Page 34 of 4 Hints You Love Your Best Friend

Next time I was in town, we all attended a house party. I made sure they invited Larkin Gray, who notoriously drank too much. When Larkin was as messy as predicted, I sought Jake out.

“You’re sober, right?” I asked him, attempting to keep my voice neutral while my nerves circled a racetrack.

“Since you told me I’m the DD before we left, I think you know the answer to that question.”

“Right, cool.” Not cool was the way my hands shook. “So yeah, Larkin is a mess, and I told her you’d take her home.”

He darted a look at Jo, who was laughing with a group of girls. “Jo’s not ready to go, and I barely know Larkin.”

“I don’t think Larkin should be here any longer.” I gestured to her sprawled on the couch, looking sleepy and kind of sad. Or maybe angry. I didn’t know why Larkin would be sad or angry. She was simply a pawn in my plan. “Seriously,” I added when Jake didn’t reply. “You should take Larkin home before some guy decides to drag her upstairs. I’ll walk Jo home later.”

As expected, Jake straightened—the Bower protector taking care of others when needed, even back then. “Tell Jo I’ll call her later.”

He marched over to Larkin, talked quietly with her for a bit, then finally led her out of the house.

The next day, I started rumors they hooked up.

The kindled gossip wasn’t overt, as per my style. I let it be known they left the party together, suggested his truck was parked outside of Larkin’s house. I didn’t say for how long, just that it was there. At the time, Larkin had a reputation for stealing boyfriends. Before long, the town was aflutter with speculation. At one point, I heard Larkin had been knocked up by Jake and that Jake had given her ten orgasms in one night.

Jake vehemently denied anything happened between them, but I let the rumors build and grow. Never once assuaged Jolene’s worries. Next thing I knew, she broke up with Jake. Jake got quiet and sullen. Instead of swooping in like I’d planned, I descended into despair. Hated myself for hurting my brother. Couldn’t imagine going out with Jo when Jake was so upset about losing her. And Jo was acting weird around me, twitchy and quiet.

Two weeks later, my family and I got shoved into witness protection, and Jake took care of us all, clueless to what I’d done.

Now I’m lying in my bed, trying not to jack off to the sounds of his ex—and current crush—while she’s showering.

The water shuts off. My imagination does not.

Jolene. Wet. Breasts. Nipples.

I picture her grabbing another clean towel, bending over and rubbing a path up her legs. My hips twitch. I picture her reaching the juncture of her thighs, rubbing herself a little harder. One of my hands falls to my chest, the calluses of my fingers rough on the hard muscle. I picture her biting her lip and dropping the towel. I press the heel of my hand harder between my pecs and flatten my palm, fighting the pull to drag my fingers down over my abs, into the band of my briefs, where they’ll curl around…nope.

I flex my legs so hard I’m sure I’ll get a Charley horse, and I strain my ears.

The bathroom door opens.

Feet pad across the floor.

More movement, seemingly everywhere.

Her door does its usual creak, then snicks shut.

I sit up and wipe my damp hand down my face. Even the horrible memories of hurting Jake and Jo didn’t help douse my arousal. I need a better distraction. Something to tire me out and put me back to sleep.

Cesar Chavez.

That’s what I need. There’s nothing sexy about the labor leader and civil-rights activist, but my book on Chavez is in my living room. I can’t go out there while Jo’s around. The only words careening through my head are stillJolene. Wet. Breasts. Nipples.

Nighttime is clearly a no-go for me and my Jo sanity. I need to drop in at the Barrel House for lunch soon, prod about Jake then. Daytime hours are infinitely safer.

Unfortunately, if I want to sleep, I need that non-sexy book.

I wait another few seconds, straining my ears. When I don’t hear more from Jo, I hurry out of my room. The kitchen light is still on. I beeline for the end table where I left the book, except my book isn’t alone on the end table.

It’s lying next to a bra.

Not just any bra. This bra is lacy and sensual anddark purple, and I choke on a moan.

Is this what I need to contend with now? Jolene’s bras and underwear tossed all over the place? Wasn’t ten years of witness protection enough suffering?

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