2. Mik

CHAPTER 2

MIK

He's here.

In my house.

I can feel his presence like a warm front. It's heavy and oppressive the way the weather has been lately. The house is too humid to breathe in, and I haven't even had to come face to face with him yet. I'm not going to survive this.

I'm not sure what time he got in last night. He was originally supposed to land yesterday morning, but there were delays due to the shitty weather we've been having. Which seems appropriate, since storms always remind me of him. And wouldn't you know it, the forecast is showing more storms for almost the entirety of his visit.

Most of the day went by in a haze. My nerves got the better of me, and I feigned a migraine so I could drug myself to sleep. But I felt his presence even through the fog of a drugged sleep, and I've been awake since the moment he stepped inside this house.

Now it's five in the morning and I'm so jittery, I'm surprised Janel isn't yelling at me for shaking the bed. She'll probably sleep late, considering she stayed up to get her brother settled into the guest room.

Right down the hall from us.

I need to get out. To move. To run. It's already hot and muggy outside, and with the heat index climbing, it's only going to get worse as the day goes on. If I want to get out, I might as well go for a run and try to work off some of this nervous energy now while I still have a chance of staying upright afterwards.

Seven miles later, which is a lot more than I normally run, I come face to face with the man himself. I'm hunched over at the bottom of the porch steps, sucking in harsh breaths, red faced with sweat pouring over my face and body. It's too humid to get a full breath, and I'm dangerously close to heatstroke in my running clothes and the rising temperature.

A tingle makes its way down the back of my neck, like I'm being watched, and when I look up, there he is . Leaning on the porch railing with a mug in his hands, watching me silently.

And he's… fucking gorgeous. Still. So gorgeous the air seems to get even thicker, and dizziness threatens to make my knees buckle.

Jason Reinier is all grown up, and fuck . He's bigger and broader than I remember, and he seems taller, too, but that's probably just because he's standing several steps above me. I can barely stand to look at him. It's like staring into the sun. But I also can't look away. My retinas burn, but I take in every burly inch of him.

His strong jaw is covered with a short beard that can't decide if it wants to be red or blond. His hair, which is a lighter shade of the same reddish blond, is closely cropped on the sides and a bit longer on the top, flopping over his forehead in a fashionably casual way. Those bright blue eyes are too much to look at, so I avert my eyes to the rest of him. My eyes wander down his fit body, and I swallow thickly .

He's wearing a fitted t-shirt and athletic shorts that stretch around his wide, muscular thighs. Fucking hell, those things are the size of both of my legs put together. He could crack my head like a walnut. I have to look away. That is a very awkward visual to be having while you're being stared down by someone who hates you. And he still does, if his glare is anything to judge it by.

Jason doesn't react to seeing me at all, staring back at me with an intensity that scorches me from the inside out. I feel threatened, like some kind of prey that's been cornered. His gaze demands that I maintain eye contact and face my torment.

All at once, I feel and remember everything. I feel shame. And heartache. And anger. The despondent anger I felt when he left and moved so far away. The way he just left, leaving me drowning. My entire world was crashing down around me, and he didn't so much as spare me a conversation. After everything we shared, the years of friendship before the hours we spent professing our love for each other… he just gave up on me without thinking twice.

Just like that.

Time heals nothing. He still hates me for what I did, and nearly twenty years later, I'm more pissed about it than I probably should be.

I'm reminded of the way his eyes once bored into me in a completely different way. With tenderness. With love. I remember the weight of him on top of me, the way he felt beneath me. Inside me.

When I can't stand it anymore, I tear my eyes away from his and trudge past him into the house without saying a word. Dizzy with memories and emotion, and probably heatstroke, I nearly choke when the smell of grass and musk flushes over me. He still smells the same, and I'm struck with the memory of wanting to shove my face in his armpit and inhale his sweat. I was so hopeless then .

Not that I'm much better off now, judging by the way my body reacts to his proximity. My dick gets hard, and my eyes fill with tears. As soon as the front door is shut behind me, I run up the stairs as quickly as possible and shut myself in the bathroom. I run past Janel, barely noticing her until she knocks on the door after I've slammed it shut.

"Mik? Are you okay in there?"

"Uh, yeah. Just needed the bathroom," I say quickly, trying to keep my voice even. I have to hold my breath to keep from sobbing until I hear her footsteps move away from the door. I turn on the shower to drown out the sounds of me falling into a sinkhole, every moment of my pathetic life flashing in front of my eyes.

Truthfully, my life isn't all that bad. My son is the light of my life and even though his conception turned my life upside down, I can't imagine not being his dad. I have a job I love, directing intramural sports for the local rec center, and I get my pick of teams to coach. I play rec league rugby and pick up shifts in the used bookstore that Janel and I now own, the same one that I worked in as a teenager. The previous owner was diagnosed with some health issues and had to give it up, but she basically gave it to me. All I had to do was take over the lease for the space.

The little town we live in has grown exponentially, so the leasing costs have gone up dramatically, but Janel and I, with some help from her family, were able to expand to include a coffee shop that's become quite popular with the locals. Janel stopped working as a paralegal and took over running the day-to-day business. She loves the small-town celebrity of being local business owners, our names emblazoned on the back of every rec team shirt and school event that we can sponsor. My position at the rec center sounds more prestigious than it is, but it allows me to do something I love while also appeasing her family's need for status .

Janel and I have a content, if not monotonous, marriage. It's not loveless exactly, but I've never been in love with her, and I don't think she's ever been in love with me, either.

It's not a bad life. But it's missing something integral.

It's missing him.

Sometimes I wonder if we would have been better off if we'd never admitted to our feelings. If we'd never shared those fleeting nights of passion. Maybe then I'd still have my best friend by my side, and although I'd always want him, I'd never know what it felt like to be loved by him. To be touched by him.

I step into lukewarm water and try not to think of the night I begged him to fuck me for the first time. The mere touch of my hand on the tile wall of the shower is enough to have me flashing back to that night, to the way he held me against him and carefully, reverently opened me up to take him. To the way he whispered in my ear, making gooseflesh erupt all over my skin. To the way he gently guided me up and down his hard length until I was trembling with need.

My hand wraps around my stiff erection, fingering the barbel at the base of my cockhead, wondering what he'd think of the piercing. If he'd play with it with his tongue and teeth. I close my eyes, remembering the heat of his mouth. The way his tongue swirled over my crown. The way his impossibly light blue eyes watched me, categorizing my every response to his touch.

He was always so careful, so concerned that I'd run away. He never let loose, never lost control and gave in to his own lust. And then he was the one to run away.

I pump my fist to thoughts of him, like I have for the past eighteen years. And like every orgasm since the night we were together, I'm left unsatisfied and yearning for something more.