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Page 1 of Summer Skin

MOST PEOPLE HAVEall the patience of someone waiting on a text from their takes-three-days-to-respond crush when deboarding a plane, but Aven’s never seen the point of getting stressed out over it. You’ll get off when you get off, and you can either stay in your seat to finish another episode of Schitt”s Creek, or cram into the aisle like a dick, huffing and puffing until the line finally pushes forward.

Take the dude seated next to him. As soon as the ‘fasten seatbelt’ light blinks off, he’s elbowing at Aven’s side, in an awful big rush to hurry up and wait. They’re two rows from the back, going nowhere fast, but the man still exhales an annoyed breath and pushes past Aven’s lap to get to the aisle.

Whatever, guy. That’s life when you don’t have the cash for first class.

Aven’s problem, as of late, might be he’s gotten a little too used to waiting. Waiting for the right person to notice him playing guitar, for his career as a musician to take off. Waiting for something to click into place that signals his real life has begun. He has a theory that timing is everything, but at this point, he’d take anythingthat led to a contract.

He shifts away from the khaki-clad crotch of impatience by his side as the man roots through the overhead bin for his carry-on. Aven taps his phone off airplane mode and more text notifications than are reasonable from a group of people who know he’s spent the last two hours in the air fill his display.

ANDI:text me as soon as u land i freakin miss youuuuu

For the past month, Aven’s been on the road, filling in as a guitarist on tour, and it’s the longest he and Andi have gone without seeing each other in years. Some might call it co-dependency, but Aven prefers the term best friends.

TYLER:I’m at the store getting party supplies. Can’t remember which condoms you like?

Aven’s eyebrow lifts in amusement. That’s Tyler, honey through-and-through: attentively stocking up on rubbers to protect Aven’s dick from unwanted STIs. And pregnancies, depending on which way he swings at the homecoming party his roommates are throwing for him tonight.

TYLER: NM I asked Veena.

A bite of sadness nips at his chest. It’s gonna be weird as hell coming home to a house without Veena in it. She’s officially no longer their roommate as of last week. Two years of living together in relative bliss, and it definitely wasn’t his choice for her to move out. But it’s what she’s wanted for a while now—a condo of her own with I can walk around nude at two in the afternoon space. The thing is, he’s happy for her, for real, but he’s also acutely aware of the empty space she’s leaving behind where her laugh always rang too loud.

TYLER:You like classic potato chips, right?

Tyler is never going to stop trying to make plain potato chips happen in their household.

TYLER: I guess you didn’t pay for wifi on your flight?

TYLER: NM I’ll get the Hawaiian Sweet Maui Onion flavor.

Aven lifts a shoulder in a couldn’t-give-a-shit way. He wouldn’t have had an opinion even if he had bought wifi.

BEN: New roomie is making an epic playlist for tonight!!

The new roommate. Aven’s mouth pinches. The dude his household picked to take over Veena’s vacated room while he was on tour. All he’s heard about for the past week is how handsome this guy is, and how he’s nice as hell, and how he totally slays at guitar. It’s enough to make unwelcome pinpricks of envy crawl across the back of his neck.

The new roomie … the new roomie … THE NEW ROOMIE …

The new roomie is giving off some serious Homecoming King vibes.

It’s not like Aven needs his roommates crawling around at his feet, worshiping him like an idol, but playing the guitar is kind of his thing, right? And now he’s apparently rooming with an actual rock star.

This guy played in a band Tyler and Ben are sure Aven’s heard of. They’ve made a guessing game out of it for the past week that he’s totally ignored in favor of not answering group texts at two in the morning when he could be getting laid instead. Hooking up—now there’s a game he’s sure to beat his platinum edition roommate at.

The line to exit the plane is edging along, and once Mr. Got-Somewhere-to-Be pushes forward, there’s finally space for Aven to stand and grab his own bag.

It’s only later, in the Uber ride back to his place, when he’s trying to avoid any mindless chit-chat with the other passengers in his rideshare, that he pulls his phone out and texts his friends back. He starts with Andi, who agrees to stop by the house party after work, even though it will be late, then thanks Tyler for playing personal shopper.

Finally, he texts Ben.

AVEN: A playlist, huh?You think this dude’s gotta better ear than me, B?

BEN:NO. STOP THAT.

AVEN:You’re the one going around throwing out words like epic

BEN:It’s not a competition. You’re both extremely musically gifted

Musically gifted. Aven lets out an amused snort.

AVEN: Okay gramps

The pointy-faced dude jammed into the seat next to him perks up, leaning into Aven’s space as though it’s perfectly acceptable to read a stranger’s texts solely because they’re shoved close together in the same moving vehicle. One that is currently moving at the pace of a tortoise.

“Who’s Ben?” the guy asks, pointing a finger towards Aven’s phone screen.

Holy shit. Why is it that every time he does a rideshare, he ends up next to a chatty gossip who thinks it’s tea time in the backseat? It’s incredibly weird luck considering Seattle is notorious for giving people the cold shoulder. It’s not called the Seattle Freeze for no reason.

“Your dad,” Aven answers after a beat, thumbing his phone’s screen dark and turning towards the snooper to give him the sleaziest look he can manage.

There’s an audible gasp as the man’s lips fall open. “As if. My dad does twinks exclusively and you’re a full-grown man. Besides,” he sniffs, “his name is Ted, not Ben.”

At this point, the fellow passenger pouts and crosses his arms over his chest, and goddamn, Aven misses the money he grew up with sometimes. The once carelessly unappreciated luxury of a private car ride. No strangers jammed in beside you. Nobody hassling you about where you’re going, who you’re texting, or what the hell you do for work.

Especially that last one. Being on the road with a band these last few weeks has been a dream come true, and Aven’s made more money this month than he’ll make the next three combined, but now it’s back to dive bars and relying on tips to get by.

At twenty-three, it’s not exactly the future his wealthy, business-minded parents would have chosen for him. Really, it’s not exactly what Aven hoped for himself. The bright stage lights and electric crowds he’s returning from were a lot closer to where he wanted his music career to be by now.

The man sitting next to him is still staring, but he drops his defensive posture to lean in a little closer. “I like them though.” His gaze travels down Aven’s body and back up. “Full-grown men.”

A hint of a smile plays on Aven’s lips. He takes another look. The admirer of full-grown men seated beside him is somewhere near Aven’s age, maybe a little younger. He looks like an art student, like maybe he’s Uber’ing from Cornish Collage to an art walk in the U District. His face is all sharp, foxlike lines, and Aven, for a brief moment, allows himself to imagine that face in the throes of passion, taking cock.

“Really,” he says after a moment, in a voice meant for the bedroom. “Do you?”

The guy slowly strokes his finger from the inside of Aven’s wrist up to the crook of his arm, giving the sort of heated look that spells out exactly how much he likes men. And this, this, is why Aven loves being single. The thrill of never knowing who your next hook-up might be, who might Uber their way into your bed that night. Besides, sex without commitment and complications is definitely his preferred kind of intimacy.

Letting your heart get involved is something best left to love songs.

“Put your number in,” Aven tells the guy, handing his phone over as the driver pulls up to his address. Aven eyes the outdated Craftsman-style house with a trickle of fondness. Their landlord doesn’t exactly nurture the place, but Aven’s cool with that as long as there’s not a massive price hike like half his friends have gone through in the past couple of years. He’s lived here since his sophomore year of college, and even though he doesn’t need the ease of proximity to the university anymore, he’s comfortable living in the U District.

His hook-up-to-be, Hot Gavin, according to the name he typed into Aven’s contacts, tosses him his phone and a wink. “Text me,” he says, as Aven climbs out of the car.

Aven taps a knuckle on the window to remind the driver to pop the trunk. Reaching for his guitar, he hefts a duffel bag over his left shoulder before making his way up the steps. On any normal day, when his hands weren’t full of luggage, he’d tap the plaque above their cherry wood door. The nameplate reads The Riot Grrrls Next Door, coined however many moons ago by a group of sundress and combat boot wearing former roommates whose photo still hangs as tradition in the entryway hall.

But today, he just says, “Hello Grrrls,” under his breath before stepping inside.

It’s still too early for the homecoming party to be underway, but there are lively, happy noises coming from the kitchen that Aven immediately zeros in on. The indistinct chatter and laughter of his roommates, and below that, the smooth, mellow sound of a feel-good indie rock band Aven loved back in high school. Funny, but he can’t imagine which of his roommates would have chosen to put that album on.

Must be the new guy.

“We could always do flip cup,” Ben is saying as Aven starts towards the kitchen.

“Ugh, no,” Tyler tells him, and Aven can picture the way he’s crinkling his nose like he’s just smelled raw sewage.

“Something less fratty,” Tyler’s boyfriend Justin chimes in, which, fair enough if that’s how you want to play your drinking games, but Aven’s had plenty of fun with frat boys through the years. And besides, if you’re playing a game to get drunk, why wouldn’t you want to take wisdom from the masters of getting shit-faced?

“Fuzzy duck?” Ben suggests. A good-natured laugh comes in response to that, and Aven can’t explain why, but a sudden feeling of dread twists in his gut.

The closer Aven gets to the kitchen, the more apprehension he feels. He can’t put his finger on why, but there’s a persistent edge of wariness dancing at the back of his neck.

“We can set up the table for beer pong,” Veena suggests, and damn, it’s good to hear her voice.

Then, “Isn’t that basically the same level of frat on the drinking game scale?”

Oh.

No.

Oh, shit.

Aven’s flesh pebbles with goosebumps. He would know that voice anywhere. From countless hours spent in each other’s arms … from the persistent dreams that still haunt his sleep. And that laugh. God, he recognizes that, too.

Dumping his belongings on the hardwood floor, Aven hurriedly scrolls through his phone, thumbing through texts from Ben and Tyler over this past week. Frantically searching for a name. For any name other than the one he’s thinking.

Because goddamn.

Surely, they must have told Aven the new roommate’s name at some point. But the farther he scrolls, the more he finds nothing other than new guy, new roomie, which at one point Ben shortened to NR, but … they never texted a name. And Aven never bothered to ask.

But it can’t be.

It can’t.

His body is thrumming with the furious energy of someone whose entire world is about to flip over. Everything he’s shoved to the back of his mind for so long, every midnight memory he’s fought to ignore.

Palms sweating, heart rate kicked up, Aven paces, no clue what to do. He could turn around and walk right back out the door. His roommates obviously haven’t clocked his return.

Running his hands over his face, he takes a deep breath, trying to chill the fuck out. He doesn’t actually have to face what’s in there, if he doesn’t want to. He could crash on Andi’s couch. Or beg his parents to take him in. Maybe win the lottery and buy himself a private island. Completely reasonable options like that, choices where he’d never have to deal with any of this. Hell, he could—

“Fuck!”

Oops. That wasn’t exactly meant to be shouted out loud.

“Aven?” Veena calls from the kitchen. “That you, sweet cheeks?”

“Fuuuuuck,” he swears again, lower, and under his breath.

“Come into the kitchen, dude,” Ben tells him. “Meet our new roomie!”

A terrible shudder echoes through him. The memory of a face, of a body he once knew as well as his own. And like a breathtaking fist to the gut, Aven has to know. Has to see for himself.

All at once, he pushes towards the kitchen, turning the corner and immediately locking eyes with his past.

Ex-rival.

First love.

Chase Matthews.

Here.

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