Page 3

CHAPTER 3

Zeb

It’s near two-thirty in the morning when my phone rings.

I answer it without thinking, because I immediately jump to the worst case scenario.

Nothing good ever comes from a call at two-thirty am.

It’s either a booty call or an emergency, and I haven’t even fucked anyone in over a year, so I’m pretty sure I’ve been erased as a booty call from anyone’s contacts.

“Hello?” I answered, expecting to hear a familiar voice on the other end of the phone, like Katy.

But all I hear is heavy breathing.

I roll over in my bed, wiping my eyes.

If this is some asshole’s idea of a prank call.

.

.

“Hello?” I try again, thinking maybe, just maybe , it’s a wrong number, or a butt dial, or?—

I pull the phone away from my ear, glancing at the name in the dark, my entire body going numb as I read the caller ID.

Geo.

The heavy breathing sounds louder, and in the distance I hear music.

Heavy bass and thumping accompanying what sounds like Ava Max in the background.

I swallow harshly as I roll over on my side, phone clutched to my ear like it is a goddamn lifeline.

It’s been ten years.

Ten fucking years.

I’d thought about this day.

Fantasized about it even, especially in those early days after he left for L.

A.

I used to sit in my bedroom with my acoustic guitar, pouring out my heart into my journal or my sketchbook, and fantasize that he’d call me, out of the blue, and tell me he couldn’t do this thing—the band, Hollywood, everything—without me.

That he was coming home to me.

But even then, I knew it was nothing more than a fantasy.

Because Geo Graves was meant for bigger things than Posdosh, Arizona, and even if he wasn’t.

.

.

He wasn’t gay , like me.

After a year, I gave up pining and hoping he’d come to his senses and come back home.

And after my twenty-first birthday, I’d decided it was time I put myself out there and move on.

From Geo Graves, from wanting a man who had no clue how I really felt about him.

Somehow, I managed to rise from the wreckage Geo left in his wake and I built myself a damn good life over the last ten years.

On my own.

Without him.

I’m successful, I have a decent following for my music, I’ve got my own fucking house, and I’ve got friends.

Okay, so it’s mainly Geo’s sister, Katy, but still.

Yet everything I’d worked so hard for, everything I thought I was, flew out the fucking window at two-thirty in the morning the moment I heard his voice.

“Geo, is that you?” I ask, holding onto the last shred of hope that this is some fucked up prank call, or an accident of some sort.

That I am imagining his deep breathing on the other end of the phone because it is fucking two-thirty, and I am alone.

And when I am alone, my thoughts often stray to Geo Graves, even though I don’t want them to.

Silence, and another heavy breath.

He sounds drunk.

I close my eyes, realization striking me.

He probably has no idea he’s called me.

I shake my head, knowing it’s probably best to just hang up.

To preserve my own dignity, and his.

“I miss you.” His voice is sad, guilty.

And very, very drunk.

Maybe he wasn’t actually trying to call me , maybe he was trying to call.

.

.

“Zeb, say something,” he pleads.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years, and I feel like I’m sixteen again, waiting, wishing for something, for someone I know I can’t have.

And just like before, I cave.

Because I can’t stand to hear him like this.

“I miss you too, G,” I reply, the words heavy in the air.

Even sober, I don’t think he’d understand that the way I miss him is not the same way he misses me.

“Where are you?” I ask, both wanting to know and also not wanting to know because I know the details will probably only hurt me.

Because they always do.

The loud bass changes to something high tempo, but I can’t make out what it is.

Geo sighs, and the sound is deep, dark.

Sexy.

I sit up in my bed, the only light the moonlight shining through my window onto the center of my bed.

I swing my arms around my knees, pulling them tight to my chest.

“Sssaint & Sinner,” he slurs.

“The boy angels are kind of hot. Tight shorts, prettttty wings. Bet the devils are hotter, though.”

I don’t want to take his bait.

I know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but fuck.

If I believed in Heaven and Hell, Geo Graves would be my own personal devil.

Tempting me, luring me into a dark pit I’d never want to leave.

“They always are,” I say with a slight smirk, even though I know he can’t see me.

Part of me wishes he could, though.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror across from my bed, noticing the way my shadowed form takes up space.

More space than I used to, that’s for sure.

What would he think of the way I’ve changed?

Would he even recognize me ?

I’m certainly not the same person I was at nineteen when he left.

I cross my arms, letting my fingers rove over my thick arms.

Nineteen year old me had no muscle at all, but at least I didn’t gain ten pounds every time I looked at a damn cheeseburger.

“I missss you,” he says again, his voice deep and sexy, then shifting gears, he sighs.

“Is this what sin feels like, Zeb?” He lets out a deep breath.

His voice is some mix of sadness and wistfulness, edged with drunken frankness.

I can’t find it in my heart to answer him.

Because I don’t believe in sin.

But if I did, he would be mine.

I’m pretty sure lusting after your straight friend counts as a sin in someone’s book.

And if it doesn’t, lusting after your best friend’s straight brother who’s ten years older than you, most definitely does.

“Are you alone?” I asked, unsure if I really want to know the truth.

“I’m always alone,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“Geo...” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You’re drunk.” I say the words for myself, mostly.

Because I can’t let myself fall back into old habits.

I can’t let him open up the wound I fought so fucking hard to stitch back together.

“Don’t tell my mother,” he whispers.

Then, he laughs.

It’s infectious, but then everything about Geo Graves is infectious.

His smile, his spicy orange blossom and clover scent, his pretty fucking eyes and perfect mouth.

His voice.

Oh, that voice.

“Secret’s safe with me, G.” I glance at the clock.

It’s three am.

We’ve been talking for a half hour.

And it barely feels like five minutes.

Then I hear voices.

Voices I don’t recognize.

“We’re heading out,” a female says.

“

You good? You need a ride?” I hear a man’s voice, he sounds young.

“Yeah, I think I’m drunk,” he says innocently.

The woman chuckles.

“That you are, Geo. Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Home’s in Arizonnnna...” he whines, and then I hear some buttons beeping.

I know then he’s forgotten about me, about his momentary lapse in judgment.

“Go home, Geo,” I say, not waiting for him to respond.

I hang up, tossing my phone on the bed as I run my hands through my hair.

I force myself to lie back down, to close my eyes, but it’s no use.

I’ve been poisoned again, and all I can think about is his deep, guilty voice.

I miss you.

Maybe Hell is real after all.