by JD Chambers
Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
Zach
Craig
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Only with You
Only Colorado Book #1
JD Chambers
Copyright © 2017 by JD Chambers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Beta Reading: Leslie Copeland
Proofreading/Editing: Courtney Bassett
Cover Art: Garrett Leigh, Black Jazz Design
Created with Vellum
Dedication
To Jeff, for being my Only.
Contents
Prologue
1. Zach
2. Craig
3. Zach
4. Craig
5. Zach
6. Craig
7. Zach
8. Craig
9. Zach
10. Craig
11. Zach
12. Craig
13. Zach
14. Craig
15. Zach
16. Craig
17. Zach
18. Craig
19. Craig
20. Zach
21. Craig
22. Zach
23. Zach
24. Craig
25. Zach
26. Craig
27. Zach
28. Craig
29. Craig
30. Zach
31. Craig
32. Zach
33. Zach
34. Craig
35. Zach
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Three Years Earlier
“Look at that pretty boy watching us,” Eric says with a nod to a slim blond in skinny jeans and leather bracelets that’s been eye-fucking us on the dance floor. Eric’s dick grinds against my ass, and I lean heavily against him, throwing back another shot that miraculously found its way into my hand. They keep appearing, and I keep drinking them without question.
“Uh huh,” I slur and lock eyes with the man Eric pointed out. The blond lifts his drink to his lips and licks them slowly after a suggestive swallow, but his eyes never leave mine.
“Wouldn’t you like to take him home with us? Fuck that pretty mouth?” Eric’s breath is hot against my ear, making me feel even stickier from the sweat of the dance floor. “I bet he’d look so good, laid out between us.”
This is it. Every fantasy I’ve ever had, come to life. Sharing my body with my boyfriend and a stranger who wants me, wants to use me just for a night. Letting my boyfriend take pride in what I’m able to give him, taking what is his and allowing some lucky stranger to see a tiny glimpse, share a small part of me, but never be able to really have me. I’ve been sporting wood all night on the dance floor, but Eric’s murmurings have me diamond hard and tenting my pants as I stumble across the floor to reach our admirer.
“Wanna hang out with me and my boyfriend?” I try to teasingly trail a finger down his arm, but my hands are kind of tingly and I end up palming his biceps instead. I notice Eric rushing past and out the door, so I don’t even wait for a response.
“Come on.” I receive a stunning grin in return for my obviously expert flirting, and he hurries with me out the door to find Eric.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Eric yells, and the giddy feelings that have been bubbling up from my stomach and scattering around my brain like champagne crash faster than a bottle cork in hypergravity.
“Get away from me, freak!” Eric pushes at my sternum, not bothering to hide his disgust.
“But you said …”
“Everyone says it.” The thumping of the club music just around the corner almost drowns out Eric’s snarls. The cute guy with the straight blond hair and leather cuffs left me to Eric’s wrath at the first hint of his displeasure. Fuck. It took so much liquid courage to approach him in the first place. “But it’s just a fantasy. You really are a slut, aren’t you?”
“No, I …” I have no ready response for him, and I need to stop talking anyway. I can’t hide the wavering of my voice the longer this draws out.
“Lose my number,” Eric says, and I slump against the brick wall of the alleyway as he storms back through the heavy steel doors. Not back to the dorms, to drown his sorrows about my betrayal or his disappointment in the slutty things his now ex-boyfriend wanted. No, he’s returning to the club, probably to pick up where we left off with the twink I approached for him. Or to continue dancing like we were not ten minutes ago, only this time without the shackles of me as his dance partner holding him back.
And now I’m alone, always alone, dizzy and drunk and trying to figure out how to get back to campus. With both Eric and the blond gone, I have no choice but to call CSU’s stupid Ram Ride to get back to the dorms. I’m so fucking stupid. To think I had a real shot with Eric. To think anyone would actually want a guy with the fucked-up desires that I have.
The waves of nausea hit me with barely enough time to lean from my spot on the curb and puke into the gutter. A white car with the tiny green logo pulls up, and it’s a girl’s voice that mutters, “Please don’t puke in the car” under her breath.
I hold onto that one, solitary goal as we make our way back to campus, as if succeeding at not puking in the free drunk-student car suddenly makes me not a total loser.
1
Zach
Ben’s packed lunch, complete in a folded brown paper bag like a grade-schooler, blocks my access to the coffee creamer in the fridge. You’d think he was headed to his first day of school, not his first day of work. Except he left an hour ago and, surprise, forgot his lunch. If I’m going to try to rearrange my schedule in order to deliver it to him, I should probably go check his room to make sure he didn’t forget anything else important. Like his wallet. Or his phone. Or his brain. It’s a good thing he’s great with kids, because you’d never guess from his ability to adult that Ben would be a fantastic teacher.
Not that he’s a teacher yet. Summer just started, and decent teaching jobs are hard to come by, especially for a recent graduate, and especially in a field as specialized as music. In the meantime, he’s working at Game Over, a video game store in Old Town, Fort Collins. While a student at CSU, Ben spent way too much time and money there, so it stands to reason that he gets to recoup a little of that cash now. I know he’s bummed to be working retail after graduation, but at least it’s a cool store that he likes.
I flip through the calendar on my laptop and sip my coffee. I’m an independent small business consultant, which means I also run my own business. I can shift my work however I want each day as long as I meet my own deadlines. Not many people my age could do it. I myself graduated from CSU just last year, after only three years in college, but I’ve always been on the overly ambitious side of nerdy.
I text him a heads-up that I’m on my way, just in case he’s able to check his phone while working. Our apartment is across town from the store, but at this time of day, traffic shouldn’t be terrible. At least I’m hoping. I really want to get back to the analysis I’m doing for my latest customer, who’s trying to open a “social pot” bar in Old Town. Between the restrictions and regulations, as well as the potential of such a venture, the concept is fascinating. I’ve found myself working well into the night lately, completely forgetting about dinner. Or showering, much to Ben’s chagrin.
Game Over is as dead as
I’d expect at ten in the morning, and I don’t see Ben anywhere. Checking my phone to see if he’s texted back, I only half-look where I’m going. I know the cashier is in the back corner, so I move in that general direction.
“Need help with something?”
Startled by another human presence, I jerk backwards and trip over my own feet. A beautiful guy with messy dark hair stands behind the counter, noticeably holding back a smile at my dorkiness, and I wonder how long he’s been watching me meander through the store with my phone stuck to my face. I can’t feel it, but I can tell by the twitching of his lips that I’m lit up like Rudolph’s nose.
“Umm, no. Well, yes. I’m looking for a guy. I mean, my …”
He gives in to the smirk, and it deepens as I stumble through my word vomit. I push up my glasses, even though they don’t need it. I’m well aware of my own nervous tics.
“Ben. He forgot his lunch.”
“Your Ben forgot his lunch?”
His eyebrow, which is pierced to match his ears and looks beyond hot, quirks up with the question. I used to have words. They have all left my brain, and I’m an empty shell of pale skin and blond curls and humiliation.
“I brought my Ben, I mean Ben, my lunch. His lunch.” I thrust the lunch sack onto the counter. “Here.”
I definitely don’t notice the twinkle in his dreamy dark eyes, or the strong hands with long fingers tipped with dark grey polish that grab Ben’s lunch. This isn’t a nightmare unfolding in slow motion where I gape at the beautiful man in front of me until drool dribbles at the corner of my mouth and I spastically flee the store in a sprint to my car. No, I exit the store like the poised, composed, intelligent man that I am.
From the safety of my old hatchback, I let out a string of curses and slam my head against the steering wheel. The horn honks and the old couple wandering the sidewalk outside jump, then glare. Can I melt into the seats already? Surely I’ve met my humiliation quotient for the day.
Thankfully once I get home, work pulls me back under and I forget my embarrassment for a few hours until my phone dings with a text.
Ben: Thanks for bringing my lunch sweetie. Although you might have consulted me first before sharing our relationship with my new coworkers. Love, Your Ben
Shit. I bury my head into my hands. I’m never going to hear the end of this.
Zach: Sorry! I didn’t mean to out you at work. He was really hot and I got tongue-tied. :-P
Ben: You’re a dork. You know I never hide.
Ben: You made a distinct impression, though. He’s pretty cute. I might get tongue-tied myself.
Great, now I’m going to forever be known at his work as the dorky lunch guy. It’s a good thing I’m not that into video games.
Zach: Don’t let the BF hear you say that.
Zach: And you’re never at a loss for words.
I smile to myself for coming up with a decent retort. I was a gullible soul before I met Ben and had to learn the fine art of banter.
Ben: Jay is NOT my BF. We’ve only gone out twice.
And probably won’t more than that, either. Ben is the serial dater from hell. He claims he’s picky, but I think he just gets bored easily.
Zach: Was thinking baked ziti for dinner?
Ben: Jay wanted to take me out to celebrate 1st day. Save me leftovers for lunch tomorrow?
Zach: As long as you remember to take it this time.
Ben: If I forget, it gives you a good excuse to ogle Craig some more.
Zach: I hate you.
Zach: Craig - is that his name?
I get a squirting eggplant emoji in response. Classy.
I’ve just finished packing the remains of the ziti for Ben tomorrow when my phone rings. “Mom” displays on the screen, starting an internal battle on whether to answer or not. If I don’t, I know I’ll get a lecture next time I see her about how she could have fallen and needed my help and would have been stranded because I couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone. Ugh. I hit answer and go searching for the antacids.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Zachariah. I was worried for a second that you weren’t going to answer.”
Sigh. Still getting the lecture, even though I did answer the phone. No surprise there. Her end of the line remains silent and I realize she’s waiting for an apology. Fuck that.
“Well, I did answer. What’s up?”
“You know, dear, you really should answer the phone. It could be an emergency. Oh, I saw Linda at church today while I was delivering boxes of juice for vacation bible school next week. She said to tell you hi.”
And she’s off. A few well-placed “uh huhs” are all that’s needed for the next half hour, and I manage to get the kitchen completely clean, ziti pan soaked and scrubbed, and a load of laundry started before she hits me with the question that stirs dread in my stomach every time.
“Have you heard from Parker lately?”
Parker is my cousin. Our mothers are sisters, and although it’s not a competition, somehow both have decided that Parker is the winner anyway. I haven’t heard from Parker. I never hear from Parker. But I don’t get to say so as she keeps talking, because she didn’t really care about my answer in the first place.
“He and Shelby are driving up from Denver this weekend, so I thought we’d do a nice family dinner Saturday night. I know he just loves your knots, so I told him you’d make an extra batch, just for him.”
The recipe is actually called rosemary twists, because you twist them in a pretzel shape, but once they’re baked, they come out looking more like knots. The first time I made them, Ben was going through an mpreg shifter book phase, and kept calling them knots to disturb me. My mom heard, thought that was what they were called, and they have been “knots” ever since. When Ben joins us for dinner, he makes sure to say things like, “Knot me, Zach” or “Zach, your knot is so good.” I think the furthest he’s gotten without raising suspicions is, “I need you to put your knot in me now, Zach,” but my mom just seemed worried that Ben was going to get sick from hunger.
“You didn’t think to ask me first? I might have had plans already.”
Mom huffs like she knows as well as I do that there is nothing going on in my life but work. “And if you had, then you’d cancel them. It’s a family dinner, Zachariah.”
I don’t actually hate Parker. He’s not a bad guy. Yes, he has tassels on his loafers and alligators on his shirts and unironically uses words like “synergy.” But he’s always nice and has never been underhanded or snarky about my sexuality like the rest of my family. Sure, he never seems embarrassed when the family fawns over him like getting a promotion with some big government contractor is the modern-day equivalent to walking on water, but he never really angles for all that attention, either.
“Okay, Mom. What time should I be there?”
I try to hide away for the rest of the call in bed with my head buried under my blanket. Maybe, if I’m quiet, I won’t ever have to leave. And maybe, if god doesn’t hate me enough already, Ben won’t wake me up having wild monkey sex with Jay in the room next door.
2
Craig
The walk home from Game Over usually isn’t bad, considering I live two streets east of Old Town, but this Wednesday afternoon, the trek feels endless. Despite today being the new guy’s third day at work, we still weren’t staffed enough for the sudden influx of customers. Summer hits and all the kids want to hang out in our gaming room like gnats swarming a trash can.
On top of that, Mr. Rayburn came looking for his weekly Counterstrike debate. He must have smelled fresh blood, because he went straight for Ben. Every week he comes in and tries to get a refund for the game because it isn’t working right. Since I can’t tell him the truth, which is that he’s fifty and sucks at video games, I try to find out where he’s going wrong and give him pointers. He’s one of those old guys who’s convinced he’s the shit at everything, so each time it devolves into an argument about the worth of my advice, which he charming
ly calls as useful as tits on a nun. Seeing as how it's a new problem each week, I’m pretty sure he follows my advice the second he gets home, and it works for him until he gets stuck on a new section.
I had to step in and save Ben after he froze with a dumbstruck look on his face. Mr. Rayburn was only halfway through his rant over an issue that any kid in the gaming room next door could solve blindfolded, and I know how hard it is to rein in that initial “WTF” moment when faced with Mr. Rayburn. Later I gave Ben a list of our most difficult customers and a crash course on how to deal with them.
My back aches as I climb the steps, and I wish, not for the first time, that my tiny apartment had a bathtub where I could soak away my daily stress. It’s the only thing about my place I can find to complain about. Certainly not Mrs. Hill, who stands guard in her open doorway on the first floor of the converted Victorian where we live.
“Craig, I saw you on the sidewalk. You look tired. Would you like some coffee?”
If I were to guess, she’s been watching out the window, waiting for me. Mrs. Hill’s husband passed away several years ago, at which point she moved here, making cleaning and getting around easier for her. She has children and grandchildren scattered across the country, but they only visit a couple times a year. I think that’s why she’s unofficially adopted me, and I’ll happily stake my claim to her. Better than my real mom, whose idea of good parenting was getting enough bleach and hair dye for me too whenever she tried out crazy hair colors.
