Chapter Three #2
He lost track of time, just rocking gently, waiting for the ache in his wrist to ease. After a while, he made himself get up and check all the windows, then paced from kitchen to bedroom and back again, not really seeing any of it.
Craig was going to come back, no question. Eight hundred bucks. It might as well have been eight million. There was no way to raise that kind of money fast, not unless Zack robbed a bank. And yet, his brother would expect it. Try the same tricks or maybe escalate.
Zack gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to hit something. If anything in this rented dump broke, his manager would charge him for repairs.
Quiet settled in after a while. The town outside kept up its steady noise, cars and music and the dull thump of something dropping in the laundromat. Nothing out there could get in. Maybe.
Zack wanted to call Colton. Or even just text. Hey, had a crap evening, wish you were here. But Zack didn’t, afraid Colton would learn how Zack’s skin crawled with shame.
Pulling a cold bottle of water from the fridge, he pressed it to his wrist, ignoring the condensation dripping down his arm. Tomorrow the bruise would go from red to purple, then fade just in time for the next round with his brother.
It was always the same story. Craig pushing, Zack flinching, then Craig either hurting Zack to get what he wanted or promising to return. He treated Zack’s existence as a vending machine for misery.
A dry laugh escaped when all Zack wanted to do was cry.
* * * *
The following morning Zack pulled on a long-sleeved shirt despite the warm weather. He was meeting up with Colton and Zack didn’t want the guy to see the hand-shaped bruise circling his wrist.
After checking his hopeless, wayward hair in the mirror, Zack trotted down the stairs then exited the building. The glaring sun made him instantly sweat in the long-sleeved shirt. There wasn’t even a slight breeze to alleviate his discomfort.
They’d agreed to meet at Cyril’s Café to share in an early-morning coffee.
Zack decided to walk the few blocks since he was early.
Even though his wrist ached, he was looking forward to spending more time with Colton.
There was something about the guy that made Zack feel as if he’d known Colton his entire life.
“Don’t you dare get attached to someone you just met,” he muttered. “Unless your plan is to scare him away.”
A twenty on how well that strategy would pay off? The odds weren’t great.
The interior of Cyril’s Café was bright with morning glare from the window, a sliver glinting off a glass dome on the counter. Cinnamon and hot coffee flooded the air, snuggling up alongside the tang of lemon squares.
Zack blinked sweat from his brow, trying not to look like a guy who was worried his date had ghosted him already. He didn’t see Colton, not at any of the tables or couches, not at the counter, and not standing around looking lost and gorgeous. Maybe he’d changed his mind about their date.
Not that this was a date. He wasn’t calling it that. Definitely just two dudes hanging out, drinking caffeine, enjoying the morning.
Zack settled onto a two-seater booth near the front window, nervously shredding a paper napkin left behind.
The barista swung by once, smiling quick and polite.
Zack asked for a minute. Second time, the barista raised his brow as if he’d seen it all before and nodded. No pressure, just understanding.
Maybe Colton had found someone at the gym. Someone who could walk around in a tank top without looking like cosplay for the world’s weakest superhero.
The urge to check his phone for the time nearly killed him, but he left it in his pocket. Not that Colton had his number. The guy didn’t even have his last name. Hell, maybe Colton had meant to stand him up in person, but he was running behind schedule. That seemed almost comforting.
At least the place had character. Ancient ceiling fans whirred at a lazy, don’t-rush-me pace.
The walls were the color of old vanilla ice cream and hung with those metal signs that tried too hard to be funny.
In the far corner, two guys were deep in conversation about who made better chili, like it actually mattered.
Zack didn’t notice the door until the old bell on top gave a metallic thunk.
In strode Colton, tall enough to climb. He moved like every inch of space bowed to his movement.
His black hair was cropped short, silky waves on top, full beard making his jaw appear lethal. Brown eyes, warm and alert, skimmed around the place. His T-shirt fit him like a love letter, huge biceps making it clear Colton would not be losing any arm-wrestling contests.
Drool might’ve formed in Zack’s mouth.
Then Colton spotted him and everything stopped for a second. The guy’s face changed. It wasn’t the kind of smile you did for show or to be polite. This was the real thing, slow and hungry, like he’d just walked in on Christmas morning and the gifts were all stacked in his booth.
Zack blinked, then tried to smile back. His face felt like a used napkin. Colton was the kind of good-looking that made your brain short circuit.
The guy crossed the diner in nine confident steps and paused at the edge of the booth, one hand braced on the seat. “Hey.”
Zack almost knocked the table over trying to stand. “Hi.”
Colton grinned. “Sorry I’m late. Had to take care of something.”
“Oh, that’s fine.” Zack waved the apology away, but his hand kept waving like it had its own mind. “I was running early, which is unusual for me. Normally I’m still five minutes behind even when I start the day ahead of schedule.”
Colton’s gaze flicked over him, slow and appreciative. “You look good, Zack.”
“Nah.” Zack tugged at his sleeve, making sure the bruise was covered. “You’re just being polite, but I’ll take it. You look…good, too. Like, kind of amazing, really.”
For a moment, nothing in the world seemed more interesting than the way Colton shifted his weight, broad shoulders stretching the shirt.
Zack nearly whimpered.
They sat. Colton was way too large for the space, knees nearly brushing Zack’s under the table, but he didn’t look uncomfortable. Instead, he lounged back and let his left arm rest on top of the seat. That was the kind of relaxed confidence Zack had always wanted to bottle.
The barista came over, pen tucked behind his ear. “Fellas ready to order?”
Colton didn’t even notice the guy, eyes fixed on Zack. “Coffee for both of us?”
All the air went thin. “Please.”
The barista smiled and hit them with the you-make-a-cute-couple look before disappearing.
Zack’s cheeks burned. “So, um, thanks for meeting me here. I wasn’t sure if this place was too…” He gestured helplessly at the decor. “Much.”
“Reminds me of home,” Colton said. “We used to have a place just like this. My mom would take me and my sister every weekend.”
A weird warmth spread through Zack’s chest—not an ache, just a kind of ease. Maybe that was what safe felt like, sitting next to a man who could break a two-by-four with his bare hands but was talking about weekends with his mom.
He reached for another napkin and realized his fingers had already mangled three into sad little confetti piles. “Sorry if I’m, you know. Awkward.”
“You’re not,” Colton said, hand still loose on the seat. “You’re adorable.”
Zack started laughing, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do with the compliment. “You are so not allowed to call me adorable unless you plan to buy me pancakes and tell me not to run with scissors. It’s the law.”
Colton’s smile widened, as if he’d been waiting for Zack to make a joke. “Fair. You do look like someone who should be supervised.”
“Hey.” Zack cocked his head, trying to look wounded. “I’ll have you know, I am totally responsible. I only set off the smoke alarms twice last year, and one of those was not my fault. No jury would convict.”
Colton laughed, the sound low and rolling. It did things to Zack’s insides. Good things.
“You always this funny?” Colton asked.
“I think it’s called masking.” Zack wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “But hey, I stick the landing…sometimes.”
Was that lame to say?
“You’re great,” Colton assured him.
The barista returned with their coffee then left. Colton hadn’t glanced at the cute guy, his entire focus remaining on Zack. If ego had been a thing that survived in this booth, it would have gotten whiplash.
Words failing him, Zack wrapped his hands around the to-go cup. He risked a glance at Colton’s forearms, the way the muscles flexed even when he barely moved. This was a man who worked with his hands, maybe used to fighting or at least holding his own in a bad situation.
Meanwhile, Zack worked in a place where serving the wrong order was the closest he’d ever come to mortal combat.
Colton leaned in, elbow sliding onto the table. “So, you sleep okay?”
There hadn’t been any sleep, or at least not the kind that erased bad energy from the night before. “Not bad. Heat’s brutal even at night, so I mostly tossed around. Nothing exciting.”
Their banter slid easy, like two people who’d done this a hundred times. Zack admitted it’d been a long week. Colton countered with a story about a construction job and a supervisor who couldn’t tell the difference between a stud and a joist. That got a solid laugh.
“You ever done construction?” Colton asked.
“No,” Zack said, “but the other night, I assembled a bookcase from Target and only swore twice. It still leans a little, so I’m calling it rustic.”
“Brave man.” Colton smiled, an appreciative tilt at the edges.
Every now and then, Colton’s hand would brush his, a soft graze, like he was reminding Zack he was there. No one ever touched him that way, casual but steady, not asking for anything in return.
He felt weirdly seen. And safe. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, even if his palms sweated every time Colton’s leg grazed his under the table.
The hour passed in a lazy stretch. Nothing pressed in on them except the occasional burst of laughter or low music from the jukebox.
They covered everything from best pie flavors to worst job stories.
Colton had one about a plumber replacing the wrong pipe, causing a flood, and Zack returned fire with a tale of an elderly customer who carried around his own honey, insisting it cured every ailment.
With each story, the space between them seemed to shrink—not physically, since Colton was already crowding the booth, but in the way strangers quietly shifted into something closer.
Zack’s mind kept blanking on how good Colton looked up close.
The eyelashes, the flawless skin, the way his hands dwarfed a coffee mug.
He couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact that this guy wanted to spend time with him.
Said he was adorable and laughed at his jokes.
Nobody made him feel like that. Maybe the popular kids in high school hadn’t been right after all.
At some point, Colton’s gaze sharpened, warmth giving way to something heavier. The silence lasted longer than Zack expected.
“Your wrist okay?” Colton’s eyes were on Zack’s left hand, which he’d been using to fuss with a sugar packet. The fabric had crept up enough to show off the bruising. Crap.
Zack jerked his hand back, sleeve down in a heartbeat. “Oh. Yeah, totally fine. Walked into a doorknob. I’m sort of gifted that way.”
Colton didn’t look convinced, but backed down. “Doorknobs are tricky that way.”
“Really. I make bandages my whole personality.”
But it didn’t fool either of them. Colton still watched him, a careful patience behind the eyes that said I’ll let you have your secrets but don’t think I won’t remember. Instead of pushing, his big hand squeezed Zack’s good hand just long enough to send a jolt through him.
“Glad you’re okay,” he said simply. “I can take care of that doorknob for you.”
The offer stunned Zack, but he quickly recovered and their banter resumed.
Colton dared Zack to try a slice of huckleberry pie, but Zack declined.
He swore the only berry fit for human consumption was strawberry.
Colton refused to concede. Mid-argument, his knee pressed against Zack’s and didn’t bother moving away.
Something strange flickered inside Zack. Not just the quick thump of nerves but a sharper need. Not even sexual, although, duh, Colton was basically sex on a stick. Something bigger. Like the horizon had shifted and Zack didn’t even mind losing his balance.
Colton cleared his throat, drawing a napkin through one strong hand. “You ever ride a motorcycle?”
The question caught Zack off guard. “Me? No, my brother told me I’d end up as street pizza if I ever climbed on one.”
Colton’s mouth stretched into a slow, wicked smile. “I think you’d look good on a bike. Or more precisely, on the back of mine.”
“That… sounds dangerous.” Who was he kidding? Zack had always wanted to ride a motorcycle but had never been brave enough to try. Also, Craig’s warning had included sound effects and graphic descriptions of injury or death. His brother’s theatrics had given Zack bad dreams for weeks.
Colton traced the rim of Zack’s coffee cup with his finger. “Promise I’ll keep you safe.”
Zack’s heart tripped over itself. Nobody had ever said that to him—not his parents, and definitely not Craig. But Colton’s promise felt written in granite, making Zack consider acting reckless enough to say yes.
How often did he take chances? Hardly ever. The last time he’d taken a chance on a frozen meatloaf dinner because of a coupon. Worst. Meal. Ever.
Are you seriously comparing a ride with Colton to a frozen disaster? Get out of your head, dork.
Colton folded his arms on the table. “Offers stands, handsome. Whenever you want to feel blood rushing through your veins, wind in your face, and the sun at your back, hit me up.” He set his phone on the table. Zack pulled his out and they exchanged numbers.
Before Zack lost his nerves, he nodded. “I want to feel all of the above.”
He’d officially lost his mind.
Colton’s mouth curved slowly, eyes crinkling first, shoulders lifting with a faint laugh. “You keep surprising me, shorty. I like that.”
Heck, Zack was surprising himself, so enamored with Colton he was willing to become a splatter on asphalt. “You promised to keep me safe.”
“Always.” Colton stood, leaving Zack to wonder what that exactly meant.