Page 6 of Striking Range

Everett snorts, reaching over the bar to take my now empty plate, rinsing it and adding it to his own. I stand, finding my own shoes by the front door and grabbing my bag off its hook.

“Absolutely not. Even better than that, actually.”

I hum in response. “Then I’ll wait. Now come on, we’re late.”

Everett pulls open the front door, and I can feel the heat radiating off him as I step past.

We walk to campus—it’s not far; it takes all of fifteen minutes to get to my first class of the day. I head to Microbiology, and Everett heads toward his Business Ethics lecture.

As I’m walking into the lecture hall, a severe sense of nostalgia overcomes me. It reminds me of Everett and me as mud-covered kids, of that shitty little elementary school and how we’ve stuck together from there all the way to this shitty little college.

And of course, because nostalgia isn’t partial to only the happy moments of time, it also reminds me of the piece of myself that I’ve kept hidden from him. Of the accident and of my mother’s crying face. Of Everett asking me why he isn’t allowed over on Sundays.

But the past is the past, and I can’t change it now. I can’t go back in time and stop myself—to warn past Skylar of the fallout. All I can do now is focus on the life I have and be proud of how I came to achieve it.

I have so many good things in my life, things I can’t bear to lose.

And I can’t, can I? Not these things, at least. They’re embedded in me, my heart and soul. Living in my flesh and blood like an extension of myself.

There is nothing in this world that can take my family or Everett away from me, right?

Chapter Two

Everett Young

Professor Andros is droning on about project management, smacking his wooden pointer against the whiteboard every few exclamations for emphasis. We only have fifteen minutes left of class time, yet I feel like I’ll be in this chair until I’m fifty.

Strategic Management is by far one of the most torturous classes I’ve taken thus far. I don’t understand how a single person in this room can be enjoying this cruel and unusual punishment. But then again, I guess if I actually liked my major, I’d probably care a bit more. I might even want to be here. But I don’t, so I’d rather be literally anywhere else.

And in moments like these, the ones in which I’m tired of feeling trapped in this tiny box of a room, daydreaming comes in handy. I can detach myself from my surroundings and float away—to somewhere more entertaining, somewhere that excites me.

Like to the beach. Yesterday on the beach, to be exact. The Vipers had their second game of the week, and it was a crushing win. They took both sets, making it to the twenty-one-point mark before the other team ever saw ten.

But with Skylar on the sand, that’s bound to happen. He’s always been phenomenal; he’s ridiculously good at everything he attempts. It can actually be kind of annoying, especially when I’m mediocre at everything I attempt. Well, everything but sex.

Skylar stepped out onto the court yesterday and didn’t hesitate. His lean body was so sure of itself, muscles so unnecessarily obscene as he reached above his head to spike the ball.

I’ve seen him in every state of being. I’ve seen Skylar in a tux, all done up for prom. I’ve seen him snotty and disheveled with a cold. I’ve seen him butt-ass naked in the showers at the public pool. There is no version of Sky that I do not know; that isn’t in my never-ending file dedicated just to him, stored so deeply within my mind.

But as we’ve grown older, as I’ve stuffed that folder further, I’ve come to realize that everything Skylar does is uncomfortably… filthy. He’s beautiful, and that bratty attitude only adds fuel to the fire.

You might say he has a shitty personality. Okay, maybe shitty is the wrong word, but he’s a little bit of a dick—blunt, unmoving, a tad narcissistic.

And sure, he’s kind and loving in his own ways, and never unnecessarily cruel, but that doesn’t change the fact that his exterior can be quite cold.

It makes his mascot, a viper, all the more fitting. It’s as if I’ve domesticated a venomous, lunging reptile that’s wrapping itself around my neck to rest at night. He’s constantly seeking out the warmth of my body, full of coiled anger and a menacing aura.

But if you handle him just right—if you keep from holding too tightly and pet him with slow, deliberate strokes, you’ll find that he can be impressively sweet. And in some cases, a bit territorial. Snapping those fangs in my defense, shedding his skin right on me so the whole world knows that I’m his best friend.

Knowing all of this about Skylar and knowing that I’m one of the very few people allowed within striking range… that really does something to me. It makes me a bit possessive of him; it triggers something deeply rooted in the caveman part of my brain.

Which is concerning, as I don’t know very many people who are happy to domesticate their bratty best friends. And is it normal, the amount in which I watch him?

There’s a hidden guilt here, too; a lingering shame, because sometimes when I’m watching him my thoughts are… perverted.

It’s confusing, and more often than not I find myself shoving the whole issue under the rug, prepared to deal with it another day, at another time. Skylar is my best friend, and most of the time, it’s just that easy.

And as for moments like yesterday, as I watched his thighs tense or his stomach flex, and I felt that sick, hot desire—well, I can bury those too.