1. Noah

The alarm blares, too loud and too close to my face. My hand swipes towards the bedside table, knocking my phone to the ground. Now I have to get up and search for it to make the fucking noise stop.

I guess I can"t hit snooze again.

Well, I suppose I"m up now. I rub at my eyes absentmindedly, glaring down at my phone and groaning.

Shit, I"m going to be late.

A glance across the small cabin shows Lane"s bed is empty.

He"s probably been up for hours. It's no surprise. He thinks he"s so fucking perfect.

His bunk is, of course, expertly made, like we"re cadets at a fucking military academy. His shoes are lined up neatly under his bed, and there isn"t one speck of dust or clutter in sight. At least not on his half of the room. Lane all but drew a line across the room and threatened my life if I so much as stepped into his personal space. We"d both voiced our protests at being assigned as bunkmates, but the camp coordinators don"t give a damn if we hate each other, as long as we don"t repeat the fight that got us sent home when we were fourteen. And since the other camp counselors all got here before we did, thanks to Lane"s honor society induction that I got dragged along to, we ended up being stuck together. Worse, we're the only two in our four-person cabin, so there's not even anyone to act as a buffer. I tried to get Miah to move to bunk with us, but his cabin is right across from the girls" cabin, so he's not going anywhere.

Out of spite, because I hate the fucker, I step across the invisible divide and start moving his shit around, but only just enough to make him second guess if anything's been moved. It'll drive him crazy. I change the order of his shoes, scoot his stupid inspirational quotes calendar over a quarter of an inch, and move the bookmark in the book he"s reading. Then, for good measure, I empty half of his bodywash down the drain. I consider jacking off into the bottle, but I don't have time for it.

These little things will do for now. He"ll know something"s off. He's too meticulous not to notice. But he won"t be able to prove it.

Snickering, I make sure to squeeze the toothpaste in the middle of the tube when I brush my teeth. Even with all of that, I manage to wash the sleep from my eyes and get dressed just in time to make it to the mess hall.

Lane is standing at the head of the room, discussing plans with the other junior counselors like he"s in charge. I don"t know if it"s his no-nonsense attitude—one that I attribute to the stick permanently embedded in his ass—or because, at seventeen, he"s a head taller than nearly everyone in the room besides me. Whatever it is, people naturally fall in line whenever Lane is around. He suggests they jump, and they eagerly line up to show him how high they can lift their knees. It"s not an exaggeration. I've seen that exact scenario play out on the soccer field with the campers this past week.

Fucking Lane Blakely has managed to one-up me in every aspect of our lives since the moment he crashed into my life. Especially after getting sent home early that first summer. It was like he had something to prove, or that he needed to make up for getting in trouble. He didn't have to bother, everything was blamed on me. I'd promised to stick to him like glue, to help him meet people and make friends. It was an easy promise to make before I met the weirdo.

Before I met him, I was kind of looking forward to having a brother. How bad could it be having another guy my age around? I thought we"d play video games, share comic books, maybe gossip about how all the girls our age were growing boobs.

But he was so… rigid. Standoffish. Painfully strange.

My first warning should have been the lecture I got from my dad the day my stepmom went to collect her mysterious, long-lost son. He warned me that things would be a little different, starting with the new name we were to refer to him by. He wasn't Isaiah anymore, he was Lane. I thought it was dumb, but I went along with it.

I shrugged it all off. Tried to be understanding. I get that the kid was sheltered. He was homeschooled by his super religious grandpa, who sounds like he was a dick. But come on, what fourteen-year-old boy doesn"t watch TV or play video games? He"d never even had a soda before. I offered him a Coke, and he"d looked at me like I"d offered him a swig from a liquor bottle.

Back then, he was always looking at me like that. Everything I said, or wore, or thought, was either way too interesting or somehow offensive to him. By the time summer camp rolled around, I"d already endured weeks of his judgey bullshit and incessant staring, and I snapped.

My jaw clenches at the memory of the consequences of my immature prank. I didn"t think he"d go along with it. There was no doubt in my mind that he"d run off crying or something. But he didn"t. He let me do it. Let me kiss him. He let me part his mouth and lick his tongue. And he liked it. He really liked it.

I wouldn't have said anything. No matter how much he annoyed me or how much my life had been fucked since he moved in, I wouldn't have told a soul that he'd gotten so hard he'd busted in his pants. Hell, I've still never told a soul. I'm not that much of an asshole.

My own confused reaction to the kiss was enough to keep me quiet, even if I had been enough of an asshole to rat him out.

He'd taken advantage of my momentary lapse in sanity. I'd only wanted to push him to be the one to back out, but then he made the softest sound when I surprised him and licked into his mouth, and I think I wanted to keep going. For a tiny second I'd forgotten we were playing that sick game, that anyone was watching us. The kiss clouded my mind and made my brain react in a way it never had before.

Finding myself on my ass in the dirt was a rude awakening. The hatred in his eyes when he loomed over me and shouted was more hurtful than the embarrassment. Still reeling from the feelings that coursed through me during our kiss, I watched him stomp away. Obviously, I couldn't just let him humiliate me like that. Once I got my bearings, I made a few sarcastic quips and got even the next day. He'd technically lost the bet by pushing me away and leaving, so I did exactly what I said I'd do. He lost the game, and the consequences were clear.

When he found the sign on his back, he snapped. In the middle of the camp picnic, with all the other kids and counselors and parents—including our own sitting right next to us—he punched me square in the face. It took two people to pull me off him, and another three to hold him back. On the drive home, our parents had to separate us. I rode up front with my father, who was so mad he didn"t speak to me for the whole three-hour drive. And Lane rode in the back with his mother, refusing to talk to her about what happened.

She"s babied him from the moment he moved in after his grandpa died. That much hasn't changed in three years. I think it"s because she feels guilty that she basically dumped him with his grandpa and ran after she had him. But whatever. He"s an asshole. I would have left him, too.

I was a good son to her, but I was never enough to fill the void his absence left. He barely talks to her, and it makes her sad, but she still always takes his side. And my dad always takes her side.

I"m the odd man out.

The moment we arrived home after getting kicked out of camp that day, Lane and his mother went into my bedroom, the one we were supposed to share, and didn"t come out for half an hour. When they emerged, her face was blotchy and tear stained, and then she and my dad helped move all Lane"s stuff into the basement. I got a lecture about brotherly love and self-control, and Lane got the bedroom upgrade that was supposed to be mine when I turned sixteen. From that moment on, he was Mr. Perfect. He never stepped out of line or argued. He always helped keep the house clean, set the table before anyone could ask, and got straight A"s. He charmed my friends on the first day of school, except for Miah, and got a late spot in my rec soccer league without a proper tryout simply because he"s a damn giant that can kick a ball. Thank fuck he didn't get put on the same team as me. Our rivalry was too heated to share anything.

"Dude, you need to take that death glare down a notch before you burn a hole in somebody." Miah"s voice startles me, jolting me out of my self-loathing. His eyes trail over to where Lane is laughing at something one of the camp directors is saying, and I roll my eyes. Can"t they see how fake he is? "Does he iron his t-shirts?" Miah asks, absentmindedly smoothing down the front of his matching dark red junior counselor jersey.

"I"m already over this summer," I groan, walking past the line of campers to fill our plates.

"We"ve been coming here since we were in the fifth grade, dude. And this year we get to be freaking counselors!"

"Says the guy that doesn"t have to bunk with that asshole." One of the biggest perks of graduating to teen counselors is not having to bunk with six other smelly assholes, having a bathroom in your cabin, and almost never having a curfew enforced. This summer was supposed to be epic.

"You"re not wrong, but we can"t let him ruin the best summer ever, man."

I give him a look and scoff. As if I have any choice in the matter.

"You could always sneak into Maci"s room and sleep there. You know she"d welcome you with open legs—I mean arms," he quickly corrects with a smirk.

His idea isn"t terrible. Maci can be a bit clingy, but if it gets me away from my jerk of a stepbrother, it would be worth it. Not to mention the possibility of getting some action. We both talk a good game, but neither of us is exactly experienced. I got half a hand job at an end-of-school party a couple weeks ago, and I"d really like to revisit having someone other than myself touch my dick.

"Who is she rooming with?"

"Fucking Tara Whitman," he groans, giving me a knowing look.

"Ohh, so you want me to get in good with Maci so you can come along and try to feel up her bunkmate?"

"I mean, can you blame me? Puberty has been very kind to her. Have you seen her?—"

I whack Miah across his head when a group of campers walks past us.

"What the hell, Noah!"

He looks like he"s about to cuss me out for smacking him, but he gets distracted. I look over my shoulder to see what he"s frowning at and find Maci Hammond"s high ponytail swishing back and forth as she giggles and lays a manicured hand on Lane"s chest.

My jaw ticks, and I cut my eyes to Miah. He gives me a curt nod, knowing what I"m thinking without me needing to say the words.

Whatever my feelings about Maci, I"m about to piss all over her leg like a dog marking its territory.

I"ll be damned if he takes anything else from me.

The whistle blows. Loudly. Less than twelve inches from my ear.

With a deep, calming breath, I steady a glare at Lane. He ignores me, calling the kids to the sidelines. Most of them are huffing and panting from the intense workout Lane just forced them all through. We"re supposed to be working on footwork today, but Lane is on a damn power trip and likes to make the kids do ridiculous workouts as "warmup". He says discipline and stamina are two of the most important parts of the game, but cutting into actual practice time to run an extra mile or making them do an offensive number of burpees to "loosen them up" isn't helping them learn anything. It"s not even that I disagree with him about discipline and stamina, but I think he might be some kind of masochist or something. Yesterday, I heard him tell a twelve-year-old that if he"s not hurting, he"s not working hard enough, then he proceeded to give all the kids in his canoe some rather aggressive encouragement in order to push them through to the finish line. To his credit, they won the race. Not without making at least one kid cry though, which pissed me off. Intent on living up to my, and I quote, "coolest counselor" title, I snuck every kid that was in that canoe an extra scoop of ice cream directly after one of his tough love nutrition sermons.

I have purposefully made it my mission to be the fun guy, if only to get under Lane"s skin. I"ve been teaching the players how to juggle the ball and showing them fancy moves. We spend more time playing than doing planks, but they"re running and exercising all damn day no matter what, so it"s not like any of them are being lazy.

Unfortunately, the groups get paired up with other groups every other week, and lucky us, we get stuck with my grouchy asshole of a stepbrother this week. Even better, scrimmages start on Thursday, so his competitive nature is starting to make him even less tolerable.

"Alright, alright, Lane has had his fun. What do you guys say we practice some footwork?" I call out, taking over before Lane can say anything. All the kids cheer and look so excited, he can"t say anything without looking like more of a douchebag than he is.

Even just instructing everyone to grab a ball gets the kids all fired up. I return Lane"s grouchy glare with one of my own that says you should be ashamed of yourself.

"I"m going to show you the coolest control move called the Elastico. Watch how I do it," I say, moving my feet around the ball in slow, practiced moves. "The idea is to make the defender think you"re going in one direction, but with one quick flick, you cross the ball over to go the opposite direction. Like this." After showing them several times, I have them spend a few minutes getting comfortable with the basic movements. Then we"re jogging up and down the field while I correct them here and there so they can try to execute the movements while moving forward.

"The faster you can pull this move off, the more effective it is. Let"s try pairing off and you can take turns trying to get past each other," I call out, rolling my eyes when Lane hits his whistle in two short bursts, as if they couldn"t hear my instructions without his interference. I make a mental note to hide his stupid whistle from him the moment he falls asleep tonight.

"This is a waste of time," Lane says, crossing his arms as he looks at the field of players. "They"d be better off doing one-touch drills and wind sprints."

"Oh yeah, because that"s so much fun. I peeked at your stupid clipboard, bro, and all that shit sucks. You"re going to bore them to death."

"They"re here to learn?—"

"They"re here to play soccer. And they deserve to have some damn fun with the game. Plus, learning to control the ball is the most important part of the game." Lane grunts at that, and then grits his teeth when I flick his damn clipboard out of his hands. By the time he picks it up and looks back to tell me off, I"m already halfway to midfield.

The kids decide it would be fun to try to defend against me, and I"ll use the move I showed them, plus a few variations they can build up to later, to get around them. I break them up into two groups, having one half defend against me while the other half observes. We"re having a great time, and the kids seem to be actually getting the hang of controlling the ball. Apparently we"re having too much fun, though, because Lane loses his temper and comes marching out onto the field to break it up. One of the kids from Lane"s group, Sean, I think, calls out for Lane to go up against me. I make a mental note to slip him a candy bar later. He"s my new favorite.

Lane is a good player. He"s specifically a great defender. I"m man enough to admit that. We"ve been playing on rival rec teams for the past three years, and our parents force us to go to watch each other"s games whenever our schedules don"t conflict. But as big and tough as he is, he can"t match my speed and control, and he knows it. I beat him every time, and then he beats himself up over it for weeks afterwards. It"s highly gratifying.

I bounce on the balls of my feet and juggle the ball while I wait for Lane to take position. He looks at his watch as if he has somewhere else to be other than getting his ass handed to him in front of a bunch of over-excited kids, but straightens when he notices me laughing to myself. Scowl in place, he marches onto the pitch, putting a good ten yards between us. Everything feels like it"s happening in slow motion. I"m trapped in a déjà vu moment from last spring, when Lane and I were squaring off during a rec league championship game.

Everything around us seemed to slow and blur, like we were the only ones there on that field. Just before the whistle, I looked up and locked eyes with Lane. Ever since the kiss that broke our chance of ever being anything close to friends, he always looks at me the same way: like a shark who smells blood in the water. Like he"ll bite my head off and swim away with the snack. Like he wants me and hates me at the same time.

It makes my veins vibrate.

He"s looking at me that way now, taking the measure of me. Judging me. Inspecting me. It takes me a moment to realize I"m holding my breath, staring back at him dumbly. My body feels tingly all over. His head cocks to the side, as though he"s trying to read my mind. We"re locked like that, staring each other down, until the kids yell out for us to get on with it. Shaking the haze from my head, I surge forward, dribbling the ball straight towards him. In a real match, I"d take a wider berth, but I"m here to show him up.

In the blink of an eye, he"s in front of me, his leg extending to attempt to steal the ball. I cut the ball back, crossing it between my legs, before changing direction. Just to be an asshole, I show off a lot of fancy footwork, laughing out loud at Lane"s exasperated huffs of annoyance as I dribble and tease the ball around in circles. Through every maneuver, Lane stays on me. I feint right before crossing the ball to my left, kicking it past him. Knowing he"s hot on my tail, I speed up, dribbling the ball closer to the net before I attempt to put it in. I can feel Lane dropping back as I put on an extra burst of speed.

Just as I"m rearing back my right leg to shoot for the goal, a solid body shoots out in front of me, taking me out at the legs. Lane executes a rough side tackle that would incur a foul at the level we"re teaching, but he effectively kicks the ball out of bounds. My feet are swept out from under me, and I lurch forward, narrowly avoiding falling on my face or twisting any limbs. I end up landing directly on top of Lane"s big, muscly body.

For a split second, we're both still. I"m still processing his play, and whether it was legal, and my surprise at being taken out like that. The kids are going wild on the sidelines at the show we just put on. Shaking with laughter, I want to slap him on the shoulder and congratulate him for something I didn"t know he had in him. I really didn"t see him coming, and that"s impressive considering the size of him. Our size difference is even more apparent when I"m sprawled out on top of him, all but straddling his waist. I"m suddenly over aware of all the parts of our bodies that are pressed against each other and the way I"m laying across his body. One thick thigh presses up between my legs, presumably trying to push me off him, and my body reacts.

Our eyes lock, Lane"s grey-green irises flashing as he registers my involuntary reaction. That darkening of his eyes that reminds me so much of a shark sends a shiver down my spine, and my situation worsens. What was a small problem, something I could probably brush off and deny, is now a bona fide issue. Pun intended. And with two dozen eleven-and twelve-year-olds surrounding us, no less.

After barely a moment"s hesitation, Lane has a jolt of realization, digging his fingers into my waist. He swiftly pushes me off him and to the side. Before I can register the way my shoulder hits the ground, he"s up and storming off, calling out for the kids to do six laps before they head off to get ready for lunch. More than half the kids stay to gawk down at me as I pull my knees in, feigning a cramp, before I"m able to get up and walk without being too obvious. I still have to hold a soccer ball in front of me while I tell the kids they can skip Lane"s suggestion of laps and they all run off the field happily.

What the fuck just happened?

Lane is absent from lunch and spends the rest of the day avoiding me at all costs. We hold a scrimmage so we can stand on opposite sides of the field. I don"t even know who wins. I"m too distracted by overthinking what happened. Fucking teenage hormones. It didn"t mean anything. These days a stiff breeze gets me hard. He knows that, right? For whatever reason, I desperately need him to know that. To acknowledge it.

By dinnertime, I"ve driven myself mad worrying over the entire situation. He wasn"t in our room to get cleaned up for dinner, and I don"t see him around the mess hall. After dinner, everyone typically hangs out around the fire pits in the courtyard. The owner of the camp will usually bring out his guitar, which either provides a relaxing backdrop to the chatter, or it becomes a full-fledged singalong. Right now, a couple of kids from Miah"s group are singing parody versions of popular songs, trying to one-up each other with how gross they can get away with being without incurring the wrath of the older staff members.

I walk around like I"m on patrol, shooing kids away from dark corners and making sure everyone is behaving, but really, I"m looking for Lane. I need to talk to him and make sure he understands that what happened earlier today was just a fluke, an awkward and embarrassing physical reaction that had absolutely nothing to do with him. Not because I give a fuck what he thinks about me, or because it feels like he"s being even more pissy with me than usual.

I don"t know why, really. Maybe because the fallout of the last time something like this happened was so catastrophic. Maybe because I want to throw it in his face that he was the one to pop a boner that last time, to take the pressure off my embarrassment from today.

And maybe there"s a very, very small part of me that wants to look him in the eye and tempt fate. I like having something to taunt him with, something I can use to get under his skin and make him as uncomfortable as he makes me.

I finally spot his blond head, on the far edge of the courtyard, sitting with Maci. She has her arms wrapped around one of his large biceps while they talk to a couple of the older counselors. Lane looks stiff and uncomfortable, like he doesn"t want to be there. He"s all but leaning away from Maci, who keeps looking up at him and batting her eyes. Maci"s been coming to this camp for as long as I have. This is the first summer she hasn"t followed me around like that, but I never gave her the time of day. I can"t stand how clingy she is when I give her even the smallest bit of attention. We made out once, right after the kissing incident three years ago. I'd wanted to redirect the attention from what happened, but she texted me nearly every day for a month after that. The next summer, when we returned with a warning that we wouldn"t be welcomed back if either of us got into another fight, she acted like we"d been dating. No matter how dismissive I"ve been with her over the last couple summers, she"s still following me around with heart eyes. Or she used to.

Now that she"s turned her attention to my stepbrother, I feel weirdly possessive and angry. But which one of them am I feeling possessive about?

Lane is obviously not interested, but he"s not actively pushing her away either. He"s being kind, which in Maci"s world is practically a commitment. She"s leaning closer and closer, all but puckering up for him. Watching him squirm makes me chuckle, accidentally getting his attention. Our eyes meet over the flames, a reminder of another fire, another party, hitting me harder than his tackle did earlier. Pretending that I wasn"t standing here watching him like some kind of creeper, I feign a carefree attitude, looking around at the other nearby people. I hadn"t noticed Miah sitting across from Lane and Maci, but I pretend he"s the man I came to see, patting him on the shoulder and making a joke about some of his kids getting rowdy at the singalong. He decides it"s something he has to see and vacates his spot on the log.

My eyes keep finding Lane"s again, the flickering flame of the campfire casting odd shadows that contort his chiseled features. He doesn"t look away from me until Maci gets his attention, surprising him by putting her hand on his cheek and angling his face down to hers. His eyes flick back up to mine as her lips touch his. I don"t look away, watching curiously as he submits to her kiss. It's a dance, and she"s the one leading; he does as she does, moving his lips the way she demands with her own. My lips part on a soft inhale, remembering the way he gasped into my mouth when my tongue accidentally brushed his. The way he shivered, and the jolt of exhilaration that coursed down my spine.

Blinking back that memory, and trying to play off the rush of blood that rushes to my crotch, I decide it"s time to leave. I smirk at Lane knowingly, because the disinterested way he"s kissing her, paired with the heat that just flashed through his eyes, says that maybe he was thinking about the same thing. And while I"d never admit to my own reaction, I know I"ll always be able to use his against him.

With a final wink towards Lane, I turn in the direction that Miah went. But instead of heading to where I know my friend will be, I bypass the crowd and walk back to the cabin I'm forced to share with Lane. With all the confused thoughts and inappropriate boners that keep happening, I figure the best thing for me right now is a little alone time.

The moment the door closes behind me, I strip down and make a beeline for the shower. I let the steam build up in the room, lathering up my entire body with soap even though I"m really only in here to wash one thing. I stay in the shower until it runs cold, furiously stroking myself while trying not to think about my stepbrother"s cold, hard stare. It isn"t until I give in to the vision of him kissing Maci, glaring at me as his mouth moves against hers, that I finally get some relief. I pant as I get closer to release, coming with a whine that sounds too much like his name.

He's fucking in my head.

When I step out of the bathroom, feeling both satiated and ashamed of myself, not to mention confused as hell, he"s there. He"s laying in his bed, his body turned towards the wall, pretending to be asleep. I know he"s pretending because I"ve spent the last three weeks listening to the exact rhythm of his breaths when he"s dead to the world, the way he mutters and whines in his dreams, and the way he shoots up out of nightmares in the early hours of the morning.

I know he"s pretending, but I still drop my towel and pad around the cabin butt-naked. I do it because I know nudity makes him uncomfortable. He doesn"t even dress in the locker rooms at school or camp, he always changes in a bathroom stall, and waits to shower when he gets home. I pull on a pair of sleep pants, skipping underwear because they"ll feel too tight and make it even harder to sleep. Dropping into bed, I lay on my side, facing him, and listen to the patterns of his breathing, the rustling of his sheets as he attempts to get comfortable. There"s enough moonlight filtering in through the skylights to make out his general shape, and I find myself wondering if his eyes are open.

Did he hear me in the shower? Did he listen to me jerk off, knowing that I got hard for him earlier today? Did he jerk off too?

Was he angry about it?

Will he try to turn this around on me and humiliate me the way he did before?