Then a third.
The soft groan from the other room has me bracing against the sink, palms digging into the metal. My head hangs on my shoulders when there’s another sound I’d rather not hearing coming from my best friend.
“Dude,” I say to the drain. “Rule number three.”
“What’d you say, man?” The husk to his voice has me rolling my eyes and pushing off from the sink.
I don’t look when I make it to the living room and plop into the far end of the couch.
“Rule three.”
“Right,” Hat mumbles, then clears his throat. “My bad.”
“What’s rule three?” his guest asks, the voice a deeper bravado than I was expecting as he slides mostly off my best friend’s lap.
“No fucking in shared spaces,” I answer when Hat is too quiet. “Why’d you call me out here if you were just gonna make out with …” I gesture in the general vicinity, my eyes glued on the TV as I snag the remote.
“Lemon. My name’s Lemon.”
I’ve been trying to give them privacy. And not scar myself for life by seeing something I’m not meant to see.
But when the guy says a literal fruit for a name, I can’t stop my head from snapping their direction.
“The fuck?” Hatley’s brow furrows at my reaction, but his buddy just giggles. “What kind of name is that?”
Lemon arches up and settles back in Hat’s lap, reaching across the empty cushion between us. “A nickname, hunny bunny. You must be Tristen?”
I shake his dainty hand, not missing the fact that his nails are painted black, and nod.
He’s small. Thin. Got wispy black hair that falls over his brown eyes and an innocence about him that has my eyes narrowing.
“And how old are you, Lemon?”
“Okay, now,” Hatley finally cuts in and throws me a look from behind his lap partner. His hand is wrapped around Lemon’s waist, his other settled high on a knee and something in my chest pinches.
Not in a bad way. I trust my best friend.
But … in enough of a way that I rub at the yearning behind it.
“Just lookin’ out, bro,” I say to Hat then turn to Lemon. “ID.”
“Sometimes, I love being a twink,” he answers and gestures to the table with a grin. “It’s already out.”
“Told you he’d ask.”
I huff and snag the plastic from the ring-littered coffee table. Flick the corners. Hold it up to the light. Double check all the dates and printing to make sure it’s not a fucking fake.
It’s not. The guy is literally older than me.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Are we watching this shit or what?”
“After you make some damn popcorn.”
Grumbling, I queue upSupernaturalon the TV, then drag my tired ass back into the kitchen.
I don’t even realize I’ve zoned out in front of the microwave until the first pop makes me jump. Clearing my throat, I rub my chest and blink at the mesh inside the door. The bag goes round and round along with my thoughts.
What kind of name is Lemon?
