Lover Boy

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  A girl like me doesn’t get to go to prom with a guy like Keeland Masters.

  Chapter 6

  Present day…

  “Sammie!”

  Before I’ve even had the chance to fully process that it’s actually him standing in the doorway in front of me, he ropes his sinewy, inked arms around my shoulders and pulls me in for a tight squeeze.

  God – He’s just a pillar of steely muscles covered in a layer of soft, warm, tattooed skin…

  I’m trying hard not to like it.

  Chaos swirls inside of me and I have no idea how to react. I haven’t seen this guy in eight years. He disappeared into thin air on our prom day, shattering my 17-year-old heart in the process. And now, he’s back and he’s acting like it’s the good old days.

  He finally releases me and pushes me back slightly to hold me at arm’s length. “Well, look at you. You’re all grown up, Sammie Trotten.”

  His focus moves lazily from my eyes to my lips, then down my neck before settling on my breasts (which are squished together in my tight neon green yoga bra). Then, he continues down my bare stomach, my wide hips, my toned calves.

  Looking rather satisfied, he smirks.

  “What are you doing here?” I snap angrily.

  My sharp tone seems to startle him. He drops his hands from my shoulders and steps back. “Ah, that’s right. Daniel’s been trying to call you since yesterday. He couldn’t reach you. He wanted to let you know that I’ll be staying here for a while.”

  “You’re staying here?” I grimace. It’s just like Daniel to spring something like this on me without warning. I would have appreciated the opportunity to prepare for this. Or to say ‘no’. I’m not happy at all to have Keeland staying next door again.

  And no, I’m not petty.

  What he did to me was damn shitty. Yes, I get it. He was just a kid and his family was moving. He didn’t have a choice. But he never once tried to reach out to me and offer an explanation, and possibly an apology, for what had happened. I spent a lot of time wondering about him over the years. I imagined a thousand scenarios as to why the Masters’ left, where they went and if they’d ever come back. I imagined some pretty tragic, heartbreaking stuff.

  Then, a few years later, I found him on Facebook, healthy and well and hotter than sin. And one not-so-sober night, I sent him a friend request.

  He never responded.

  What kind of person does that?…A shitty person, that’s who.

  Yet, every few days, he would update his status or post new pictures. Despite the sharpness of the resentment inside of me, I just couldn’t look away. Apparently, he’d opened a tattoo shop in Los Angeles and it was thriving. He would post pictures of work he’d done on B-list celebrities or carefree trust fund kids. Every now and then, there would be a picture of himself partying with friends like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Then, photos of him with a girl started popping up. She had acid blonde hair and intricate tattoos covering most of her skin. According to Facebook, her name was RhysTheBadAss O’Gallic.

  Yeah, I know…

  There was one photo in particular that was a sledgehammer to my gut. His arms were tight around her shoulders and his lips were pressed to her temple. Her heavy makeup made her eyes smolder as she stuck out her pierced tongue and held up her middle finger to the camera. That photo devastated me because it confirmed beyond a doubt that Keeland hadn’t spent his years sitting around thinking about me the way that I’d been thinking about him. He’d found happiness with a girl who was my polar opposite.

  The photos of him with RhysTheBadAss and the increasingly-romantic captions that accompanied them just kept coming. And like a fiend, I couldn’t stay away.

  But then one day, the pictures just stopped. And so did the nauseatingly-sweet status updates.

  For over three years, there has been radio silence from Keeland’s Facebook page. I eventually came to the bitter conclusion that I’d never see his face again. Not on social media. Not in real life.

  But now he’s right here, standing in front of me. Tall and shirtless and dripping testosterone. And by the way, fuck him for looking so good. Especially when I look like a sweaty, unkempt mess.

  Keeland’s expression hardens. “Is my staying here gonna be a problem?” he asks, one eyebrow inching up on his forehead.

  I grumble, shifting all my weight to one foot and stubbornly folding my arms across my chest. I want to say ‘yes’. I want to tell him to get the hell out of here and to never come back. But in my head, I hear echoes of the tiny, insecure teenager that I used to be. For some reason, I don’t want him to think that I’m an absolute bitch. Even after the way he treated me. I kind of still want him to like me.

  “Your motorcycle,” I say nodding toward the bike sprawled off in the driveway. “Really loud.”

  He looks over at it. “Ah — sorry about that. I was just doing some repairs. But you’re right. This is a quiet neighborhood. I should have been more considerate. Tell you what? I’m gonna just have it towed to the garage and let the professionals deal with it.” He winks at me.

  I think he expects me to smile.

  I don’t.

  “Yes, please keep it down,” I say sourly. “I was in the middle of my meditation.” I don’t wait for him to respond, I just turn on my heels and trudge down the stairs.

  “Hey Sam,” he calls after me as I stomp away.

  I spin around and glare at him.

  He smiles anyway. “You forgot something,” he says, waving my rake around in the air.

  Well, there goes my dramatic exit. I grunt angrily as I march back up the stairs and snatch the stupid rake out of his stupid hand.

  He grabs me by the wrist and I feel fire crawl across my flesh. “Daniel and some other guys are taking me to grab a drink later,” he tells me. “You should come.”

  I shrug out of his grasp and continue to give him the stink eye. “Sorry, I can’t make it.” I hurry down the stairs before he tries to change my mind.

  Nancy and Delores amble gingerly up the walkway, freshly-baked cranberry muffins and oatmeal cookies in hand.

  The neighborhood welcome committee has arrived.

  “Well hello, there, Samantha,” Nancy says cheekily. “I see that you’ve already taken the opportunity to grace the newcomer with your lovely, affable personality.”

  Delores peeks over my shoulder right at him. “Darling, please don’t scare the nice young man away with your silly pout-face.” She wrinkles up her nose at me.

  “Keeland Masters is anything but nice, Delores,” I say as I breeze past them.

  Nancy lifts an eyebrow. “Keeland Masters? Jane’s son?”

  I nod. “Yup, he’s back in town.” My frowning expression clearly broadcasts my displeasure at that fact.

  Delores sighs dreamily. “Well, he may not be nice, but he certainly looks…virile.”

  I stop in my tracks and spin around to face her.

  Did she really just say that?

  From the way she’s clutching her pearls and staring at him with flushed, wrinkly cheeks, I can tell that she did.

  Cringe!

  Nancy rolls her eyes. “Don’t go making a fool of yourself, Delores,” she warns. “Remember what the doctor said when he changed your blood pressure medication.”

  Delores shoos her away dismissively. “We definitely need more young men like him in Reyfield.” She flinches slightly under the heat of Nancy’s disapproving stare. “We are all safer when strapping young men like that live in our community.” She almost sounds earnest.

  I toss a peek over my shoulder and see Keeland leaning against the doorjamb, staring at us with an amused look on his face. He gives us a small wave and Delores looks like she might need some smelling salts and a glass of ice water.

  I turn away, angrier than ever. “Anyway, ladies. He’s all yours. Enjoy,” I say with a huff as I stomp across the lawn back to my now-ruined meditation oasis.

  My zen has evaporated like a puf
f of smoke. Now, I need a stiff drink.

  Keeland Masters is back next door.

  I’m going to kill my brother.

  Chapter 7

  I glance up at the sign hanging from the rafters and grin to myself.

  Welcome back, Master Kee!

  Flynn and Murray’s Irish Pub is owned by some guys I went to high school with. They worked with Daniel to throw together a last-minute party celebrating my return to town. The place is packed with people I haven’t seen since senior year. It almost feels like our high school reunion.

  I sit at the bar with some guys who were in my physics class and sip slowly on a creamy dark ale, zoning in and out of the conversation as I scope the place out. Dark, polished booths. Stone walls. Black and white checkered flooring.

  Nice.

  But I’m not all that interested in the décor. It’s the ladies that have my attention tonight. My overeager cock spasms every time a woman passes by showing off some cleavage or a bit of thigh.

  Yup — I still haven’t gotten laid.

  Last night, my bike had barely made it to the house before it sputtered and croaked in the driveway. As horny as I was, I wasn’t willing to take the chance and ride down to Kennedy Square just to end up stranded on my first night back in Reyfield. And besides, I was tired as hell. So, I kicked back a few beers and passed out on the couch in a junk food coma. But now, I’m fresh and reinvigorated and ready to fuck into the wee hours of the morning.

  Good thing the ladies here at Flynn and Murray’s are as hot as extra spicy Sriracha mayo. Semi-sheer leggings and cleavage-showing tank tops seem to be the uniform. The temptation to take one of them out to the service exit and have my way with her is strong, but this party is for me and if I disappeared 20 minutes in, that wouldn’t be cool. Daniel pulled a real ‘bro move’ to get everyone here tonight on such short notice so I’m gonna enjoy the party for a little while. Even though my dick is raging against me.

  And speaking of enjoying the party, Daniel definitely isn’t having a good time tonight. His wife, Grace, has him cornered over by the washrooms and they’re arguing like the old married couple that they are.

  They’re supposedly college sweethearts. From what he told me, they met at Wayne State and had a sickening insta-love, can’t-keep-their-hands-off-of-each-other, can’t-keep-their-underwear-on kind of love. Maybe taking on a mortgage and having a baby caused their relationship to deteriorate because the look in Grace’s eyes tells me that the only reason she’ll be yanking off her bra tonight is to use the strap as a noose to choke the fuck out of her husband.

  I shake my head as I take a gulp of my beer. Committed relationships are all trouble.

  After what happened to me in my last relationship, I’ve decided that I like my sex wild and hassle-free. You don’t need a wife or a girlfriend to get laid. And besides, I wouldn’t make a good boyfriend anyway. I’m too damaged. After Rhys, I don’t even have it in me to trust another woman, let alone to love her.

  So, I plan on enjoying my life as a free man. And I mean that in every sense of the word.

  My gaze happens to drift to the door just as it swings open. A hot-as-fuck blonde with pale skin and long legs struts in. She’s followed by an earthy, auburn-haired goddess with a button nose, pouty lips. They both look good. Real good. But it isn’t until the third girl walks in that I literally lose my breath.

  Samantha Freakin’ Trotten…

  My eyes follow her as the trio settles in at a small round table in the middle of the room. Sammie shrugs out of her chunky sweater and she’s wearing a silky, white button-down with loose beige pants that obscure her delicious curves. Her hair is short now. It barely brushes her shoulders and dark tendrils fall loose, framing her oval face. Somehow, her chocolate-brown eyes are even more striking than I remember. She seems totally unaware of how naturally gorgeous she is. No thanks to her lackluster choice of clothing.

  She has always had this innocent charm about her, even when she was an awkward teenager with braces and overly-thick eyebrows. Even when she preferred going to calculus study group on a Saturday afternoon instead of hanging out at the mall with the other girls from our school.

  Even now while she’s dressed like a celibate librarian in a room full of scantily-clad women, she’s more beautiful than them all.

  The past eight years have refined the hell out of her. She’s taken on more of her mother’s Latina features with time, especially that curvy figure. And the way she moves just accentuates her shape. She can’t be more than 5’2” but her strut rivals that of any of the legendary supermodels on the catwalk.

  Her mood had been sour this morning when she saw me. And that’s understandable. After all, I disappeared on prom day and then suddenly I reappeared unannounced years later, trying to pretend that everything is all the same.

  It isn’t.

  I’m painfully aware that we never got to finish what we started as teenagers. But it’s too late for that now. When Daniel rented the place to me, his one condition was that I keep my hands off of his sister.

  And I intend to respect that request. Things are different now. I’m not the same guy that I was all those years ago. I’ve done things, horrible things. And now, Samantha Trotten is even more out of my league than she was back in high school.

  Regardless, we can be civil toward each other. I can’t just let her think that I’m a total unrepentant asshole…I feel like shit over the way I left things between us. Daniel told me that she took it really hard when I left town. That sucks because I wanted many ‘firsts’ with Samantha Trotten, but being the first asshole to break her heart? That’s not a title that I’d ever dreamed of holding.

  I can make nice with Sammie. I should make nice with Sammie. At the very least, it’s the neighborly thing to do. Even Daniel wouldn’t be able to object to that.

  I watch as her eyes scan the room. She’s searching, her gaze roaming restlessly…until it lands on me.

  For one electric moment, our eyes lock.

  God — she’s beautiful. And I’m not just saying that because my cock is harder than algebraic geometry right now. I’m not just saying that because I haven’t touched a woman in three years. She really is that beautiful.

  I grab the barman’s attention and order a pitcher of sangrias. Sangrias. That’s what hot girls drink at a bar, right? I can’t even remember. It’s been so damn long.

  The waitress drops the order off at their table, then leans toward them, pointing in my direction. Sammie looks over at me. Longing flashes in her eyes. But it’s quickly replaced by a double-dose of bitter contempt. Her friends seem very flattered, though. They bat their eyes at me and wave.

  Despite Sammie’s scowl, I flash a smile as I grab my beer off of the bar and slide off of my stool. And I’ve got to say, I’m damned nervous as I stroll over to their table. My palms are a bit sweaty and I feel my pulse thumping in my neck.

  Still, I venture forward. My hard-on demands it. I can’t retreat now.

  “Hey ladies,” I say coolly as I grab a chair from a nearby table and drag it next to Sammie.

  The blonde gives me a shy smile and a small ‘hi’, but the redhead grins at me full-force and chirps. “Hey Keeland. It’s so great to see you!”

  Umm…

  I narrow my eyes at her, studying her face carefully. “Isla? Isla Hamilton?”

  She giggles, setting her elbows on the dark, rustic table. “Yeah. Ha! You didn’t recognize me!”

  I put my beer down next to the pitcher of sangria. “Yeah — sorry. You were a blonde in high school.”

  “I was a lot of things in high school. A fake blonde, to boot,” she says quirking her eyebrow as she rakes her fingers through her mane. “I’ve decided to embrace my inner cinnamon.”

  “Well, good for you. You look great.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her blonde friend leans forward slightly, her arm barely brushing against mine. “I’m Faith.”

  I extend a hand to her. “Keeland. Nice t
o meet you.”

  She shakes my hand enthusiastically and Isla says, “You’ve met Gracie, right?” I nod. “Well, Faith is her little sister.”

  Faith glares at Isla before taking a hearty sip of her sangria. “I’m not that little.”

  I chuckle, bringing my attention to Sammie. “And how are you doing this evening, neighbor?”

  Her scowl deepens when she looks at me. “I’m fine.”

  She turns her focus to the bowl of peanuts sitting in the middle of the table. But I’m not letting her off that easy. “No sangria for you?” I ask, tipping my chin toward her empty glass.

  She gives me a look that says ‘you must be stupid’. “I’m driving tonight.” Her lips pull into a tight line and she refuses to make eye contact with me, choosing to focus on the peanuts instead.

  Seeming to sense the tension, Isla cuts in. “So what have you been up to all these years, Keeland? You just disappeared on us.”

  I feel a lump settle in my throat. When I decided to come back to Reyfield, I knew I would eventually have to answer that question, but I want to delay that as long as possible. I’m especially not ready for Sammie to find out what the past few years have been like for me.

  My life since Reyfield has been a rollercoaster ride, a series of ups and downs and plot twists I never saw coming. Moments of serendipitous good fortune interspersed with indescribable pain and a whole lot of what-the-fuck? moments in between.

  Now is not the time to explain that.

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Ah, y’know. Here and there. This and that.” I quickly change the subject. “What have you been up to?”

  Isla absolutely beams. “I’m a business owner.” She sticks her hand into her tiny gypsy satchel and hands me a business card printed on recycled bamboo cardstock.

  “Prasanna Light Oneness Studio,” I read. “Nice!”

  “My yoga and wellness center. ‘Prasanna’ means clear and tranquil in Sanskrit,” she informs me. “Hot stone massages are fifty percent off on Tuesdays and your first yoga class is free. You should stop by.”

  I smile at her. She seems to be so proud and to love what she does. “I think I will, Isla.”