still?" His hand drops to his chest, clutching it like a string of pearls. "Even after everything?"

"Still what? What are you talking about?"

He slides two shots over to me, shaking his head in disbelief. "Here, sweetie, you need these more than I do."

"What, why?" Sighing, I raise my gaze to the ceiling. "Just spit it out, Royce."

His eyes narrow as he jerks his head in Taylor's direction. "You're still in love with him."

Not a question. A statement.

I open my mouth to refute that statement, but nothing comes out. Because I can't .

"He used to beat the shit out of you, call you names, totaled your car, and then outed you to your dad and everyone after you gave him your scholarship." Royce sips his beer slowly, studying me. "I'm not one to judge, Huckslee, but that's...wow."

"It's fucking toxic," I growl as I scrub my face, hanging my head. "Everything about this shit with him is toxic. And I fucked up. I fucked up so bad."

Royce blinks in surprise. "You? What did you do?"

"I...I hurt him."

So much more than that, I took something from him. Something that didn't belong to me.

God, Taylor's first time with a man, and that's the experience I left him with? Shame coils inside my chest like a venomous snake. I wouldn't blame him if he never wanted another dick in his mouth ever again.

"Huckslee, he hurts you too. What else is new?"

"No, it's–" I lick my lips, resting my forehead on my arm. "He hasn't even laid a hand on me since that night in high school when he broke my arm. And he was so torn up about it, I remember." He nearly threw up in the hospital room when he apologized to me. And then later, when he'd taken me by the hand and pulled me onto the track to explain himself...when he'd kissed me...

Memories flood my brain, everything I've shoved deep down over the last four years boiling to the surface. All the times Taylor tried to make things right, to communicate like a fucking adult, and I just pushed him away. Literally. Onto his ass in the snow when I saw him for the first time since I left.

Royce's voice pulls me back to reality. "So, because he hasn't hit you in a long time, does it mean he gets a free pass for what he did at prom? I'm not trying to get into your business, Huck, but the guy is clearly not good for you."

"I'm not good for him," I find myself answering, raising my head to stare at him in despair. "He's been trying, and I've been the one with the problem."

My dad used to smack me around sometimes.

Taylor's words from the cabin hit me then, straight to the fucking lungs, stealing the oxygen right out of my body. An image flashes before my eyes of his back in the ninth-grade locker room, covered in bruised fingerprints. How he freaked out when I noticed them, and when I told the school counselor, I got detention for hitting him first. I was so blinded by anger from his lying about who started the fight that I completely forgot about what started it in the first place. The fucking bruises!

All those times he told me his dad was an asshole, how he always came home from visits seeming stiff and withdrawn, the story he told me about his bike getting taken away. This whole fucking time, I was hung up on the bike, but it wasn't about the bike at all. It was always about getting away from his father, who was hurting him.

And I've been doing the exact same goddamn thing.

He tried so hard to tell me, but I was so focused on the past that I wouldn't listen.

Oh, God .

"Royce, I think–" Nausea roils in my gut as I hop off the stool quickly, bumping the table and upturning a few shots. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

I make a beeline for the bathroom, keeping my head down and not hearing whatever he hollers after me. A short hallway leads to the men's room, but the door is locked when I get there. Banging my fist on it, I yell at whoever is inside to hurry up before leaning back against the concrete wall.

The floor spins beneath me, threatening to lay me out flat. Bile is working its way up my throat, but I swallow it down, breathing through my nose while I pound on the bathroom door again. I didn't even feel the panic attack coming, but now it's hitting me with full force, and I know I'm about to lose it.

A muffled voice shouts from the other side of the door. "Fuck off!"

"Dude, hurry the hell up, I'm gonna puke!"

There's a string of muted curses and some shuffling before the door swings open. I launch toward the door, the hallway starting to close in, but I come to an almost violent halt when I see who's standing in the doorway. The chaos in me stills.

"T-Taylor," I stammer, my eyes meeting the surprise in his before they harden into a glare.

"What do you want?" Taylor snaps coldly, looking for all the world like he's just seen a roach, and I shrink back from the vitriol in his expression.

Licking my lips nervously, I raise my palms. "I just...can we chat?"

Chat? Seriously, Huckslee?

"I'm sorry," I rush out before I can stop myself, the liquor loosening my lips. "I'm sorry for all of it, Taylor. I've been treating you like fucking shit when all you were trying to do was make me see, and I get it now. It all makes sense, and I'm so fucking sorry it took me so long."

His eyes widen as his pouty lips part, but his expression quickly shutters again. "What the fuck are you talking about, Huck? Are you drunk?"

"No! I mean, a little, but not as much as I wish I was. I'm just–" Cutting myself off, I fall back against the wall, feeling out of breath, not quite knowing what I'm trying to say. "C-can we start over? Go somewhere and talk, please?"

Taylor studies me cautiously for a moment before opening his mouth to answer, but a giggle behind him interrupts whatever he'd been about to say. A very feminine, high-pitched giggle. He freezes, and I notice for the first time that his hat is gone, and his dark hair is messy as if someone's fingers have been running through it. He looks flushed, lips a bit swollen, and as my gaze tracks down his body, I find his belt buckle undone. When my eyes meet his again, a spark of guilt swims in them.

Finally, glancing over his shoulder, I see Blondie near the sink, adjusting her shirt and grinning at me. Red lipstick smeared.

Coincidentally, lipstick that matches the red smear on Taylor's green boxer briefs peeking out from his unbuttoned jeans.

Right over his crotch.