Page 2 of Light Me Up

Henry Benton is F-I-N-E—fine. With a capital F.

He's tall, only an inch or so shorter than my six-foot-three frame, but much broader across the chest and shoulders. Whereas I'm lean, he's muscular, but has a slightly softer middle that makes me want to melt into a puddle for some reason. I’ve seen him without his shirt exactly one time, when he’d just gotten home from his early morning run, and I just about drooled. He's got this delicious smattering of chest hair that matches the same dark brown of his happy trail, and I want to rub my face in it like a cat.

"You alright?"

My head snaps up, startled to see Mike standing so close to me. He's looking over my shoulder at my sketchbook, which is thankfully just an innocent drawing of him and his dad shooting the shit. If he notices that there's a lot more detail on his father's figure than his, he doesn't say so. I pull a joint out of my pocket and hold it up. He shakes his head. He rarely partakes, legal or not. He says it makes him think too much.

"Yo, Daddy B! You want?" I call out, offering to share, because it would be impolite not to.

"Dude," Mike groans.

"What?"

We both look over at his dad, who glares at me before walking inside, slamming the door shut behind him. I look at Mike as I light the end of my joint.

"You need to stop."

"Stop what?"

"I don't know… being yourself, I guess." He laughs because he knows better.

He knows how I spent my entire life squashing myself into a box to please others. I told him on day one of our friendship that I came all this way from Mormon Town, USA and I'm done being anyone other than myself. Sure, I still get great grades and keep up with my extracurriculars, but those I do for me. And while I've sold some art here and there to help pad my savings account and buy necessities, I needed to keep up my scholarships to get through college.

"Meh, he'll come around. I wear everyone down eventually," I say with a wink.

"Go easy on him. He's too straight-laced. Can't have you giving the old man a heart attack."

He claps me on the shoulder with a chuckle, and I watch him in my peripheral as he reclines back in a pool chair. Shorter by a few inches, Mike has his dad's stocky build, but the similarities end there. Where Mike's skin is fair, with freckles that pop after he's spent much time in the sun, his father's skin is more olive toned, with a facial structure that could have been chiseled from granite. Mike's hair is slightly wavy, sandy brown with a tint of red, and he has hazel eyes that look green or brown dependingon the light. Henry's close-cropped hair is dark and curly, with grey-green eyes that pierce into your soul. Or maybe it just seems that way because he's usually glaring at me.

"How old is he, though? Because he doesn't even have grey hair. He should model for Just For Men."

"Dude," Mike groans again. It's a pretty regular occurrence. "Don't start with my dad. It’sgross." I’ve made more than my fair share of jokes about how hot his dad is over the years.

"Is it though, because I would?—"

"Nope. Not happening. Aside from the fact that my dad can't stand you, he's straight. But more importantly, he'smy dad."

I take one look at the horrified expression on his face and bust out laughing. He holds out for a beat or two before he joins me, laughing off my joke.

My very funnyjoke.

CHAPTER 3

HENRY

I'm really glad that Michael has a friend. I'm even glad that he has a friend that is outgoing and boisterous. Lord knows Michael needs someone to soften his hard edges. The kid is too damn serious for his own good. But did it have to bethis guy?

I've seen more of his body than I see of my own on a regular basis, and it's starting to make me itch. Every time he walks by, I swear he loses another article of clothing, and honestly, it's hardnotto stare. Anyone would, if only for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

Just this morning, the cocky little shit came traipsing through the house in the tiniest swimsuit I've ever seen. If you can even call it that. And when he caught me gaping at him, he had the fucking gall towinkat me.

"Where the fuck are your pants?" I asked him, my voice easily an octave higher than usual.

"It's a Speedo," he said nonchalantly. When I didn't respond, because I was still waiting for a better explanation for why he was nearly naked in my kitchen at seven o'clock in the morning, he let that signature cocky grin spread across his face. "Forswimming. I was going to do some laps before we head to work today."

Towork. At my restaurant. Withme.

Fuck my life.

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