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1. Chapter One

It had started out as a light brush of his lips on mine. Just a brief touch. And he'd been the one to initiate it. Curious, he'd said, just to see what it would feel like.

Then, he'd come back in for a second kiss, this one a little longer. And his hand had come around to my back, settling low, as his tongue had run along my lower lip and then darted into my mouth.

Peaches. And honey. He'd tasted like peaches and honey.

And to this day, I can't stand either of those foods. Which fucking sucks because Mel makes the best peach cobbler. Or so I'm told.

I'm staring at a slice of it now, in fact, trying not to gag. And I'm also trying not to shake too badly. I glance around the corner, listening to the familiar sounds of clinking silverware and hushed voices from the dining room as my eyes land on table thirteen. Lucky number thirteen.

Fuck.

What the fuck is he doing here? And why the fuck did Jan have to seat him in my section?

"Coop, what the hell, man? Table twelve is waiting. And table thirteen. And table six. You just gonna stand there all night?" Chuck scowls and brushes past me on his way back into the kitchen.

Maybe I will stand here all night. That sounds better than whatever the fuck I might do if I have to face him again. Although maybe he won't even recognize me. The thought is ludicrous, of course, seeing as I'd recognized him from all the way across the restaurant, even after ten years.

God, has it really been ten years?

Physically, I've probably changed a little more than he looks like he has. I grew taller. A lot. And I filled out. Mel says I look like I'm going to audition for a superhero movie. How did she put it? "Fucking ripped like Thor." Right. Thanks Mel. My hair is a little longer—messy dark-brown curls that I hide under an old baseball cap most of the time—and depending on the day of the week, I've usually got some sort of facial hair thing going on. I definitely didn't have that at fifteen.

"Fuck," I mutter out loud this time, and I pull my cap down low over my forehead. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Coop! Table twelve!"

Keeping my head low, I duck out from behind the corner and weave my way through the dining room. It's busy, as it always is on Friday night, and my section is full. I try not to let my eyes drag up from the floor as I walk right past table thirteen and stop at the next table, where two customers sit. The woman, who's had a permanent scowl on her face pretty much the whole time they've been here, scoffs as I set down the cobbler in the middle of the table with some vague apology about it taking so long, and the man, who absolutely reeks of alcohol, like he'd been swimming in the stuff before they even came in, lifts his beer bottle.

"Gimme another, and make it fast," he says.

"Sure, sir. Can I get you anything else?"

I'm as polite as I can possibly be, especially given that my mind is fucking racing right now. It's somewhere else completely. Back in his bedroom ten years ago. Remembering those lips. And peaches and honey. And fuck, he's less than five feet away from me now. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'm going to vomit. Like now.

Thankfully, both of the customers at table twelve decline anything else, and I hurry back into the kitchen, still completely ignoring table thirteen.

"Chuck, can you take table twelve another Heineken?" I think he hears me, but I don't wait for an answer. I rush through the kitchen to the back of the building and out the delivery door, and then I'm down on my knees, heaving as my lunch comes back up.

***

Mel cuts my shift short, probably assuming I've got some horrible, contagious stomach bug or something. I'm thankful for it.

I manage to drive myself home, also thankful when my old beater of a pickup decides to keep running long enough to get me there. And then I stumble through the front door, the stale smell of days-old pizza hitting my nose. I might vomit again.

I don't even bother switching on a light—I don't need to see the filthy mess that is my living room—and instead, I head straight to the bedroom, tossing my keys on the coffee table as I go. It's not very far; my "house" is a tiny, single-wide mobile home stuck in the middle of an otherwise-empty five-acre lot at the edge of town. It's one of those really old ones that's seen better days and should probably be condemned. But it's a guaranteed roof over my head, which is a lot more than I'd had after my mom died.

The room is dark and cold, and as I collapse onto the bed, not even bothering to take off my shoes, I wish I'd thought to turn on the heater. But now that I'm lying down, I'm sure as hell not getting back up. I tug the blanket up over me, roll onto my back, and close my eyes.

Joshua Alexander Miller.

Fuck.

I sit up, my eyes flying back open, and I jump to my feet. I need a fucking shower. A cold one at that. Good thing, since my water heater's on the way out anyway.

I wade through the room, kicking off my shoes along the way. As I enter the bathroom, I pull my shirt off over my head and toss it toward the hamper in the corner. It totally misses, landing somewhere on the floor next to several others that are the same shade of dull blue and have the same aged logo that reads "Mel's Diner" in big yellow block letters. I'll clean it up. Later.

I turn on the shower, and the water shudders as it starts flowing, sputtering a murky brown before it clears up. I'll figure that out later too. Hopefully soon. I'm not dead yet, even though it's done that the whole five years I've lived here, so I assume it's nothing too terrible.

Again, roof over my head. Better than nothing.

I strip down as the water "heats," and then I step into the tiny stall, cursing under my breath as I bang my elbow against the wall. Every fucking time.

Fucking tiny shower.

Fucking Josh.

"Shit!" I pound my fist into the wall, ignoring the pain as my knuckles come in contact with the vinyl. Then I lean my head up against the wall and screw my eyes shut.

Which is also a fucking bad idea.

I immediately see him—his gorgeous blue eyes and sandy blond hair, his smile that seems to stretch on for miles, the dimple on his left cheek. His perfectly shaped nose and full lips and...

God, I'm hard already.

No. Not tonight. I won't let myself do it tonight.

Not that I have a choice.

My hand is already on my dick, pumping away before I even give myself a chance to make a decision. I'm not proud of it, jerking off to a mental image of the man who used to be my best friend—until we went and fucking kissed.

But I've got no willpower.

"Godddddd!" I hiss as I come hard and fast, my load shooting all over the shower wall. I rest my arm on the wall and lean my head against it, breathing heavily. And then I curse and slam my fist into the wall again. This time, it fucking hurts, and little drops of red drip down onto the floor as my knuckles bleed.

I close my eyes for another moment and then straighten up under the stream of lukewarm water. I'd better hurry and finish before the water becomes ice.

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