Heat Stroke (Beach Kingdom 2)

The present rushed back in like a slap to the face. “Yeah,” Jamie managed, righting the glass and continuing the pour. “Sorry. I’m great.”

But Rory was perceptive. He’d been there that evening on the beach and it had changed both of their lives. A few weeks ago, Rory had run into the man who’d given Jamie those shitty, lasting memories. The guy was back in Long Beach. Living there or visiting? Jamie didn’t know. But Rory’s encounter was probably why details of that evening had been popping up without warning more and more frequently lately.

When the happiness on Rory’s face started to ebb the longer he scrutinized Jamie, Jamie rushed to patch up the moment. He was responsible for two years of Rory’s misery. Two years of his brother stuck in a dark hole, facing danger day in and day out. Never again. Rory deserved to be happy now. Jamie would do everything in his power to make sure he stayed that way.

“Look, you know how I hate to lose a bet?”

Rory shifted on his feet, clearly suspicious over the subject change. “It’s more of an extension of the fact that you hate to be wrong.”

“Right. Which is so rare. And why I need your help.” Jamie made sure Andrew wasn’t in earshot. “I’ve got a bet with Marcus that I can get people to play more Buckley than Britney.”

“I knew it was some shit like that,” Rory said, accepting a fist full of money from a customer. “You’re not losing, are you?”

“I am, if you can believe it. I didn’t take logistics into account.” Jamie grimaced. “He’s way closer to the jukebox.”

After a moment of Rory staring at Jamie, he nudged Jamie toward the register so they could keep talking while he made change. “Hey…you know I’m in no position to give advice to anyone. Especially you, man. You’ve got your shit together in a way I probably never will.”

“Not true. Look at the responsibilities you’ve taken on here. You’re doing incredible.”

Visibly uncomfortable with the praise, his brother waved him off. “You’re putting a lot of energy into Marcus. You know?” Panic danced across his features. “I see what’s happening. Last time—”

“I know what happened last time.” And he couldn’t handle hearing it out loud. Still. Maybe ever. “Rory. Come on, Marcus is just the asshat we put up with three months out of the year.” Saying those words left a taste of acid on his tongue and he had to pause. “What happened six years ago will never happen again. You have to trust me.”

“I do.” A tight smile spread across Rory’s face. “I do, man. You want me to ask Olive to go play some Buckley?”

“What are future sister-in-laws for?”

A few minutes later, Buckley’s voice crooned over the speakers, and despite the song’s darkly depressing meaning, not one tear was shed. Marcus caught his eye over the mass of bar patrons and made a jerk off motion in the air. Jamie feigned offense while pouring another drink. They both laughed—and it was too easy. Way too easy and dangerous to start having fun with Marcus when he was also nursing a low key attraction.

Low key. Sure.

The prick swaggered into the Hut every morning in gray sweatpants and no shirt, his free-balling cock swinging around in the right leg of his pants. He was loud, rude, unpolished and didn’t know Kerouac from karaoke. And yet, Jamie couldn’t help but wonder if Marcus would pay as much attention to him in bed as he did out of bed.

Right. Like I’d let something happen to you.

Marcus’s words drifted back from their walkie-talkie conversation earlier that day and an unwelcome warmth spread in Jamie’s middle. What would it be like if that protectiveness wrapped around him in the dark? Pressed the front of his body down, down into the mattress? What if he was the one who helped Marcus solve the mystery of what he really needed? If it wasn’t Jamie, it could be someone else.

A heavy weight dropped in his stomach, causing a hitch in his step while striding from one end of the bar to the other. Rory and Andrew raised their eyebrows at him.

“Baby One More Time” pumped over the loudspeaker and Jamie cursed, returning from his pointless thoughts.

“Jesus Christ,” Andrew groaned up at the ceiling.

Rory laughed, but there was still a line between his younger brother’s brow, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Marcus and Jamie. He was worried.

Should Rory be worried?

Should Jamie?

Yeah. They should both be concerned—and admitting the situation had gotten this far was a cold bucket of water being poured over the top of Jamie’s head.

Before Jamie could question why it felt so wrong, he leaned against the bar in front of the man in the fitted gray T-shirt with salt and pepper hair. The one who’d been not-so-subtly checking him out all night. “Hey,” Jamie said. “Either ask me out or quit being creepy.”