Starting from Zero (Starting from 1)

So why did letting him walk away feel like a big fucking mistake?

* * *

An incessant buzzing yanked me from sleep the following morning. I flung my arm toward the nightstand, blindly groping for whatever was making that awful noise. I breathed a sigh of relief when it stopped on its own, then rolled over again and pulled the duvet over my head.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I sat up and reached for my cell, growling at the caller ID flashing on my screen.

“Are you decent and are you alone?” Seb asked, sounding far too peppy first thing in the morning.

“What time is it? I’m pretty sure I have a gag order on you till nine. At least,” I snarked, flopping back onto my pillow.

“It’s eight. Close enough. And if your bed is empty, I’m coming upstairs. We gotta talk,” he chirped.

“Are you in my house?”

“Yeah. I dropped Charlie off. He said he’s helping you organize your new collection. What the hell were you thinking? He hates getting dirty, and we both know he prefers delegating.”

“Stop yelling,” I groaned.

“I’m not yelling. Are you hungover? Do you have someone up there?”

“No and no.”

“Good. I’m coming upstairs.”

“Bring coffee,” I grunted before disconnecting the call.

I rubbed sleep from my eyes, then stared unseeing at the ceiling, willing myself to wake up enough to deal with tsunami Seb. I loved the guy, but he was a force of nature; gregarious, friendly, funny, and scathingly honest when necessary. Those qualities made him a natural in Hollywood. High-profile producers had to know how to get the most out of every team member to deliver to expectation. “Summer blockbusters don’t get released in fall” was one of his favorite sayings. He had a dozen of them. And he had a million ideas whirling around his brain on any given day and a fierce need to bounce them off others. Particularly me. That was probably because he could trust me to tell him the truth. Even if he didn’t like it.

Of course, that worked both ways. I frowned as pieces of last night filtered through my sleep-hazed mind. Justin onstage with his acoustic guitar, singing in that sexy, soulful voice about peace and karma. Justin in my car. Justin on the rooftop with the city lights behind him, talking about writing and romance and…Justin in the bathroom. My dick twitched at the memory of being inside him. Fucking in the dark. He was hungry and curious and vibrant. And for a few hours on a normally run-of-the-mill evening, I’d willingly made a host of questionable decisions with a man who didn’t even know my name.

“Knock, knock. Are you decent?” Seb bounded into my bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him before setting a cup of coffee on my nightstand. “That’s hot. Give it a second.”

“Did you put cream in it?”

“Nope. It’s as black as my heart.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and tapped his Rolex impatiently. “Why are you still in bed? You never sleep in. Are you sick?”

I let out a half laugh when he slowly retreated to the end of my king-sized bed. I shook my head, then leaned over to pick up the coffee cup. “No. I’m fine. I went to bed late.”

“You? Was there a Friends marathon on TV last night or something?”

“Ha. Ha. Fuck, this is hot.”

“It’s coffee, idiot.” Seb skirted the bed and sat beside me. “You ditched me after the first act at Carmine’s last night without a word.”

“I texted you.”

“Yeah, and I told you to call me back. We have to talk. Shit is going down, my friend. And I need you to come save the day.”

I scowled over the rim of my cup and took a leisurely sip while I studied my oldest friend and former lover. Sebastian Rourke was six three and built like a runner; long, lean, and muscular. His short, dark hair and well-trimmed beard were liberally streaked with gray. I’d heard him referred to as a silver fox and I wholeheartedly agreed. Seb was a very handsome man. Of course, I’d thought he was pretty damn sexy a few decades ago too. The difference was, I didn’t want him naked in my bed now. Or even sitting on my bed while I was half-naked under the covers.

Actually, I didn’t care anymore. We’d navigated a painful breakup from deep within the closet. So deep and so long ago that very few people knew we were once much more than friends.

And why did it just occur to me that Justin would have been a toddler when I met Seb? My forehead creased hard enough to give me a headache. I pushed the errant thought aside and sipped my coffee while Seb barreled on about a theme song.

“…should be a love song. Kinda syrupy. Audiences love schmaltz and we gotta give ’em what they want, but with a twist they don’t expect.” He paused to pull my cup from my fingers. He took a healthy swig, then set it on the nightstand and inched closer with a wily look in his eyes before continuing in a low theatric tone, “The warrior princess.”