Page 78 of The Darkness Within

“You’re a…a…” Brewer stutters.

“Hooters girl?” I finish for him.

“Hooters boy,” Tex corrects me.

“They actually hired you?” Nacho sounds as stunned as I feel.

“Of course they did. Diversity and equal opportunity and all that.”

Maybe for most businesses, but I’ve never heard of a Hooters boy. “Do you make enough in tips to even bother? I would think most of the guys are there to see the girls.”

Tex points a slender finger at me. “You would be wrong. I cleaned up last night. Made more than most of the waitresses combined. Catty bitches,” he mumbles under his breath. “I mean, look at me. How good do I look in this? Be honest.”

He poses like a showgirl, hands in the air with one foot turned out. The cropped t-shirt shows off his slender, toned stomach and belly button. His skin is smooth and hairless. The skimpy orange nylon shorts barely cover the cheeks of his ass, and are stretched tight across his groin. There’s no mistaking his dick print, even when it’s soft. His long, thin legs taper down inside thick slouchy, white socks, and chunky white sneakers. Tex’s longish blond hair and pretty face make him look like a California boy more than a Texan. I don’t see a trace of the soldier he used to be. He turns toward the window and the sun highlights the pale glitter eyeshadow on his lids.

Twinks aren’t really my type, but damn, he looks good. I bet a lot of closeted and repressed guys who frequent Hooters are saving their money to tip him big.

Suppressing my laughter, I lift my bottled water in a mock toast. “Congratulations on the new job.”

Brewer still hasn’t said a word, and by the look on his face, it’s easy to tell what he’s thinking. He’s not happy. “Good thing I’m not busy tonight,” he mumbles.

“What, are you gonna go tie up one of his booths all night spying on him?”

His glare speaks louder than words. How cute, an overprotective Brewer.

I’m obsessed with his kiss. With him.

I can still recall the flavor on his tongue.

The scent of dryer sheets that clung to his T-shirt.

His spicy clean body wash.

Is it obsession? Lust? Or the beginning of something else, something deeper?

The joys of being an addict, always having to second-guess your motives, to be sure you’re making healthy choices.

This morning, I’ve sat through three sessions with patients and the entire time, my mind was on Nash.

What is he doing?

Is he thinking about the kiss? Of course he is.

Is he going to try to kiss me again? God, I hope so.

Maybe a handful of stolen moments will be enough to get us through the next two and a half months.

Who am I kidding? My heart almost stopped when we were nearly caught.

People look up to me to be an example of the right way to recover, thinking I work a good program. My patients, the guys at Serenity House, my sponsees and friends, other recovering addicts—they look to me to show them the way. My clean time and experience deceives them into thinking I’m beyond mortal, that I’m infallible.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I’m just a man. A seriously flawed man who sometimes lets his desires rule his reasoning. I’m not naïve enough to believe that Nash isn’t going to obsess over that kiss, whether it never happens again or if it happens a dozen more times. I know the way his mind works. He’s exactly like me. A kiss isn’t going to corrupt his recovery and send him back out the door. But with so many eyes on us constantly, there’s nowhere to hide.

At home, we’re never alone. At meetings, I watch him constantly, check out his profile, long to slide my hand in his as we sit side-by-side. Every night, I stare at my phone as I lie in bed, waiting…hoping…he’ll call, that he’ll need me. What a terrific therapist I am! Hoping my patient backslides so I can crawl into his bed.

This is why there are rules. These are the consequences of breaking them.

---