Page 61 of Striking Range

He looks devastated. He looks as if whatever was left of his heart when he walked in hours ago has disintegrated, and I’m the prime suspect. I’m staring right at him, holding the torch.

Everett looks at me one last time, then takes those sad eyes and grabs his bag, putting on his shoes and slipping out the front door.

Practice kills me; I’m exhausted from barely sleeping after Everett left last night, and I haven’t been eating well.

Now I’m at Seabird, and even on a slow day I still have inventory and regulars to keep up with. And if that isn’t bad enough, apparently Mondays are the perfect night for a date here in Sinclair.

Everett is in the center of the bar dancing with Ashley, their bodies pressed together as if they’ll lose some kind of contest if a single drop of water manages to slip through. His hands are on her hips, gripped so tight his knuckles are white, all smiles and laughter.

She blushes as he talks, and I try not to imagine what obscene things he might be saying, or how he might be praising her.

And he looks beautiful. Everett is date-ready with his jeans and his tight black button-up. The first three buttons are undone, revealing a portion of his chest. He looks slutty and so biteable that it’s kind of pissing me off.

“Sky? You’ve wiped that counter three times now.” Mandy comes up behind me and takes the rag from my hand. “Go take Mr. Jenkins order.”

She’s eyeing me in concern, but doesn’t ask what my problem is, which I’m grateful for. What would I say? Sorry, boss. I’m watching my best friend, who I’ve been fooling around with, dance with his date, and it’s really ticking me off. Oh, and I think I might like him.

Ha. Right.

“What can I get you?” I ask Mr. Jenkins, an elderly fellow who frequents the bar most nights.

He orders his usual, which works out nicely as I’m barely paying attention. Everett is kissing her, his hands twisted into her long hair, his tongue working her mouth like he’s trying to swallow her.

I know what it feels like—what it’s like to be on her end, to feel like the whole room is disappearing and nothing matters but where he might touch you next. It feels like heaven.

It feels like dying.

“Son?” Mr. Jenkins calls out.

My attention snaps back to our customer. “I’m on it.”

Grabbing him a new Miller Lite and a chilled glass, I slide it across the wooden bar. He gives me a curious look, which I promptly ignore, turning to add the drink to his tab.

“Skylar,” Mandy shouts, and as the word rises into the air, Everett’s head snaps up from his date, his eyes finding me.

I turn from his line of sight, quickly facing my boss. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Rolling my shoulders, I prepare my half-lie. “Yeah, just tired from practice.”

She hums, eyeing Everett over my shoulder before returning her attention to me. “Maybe you should take the night. It’s dead anyway.”

I guess I wasn’t nearly as discreet as I thought I was being. And she’s not wrong; she and her husband have this place covered without me, and I’m tired of watching Evie swap spit with Ashley.

“Thanks, Mandy. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” I grab my things from the employee shelf, and without looking back, at incredible speed, I leave the bar.

I need fresh air; I need silence; I need space.

Everett is killing me, slowly but surely. I thought for sure there was a chance this obsession was just lust, that he had opened a dam within me that I needed to fix—a lust-driven desire that needed to be satiated.

But instead, every time I look at him, warning bells go off, and mine is all I can hear. How am I just now able to decipher them?

He’s my best friend, has been for twelve years. Therefore, I should have first dibs; I should have rights. But I’m a guy, and that immediately boots me from the running for some fucked up reason.

If he really were one hundred percent straight, it would be understandable, but he’s clearly not. No straight dude comes all over their male best friend.

This has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with me. Or maybe he really is an internalized homophobe. I’d rather it be a me issue, though; it’d suck if he were actually a dick.