Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

CHARLIE

Once you ruin the county fair by hurling on the reigning Miss Dundy County in front of everyone in your hometown, including the mayor—who also happens to be your mom—and that reporter from channel seven, you can never show your face again. How can you be seen as an adult when your screw-up is televised yearly as a cautionary tale on how not to host the county fair pageant?

Which is why I moved hundreds of miles away and joined a monastery. Okay, I visited the monastery. The experience was uplifting. The nuns at St. Mary’s didn’t laugh at me or look at me with pity, and their choir is legendary. That’s not an exaggeration. Their first two albums reached number one on the Classical Traditional Billboard chart. And they were named Billboard Artists of the Year in 2013.

I tend to ramble, especially when nervous, which makes public speaking a nightmare. See the example above. After the monastery, I forged ahead on my plan to gain experience. Confidence. Adulthood. The best way to get over a fear of public speaking? Take a job that requires it. I learned that tactic from my mom. Fear of swimming? Throw yourself in the deep end—with a certified swim instructor, of course. My mom is tough but practical. Although insisting I emcee the pageant at the county fair did not work out the way she hoped.

That was five years ago, and since then, I’ve changed everything that reminded me of that pathetic twenty-two-year-old. My hair is longer and a short beard hides my unfortunate baby face.

I even changed my name. Chas sounds more grown up than Charlie, right? I’m all set.

So why are the waffles I scarfed down this morning threatening to reappear?

I feel like I’m twenty-two again, and I can pinpoint the moment it happened. Crossing the Dundy County line set me back five years.

This is my first day at my new job, and I agreed to run the project orientation meeting. The nonprofit I work for provides housing to those in need by renovating dilapidated homes through grants, donations, and community volunteers.

And someone has to train them.

Raja raises a perfectly sculpted brow at me. My program supervisor is Black with curls that form a heart around their face and an attitude that clearly says: Don’t test me .

I clear my throat and shuffle my notes. I’ve worked my ass off to get over my fear of public speaking. I’m great at my job. Well, my last job. Organizing, planning, and meeting goals. I excel at those things. Renovating homes? Building things? Not so much. So explaining a process I’m just learning about to a room full of volunteers, mostly men, mostly older, who might have seen the video, is right up there with having my tooth yanked out by a snarky dentist who looked twelve and didn’t wait for the painkillers to kick in. Pure torture. One star. Do not recommend.

Yet somehow, this is worse.

I’ve done hundreds of presentations like this with no issue. But being close to home reverts me back to that bumbling kid fresh out of college spewing Crush Orange soda all over sequined mint chiffon.

Only if I let it.

The meeting room in the community center has rows of unmatched chairs facing the lectern and me. I’d prefer a circle, but Raja set this up, and they’re my new boss. Where is my confidence when I need it?

I can test boundaries later. Today, I just want to get through this presentation without hurling. It would help if I wasn’t getting glares from participants who clearly think they know more than I do.

And a few smirks. Great. They’ve seen the video.

According to Raja, thirty volunteers signed up. The room is full. Every seat is taken. Was it wrong of me to hope a few couldn’t make it?

Yes. It was. People need housing. And I need to suck it up and act like the adult I am.

Raja coughs, and I wince. Right. I swallow my nerves and begin.

“Good morning, everyone, I’m Chas Smith. Thank you for coming. Raja has the schedule and signup sheet. If you think you can’t handle the hours—or the work—please consider dropping out now.”

Raja chokes on their drink. I glance over, but they motion for me to keep going. Sweat runs down my back, and lord, I hope my deodorant does its job.

“The retention rate in this area is sixty percent, which is good, actually, but it takes time and money to train new volunteers. And the families we’re helping need homes now. So if you aren’t sure you can commit, then either get sure or drop out now.” I scan the room. A few stare at me like they can’t figure out why some kid is telling them what to do. Others look bored. A few in the back are on their phones. Great start.

But no one leaves, and I take that as a win.

My confidence builds as I explain the process, timetable, and different ways they can be involved. The mission may be new, but the planning process isn’t. I learned early not to use the podium as a crutch. Walking around, I find a few receptive participants and focus on them. I make eye contact. Use gestures and silence to make my point. I’ve worked hard to master the art of public speaking and overcome my fears. It helps that I believe in what I’m doing and that enthusiasm bleeds into my presentation.

A text comes through while I’m talking, and I try to ignore it. Why didn’t I turn off my phone? I left it on the podium. On vibrate. Every buzz is noticeable as another text, and then another, comes through. I don’t dare look at Raja.

No one texts me this much. Is it urgent? I resist the impulse to grab my phone and check the messages. Mom or Dad would call, not text. Do they even know how to text?

The notifications finally stop, and I focus my attention back on my presentation. At the halfway point, Raja announces a fifteen-minute break. I return to the podium, shuffle my notes so I’m starting at the right point, and shake off my impostor syndrome. The room bustles with activity as people chat, get snacks, or go out to smoke. No one pays any attention to me, so I’m able to relax.

I pocket my offending phone and grab a bottle of water from the snack table. After catching my breath, I take a sip and check my messages.

Brad: You were right.

Brad: I should have gone to the game.

Brad: Hey, asshole. Stop ignoring me.

I stare at my phone, trying to make sense of the string of messages. Coach Rathbone insisted I call him by his first name. Which is why he’s listed that way in my phone. But calling him Brad? Texting him? Still feels weird as shit. He was my wrestling coach in high school. And my dad’s best friend for as long as I can remember.

About six months ago, I reached out to him through his sister Harper. I’m planning a surprise party for my parents on their anniversary on Valentine’s Day. But I need help on the inside getting everything set up. Since then, we’ve texted on and off a handful of times. Most recently yesterday, when I texted him about the venue. He’s always been nice. Polite.

Nothing like this. Did he text the wrong number by mistake? Probably. I sip my water right as another text comes through.

Brad: At least there’s eye candy. Gorgeous. Long blond hair. Tight jeans. Hot ass I’d like to tap.

I choke, spitting water on the lady next to me. “Oh, sorry…” I gasp, coughing so much I have to walk away.

Taking a deep breath to replenish my oxygen supply, which has veered south, I try to focus. I’m obviously not who he thinks he’s texting, and I need to let him know. But I’m curious about this woman Brad’s gawking over.

I send him a text before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Pic?

Our messages overlap with his arriving a half-second before mine.

Brad: Getting a boner just thinking about it.

Don’t think of Brad and his boner. But too late. My body ignores me, and I pretend to check the evacuation information posted on the wall. I can’t sport an erection in front of this group of people who’ve probably already dismissed me as a kid.

Raja clears their throat, and I glance at the clock over their head. Five minutes.

The lectern has a lower shelf, so I stash my water and granola bar. I’m too nervous to eat. At least I can hide my condition while I study my notes.

I can do this.

Until the next text comes in. A dick pic. Of sorts. He’s outside and not alone. Grass and legs are in the background of the picture like he’s facing away from everyone. But his legs are spread apart and the image clearly shows an obvious bulge in his pants. A very, very large bulge. Holy Mother of God.

My dick is as hard as the wooden podium I’m gripping. How can I get through the rest of this meeting when I can barely remember my own name?

I need something to help me deflate. Crush Orange. Mint chiffon.

Much better.

After my brain reengages, I text Brad. I’m definitely not who he thinks I am.

Me: Um…I meant a pic of the woman.

Brad: You assume too much, my friend. *winky face*

What does that mean? Then his next text comes through.

Brad: I’d drop to my knees for this guy.

My body bursts into flames as I read the text again. And again. Brad’s into guys? Since when? Now, the image of Brad on his knees for a guy is forever burned into my brain. And even Crush Orange soda isn’t helping my situation.

But his next text does the trick.

Brad: JK, Chuck. Don’t freak out on me. Your straight virtue is safe. Plus, Minni would cut off my balls. *Laughing emoji*.

Shit. My guess was correct. What the fuck, dude?

I need to review my talking points, but my dick is still half-hard and focused on the silver Daddy texting me.

He thinks he’s texting my dad. Good chance my mom would cut off his balls if she knew he was texting her precious only child pictures of his junk. And my dad might help her. Holy Jesus.

But it’s not really Brad’s fault. I should have told him he had the wrong number five texts and one almost dick pic ago.

Now what do I do?

Brummm . I start at the vibration of my phone. Another text. Ignore it. Focus on your presentation.

And another. Have some self-respect, Charlie. Except all that went out the window before the Crush Orange soda incident—when I was old enough to realize I was gay and my wrestling coach was hot.

Another text comes through. Wouldn’t it be rude not to answer?

As opposed to pretending to be someone else? But I ignore that voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like my mom.

Brad: Chuck?

Brad: Seriously?

Brad: I only have a minute. Answer when I call, asshole.

Panic shoots through me. Ignoring his texts was a bad idea. I can’t talk to him. Not now.

Maybe he’ll call the right number. My dad. Still embarrassing, but not as?—

Raja claps their hands. “Everyone, please return to your seats so we can get started.” They frown at me. “Are you ready, Chas?”

Not remotely. “Could I have one minute?”

They open their mouth, but they must see something in my expression because they press their lips together and nod.

That’s all I need. One?—

Brummm. Brummm. Brummm .

Even on silent, the vibrations are loud enough to get everyone’s attention. I turn away from the group and answer, mostly to get the ringing to stop.

“Hello?” Why do I sound so breathless?

Silence. How can silence be heavy through a phone? I check that we’re still connected. We are.

“Charlie?” The sexy deep voice comes from my phone.

And the room.

What the fuck? I swing around, too shocked to do anything but stare at the man stepping out from the crowd with his phone in his hand and his brows scrunched in confusion.

“Charlie?” he says again.

I do the only thing I can. I rejoin the nuns in the monastery and forget all about Homes for Hope and Brad Rathborn.

Just kidding. Adult, remember? I smile, end the call, and return to my presentation as if the last fifteen minutes haven’t happened.

But I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself.

I asked Coach Brad Rathborn, my dad’s best friend, for a picture of his dick. Accidentally.

And he sent one.

There’s a line of people waiting after the presentation, wanting to ask questions and welcome me. I greet each one, giving expected responses while my brain works out another puzzle. Long blond hair. Tight jeans. Ass I’d like to tap.

And a guy.

My brain comes up with the only logical conclusion as Mr. Johnson thanks me and moves on, and I come face to face with the subject of my thoughts.

Coach Brad Rathborn is even sexier than I remember, with more silver in his hair and beard and sweet laugh lines around his eyes. He’s also, apparently, into guys and hiding a monster cock.

And not just any guy.

He was talking about me.