Page 33 of Bitter Rival

“Some things never change.”

He flips his ballcap backward and looks me up and down. “You look like one of those rich city assholes.”

“You look exactly like the punk I grew up with.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. “But damn it’s good to see you. When did you get so fucking tall?”

Caiden was always a lot taller than me, but I’ve got a good three inches on him now.

“You obviously peaked at thirteen.”

“Nah, I peaked in high school.”

I nod knowingly. “You’re one of those guys.”

“Still talking about the glory days,” he jokes as his gaze sweeps over the vineyard. “Man, I’ve missed this place.” He sounds wistful. “Feels like old times being back here, hanging out with you again.”

I eye his thermos. “I don’t remember you drinking that much coffee when we were kids.”

“Fits a whole pot,” he brags. “My neighbor’s kid gave it to me for Father’s Day.”

“Just how close are you and the neighbor?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, man. Nothing going on there. He’s twelve and his mom thinks he needs a male role model. Whenever I try to impart some wisdom, he looks at me and goes, ‘Bruh, it’s not that deep,’” he says, mimicking a twelve-year-old. “You know what the kids do now?”

“No idea,” I say.

“Maybe it’s just boys, I don’t know. But he walks around like he’s Frankenstein’s monster because, get this…” Caiden holds up his hand and takes a dramatic pause like he’s about to tell me something groundbreaking. “He doesn’t want to crease his sneakers. Can you believe that shit?”

He looks so outraged that I can’t help but laugh. “Guess they need to be box fresh these days.”

“Yeah. Apparently, creases in your new kicks are not cool.”

“You learn something new every day.”

“I feel like it was the opposite with us. If your sneakers were squeaky clean, you weren’t really living,” he says. “Twelve was a good age though.”

I nod. “We had some good times.”

In my memory, the sun was always shining, summers were always warm and dry, and the days were long with freedom and adventure beckoning from every acre of this land.

Thirteen was when everything fell apart, and by the time I turned fourteen, my life was unrecognizable.

Gone were the carefree days with my friends when I was king of the world and never got harassed or bullied.

In its place was a stint at a boarding school where a group of older boys used me as their punching bag followed by the lost years in San Jose when my grandmother wore her grief like a shroud.

“Damn,” Caiden says, and I don’t even have to follow his gaze to know what he’s gawking at. “Is that little Daisy? She’s all grown up now.”

It’s “little Daisy” alright, working farther up one of the rows with the vineyard crew.

I still can’t erase the image of Daisy in that hot tub last night—the swell of her breasts spilling out of a hot pink lacy bra and those baby-blue boy shorts that shouldn’t have been the least bit sexy, but spoiler alert: they were.

It didn’t help that she was talking about ripped panties or that I kept imagining my hands ripping them off her body.

I have no idea how much of her story was true but if there was even an ounce of truth in it, I’d love to know what kind of guys she dates that sex would hurt, and not in the sexy way.

Even after I steered the conversation away from ripped panties and sex, and went on the attack, I was still hard.

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