Page 17 of It's All You

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GAVIN

Beau was supposed to freak out first thing in the morning, madly pack his things, and run out the door. Not poke me in the ass with his rock-hard cock and then kiss the breath right out of my lungs. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not going to survive this.

The way I see it, we’ve got two options. Give into whatever this is that has suddenly developed between us, consequences be damned. And when Beau finally comes to his senses, he’ll go back home while I slowly pick up the shattered pieces of my heart.

Or be adults and talk and realize that he’s just in a vulnerable place and I shouldn’t take advantage. That the sane, responsible thing would be to step back from each other for a while. Then he’ll go home and I’ll—again—be left picking up the shattered pieces of my heart.

Either way, it doesn’t turn out well for me. So why shouldn’t I throw caution to the wind and take this thing I’ve spent my whole life pining for? Especially since Beau seems determined to give it to me?

Because I don’t know if we can ever come back from that. And the prospect of losing Beau forever is simply too high a price to pay.

“Gavin, G, talk to me.”

I guess we’re going with option number two. “How about some coffee first?”

Beau nods and we both pad into the kitchen. I sit on a stool at the breakfast bar while he moves automatically to make coffee, measuring out the grounds and filling the machine up with water. In the two weeks he’s been here, he’s somehow made the kitchen his own. The coffee and filters have found a new home on a different shelf, the mugs are now stacked upside down rather than right side up, and there’s a new measuring cup I’ve never seen before in my life.

It does something dangerous to my heart to see Beau in my kitchen like this. Like he belongs here. Like this could be my normal, everyday life. I drop my gaze to the counter. Coffee might not cut it—I’m going to need something stronger.

A steaming brew, doctored exactly the way I like it, slides across the counter, stopping under my nose.

“Coffee. Now talk.” Beau’s not taking no for an answer this time. He won’t be distracted or side-tracked. He’s got that steely look in his eyes that he usually uses on his personal training clients.

I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “We can still backtrack,” I say, staring into the milky cream of my coffee. “Just rewind the last twenty-four hours and everything will be okay.”

“Is that what you want?” Beau leans back against the fridge, one arm crossed over his chest, hand tucked under the opposite elbow. To a random observer, it looks like a casual pose, except his grip on the mug is so tight his knuckles have turned white.

“I…” No, that’s obviously not what I want, but it’s what’s smart. “You’re my best friend, Beau. That’s more important.”

His jaw works back and forth and he takes a slow, measured sip of his coffee. “You don’t think I’m serious, that I’m just… playing, or whatever.”

I open my mouth to deny it because it sounds bad when he puts it like that. But he’s right. I don’t think he’s serious. How could I? Twenty-eight years of being a full-blooded heterosexual male, then suddenly he’s divorced and—bam—now he wants cock? It doesn’t work that way. Especially not when my gay ass has been in his face this entire time with zero effect.

“If you’re really serious, I can take you to a gay club. Pick up a guy. See how you like it.” I’m dying inside even as I say the words, but if there’s any hope of preserving our friendship, it’s what needs to happen. I can’t be the man Beau explores his sexuality with, I wouldn’t survive it.

Beau’s eyes narrow like he thinks I’m up to something and he doesn’t like it. Well, that’s too damn bad. This is all I’ve got.

Then he cocks his head to the side. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Okay, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he is a little bit gay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BEAU

Gavin wants to go gay clubbing. Cool. Let’s go gay clubbing. I know what he’s trying to do—throw me into the deep end so he can say “I told you so” when I beg to be rescued. Well, I’ll show him.

The place is packed when we get there, with flashing disco lights and music so loud it makes the air ripple. The dance floor is sunken into the middle of the main room, giving spectators plenty of railing space along the periphery to lounge and feast their eyes on the human candy below. And there’s certainly more than enough to look at, especially when clothing is apparently optional.

I’m no stranger to rooms full of half-naked men, each one fitter and buffer than the next. Swimming through testosterone is basically my job at the gym. But this is next level. This is testosterone and sex, on display and unapologetic, inviting you to jump in and take part.

I’m not immune.

Adrenaline drips, slow and steady, into my veins as we push our way across the room to the bar. Sculpted chests and broad backs bombard me from all sides. Anonymous hands land on my hip, graze across my stomach, steal gropes a little lower. By the time we’re crushed up against the bar, I’m vibrating with all the stimulation.

Someone bumps into Gavin, pushing him into me, and my arm automatically circles around him as I throw a dirty look at the back of the offender’s head.

---