Page 1 of Prince of Ruin

Clav

They say you should never cry over spilled milk, but when my vanilla latte slips from my jittery fingers and crashes onto the floor, making the plastic lid pop off as creamy tan liquid bukakkes the gray carpet of the library, thelastthing I want to do is shrug it off, clean it up, and walk away with my chin held high and a satisfied smile plastered on my face like I just had the best orgasm imaginable.

Look. I’m generally a positive guy. The walk-into-a-room-and-the-sun-immediately-shines-through-the-windows type. I can find the silver lining in every situation, and everyone in this small down knows it—and fully expects it of me. So, I try to uphold that image as I bite down hard on my lower lip—hard—and accept the paper towels Hannah, the librarian, offers. Dropping to my knees, I soak up the steaming liquid that was supposed to be, you know, theone thingthat went well today.

“I’m so sorry—I don’t know what happened—I’m, like, such a klutz today—don’t worry about it—Igot it. My god, I’msosorry.” The words jumble together as they fly out of my mouth while I press the dampening towels into the carpet. There’s no way in hell I’m making contact with Hannah, because she’s used to the big smiles and self-deprecating humor, and she probably won’t know what the fuck to do if I look up at her and she sees the hot tears building behind my black-rimmed glasses.

“It’s fine, Clav,” Hannah says, and I know by the sound of her voice that she’s smiling, because who can be mad at Clav Thorne? “This stuff happens. I’ll get more towels.”

“Thanks.” I force out a short laugh with the word, trying hard to blink back my fucking tears as I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

Clav Thorne doesn’t cry over spilled milk.

Clav Thorne doesn’t cryperiod.

But this day. Iswear. It couldn’t get any worse unless a tornado blew through our midwestern town and took my house, my dildos, and all my precious gay monster-fucker books with it.

The autumn Friday started like any other: At the ass-crack of dawn—when no one should legally be awake. Naturally, I was late to work at the local diner. And it wasn’t the first time I was late. I guess this was the last straw because the manager finally fired my ass the moment I walked through the doors.

Look. I know I can’t blame everything on my ADHD, but time erasure is a real thing and I legit have no idea where that hour in the morning between when I wake up and leave for work goes. No matter how many alarms I set foreveryfuckingthingI have to do that morning, I still somehow can’t manage to keep track of time.

5:00wake up

5:05 Shower

5:20 Get Dressed

5:30 Breakfast

5:45 brush teeth

5:50 TIME TO WALK OUT THE DOOR

You’d think with a ten-minute drive to work I would make it just on time like clockwork. But no.

It’s not that I got fired this morning from the shitty diner—that, by the way, barely passes the state health inspections—that’s pushing me over the edge today. It’s the fact that this is the third job I’ve been fired from since I dropped out of college in the spring. Which is a whole other shit show I’d rather not talk about because, hey, I also have exam anxiety.

And now I spent a whole six dollars from my last paycheck on a vanilla latte, which was supposed to be my irresponsible pick-me-up and is instead soaked into the shitty, centuries-old library carpet like horse-cum on a porn-star.

I swear to god.

“Here, let me help you.” A stranger’s voice drags me back to my current shitty situation. It’s like honey on toast, that voice. Somewhere between smooth and rough, like the place where the flowing ocean waves meet the gritty sand. I sit back on my haunches, daring to look past my threatening tears at the field of green eyes peering down at me.

Oh. Holy. Night.

The cutest, most adorable man I have ever laid eyes on kneels across the mess from me with paper towels already in hand, and I can’t help but notice the way the muscles beneath his tanned forearms ripple as he dabs the liquid from the carpet. He has a mop of dirty-blond hair, and his face is flawlessly smooth as butter. He wears black skinny jeans and a tight-fitting black t-shirt. And, god, those full lips could put Chris Pine to shame. A metal pin of the trans flag is attached to the strap of his brown satchel.

Yeah, he’s definitely not from Bone Hollow. I wouldn’t forget a sex god like him in a small town like this.

“Th-thanks,” I muster, attempting to wipe my jaw off the floor along with the coffee.

His eyes meet mine for the first time, and he stills, just for a moment, before blinking rapidly and grabbing another handful of paper towels. Clearing my throat, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nosewhile I help him clean.Why am I so sweaty all of the sudden?

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve spilled my drink,” he says with a low chuckle. Oh shit, even his voice oozes Xanax. “At least this happened in the library with hardly any audience. I was doing a show at a pub one time and knocked my beer off the stool. Amber liquid everywhere. Wires, speakers, mics. It was a mess, and I hadn’t even performed my first song yet.”

“You’re in a band?” Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more attractive. I know my heart is going to get broken by this dude and I’ve only knowing for thirty seconds.

He shrugs as he dabs the carpet. “I travel around and play the fiddle. Mostly solo. But yeah. I’m a musician.”

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