More Than Friends #2
Getting caught in the middle of two hyper-competitive, muscle-bound gym bros isn't supposed to be this fun, is it?
I'm a list person. Lists make sense, they give a chaotic, unpredictable world order. Realizing I was gay at thirty definitely wasn't on my list.
I guess I need a new list…
New apartment: check
New gym bod: let's call that work in progress…
Dive into the gay dating pool: DOUBLE check
I didn't plan to move in smack dab between two rival beef-cakes, but I'm not complaining.
I can't tell if wooing me is just another challenge they're trying to win or if fighting over me is their way of dancing around the obvious tension between them. But, the more I get to know them both, the more I'm hoping this whole thing might be real.
I don't think I have the list for this…
***Bro Split is a LOW angst, rivals to lovers, jocks and a nerd, MMM story that you won't want to put down!!
Prologue
1 YEAR AGO
EZRA
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I down another shot, pretending I can’t feel the vibration against my thigh. The alcohol stopped burning on the way down about three drinks ago, but it’s refusing to do a damn thing to chase away this suffocating feeling of dread that’s been building for weeks. So, I’m turning thirty, that’s hardly ancient. Realistically, I still have two-thirds of my life ahead of me.
All the logic in the world refuses to touch the mess of knots that have been slowly forming in my gut. It was hardly noticeable at first, like a small pebble in my shoe, odd thoughts here and there that itched at the back of my brain until blisters started to form, making every thought more and more impossible to ignore.
The problem is, it’s not aging itself that’s twisting me up. I’m not drinking to chase away thoughts of mortality or vain worries over the gray hair I tweezed out of my pubes last week. Although, that was a little ridiculous. I refuse to be rocking a salt and pepper bush before I’m forty. I wonder if they make a special hair dye for that. I shake my head to clear the bizarre train of thought, and the room spins, courtesy of the many shots of whiskey I’ve had.
I’m not even sure why I picked whiskey. I hate whiskey. I guess it felt appropriate for the occasion. I stopped tasting it after the first few, anyway.
The stool next to me scrapes noisily against the floor and I sway in my seat as I turn my head out of a hazy sense of curiosity. What type of men come to a bar like this? I snort at my own stupid question. Gay men, Ezra, gay men come to gay bars.
So, why exactly am I here?
The thought makes my heart race and my palms sweat.
It was on my way.
No one would recognize me here and wish me a happy birthday.
I have nothing against gay people, so why not?
I didn’t realize it was that kind of bar until I had already parked.
All lies I’ve told myself since sliding onto the stool and telling the bartender I wanted whiskey neat and to keep them coming.
The man who claims the spot is a good head taller than me and at least twice as wide, with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen and arms that would make the Incredible Hulk jealous. He’s wearing a tank top with wide arm holes that reveal a flash of his chest and nipple as he sits down and shoots a friendly smile at the bartender before bracing his elbows on the bar and slouching into a relaxed position like he’s right at home. A strand of his dark hair falls over his forehead and he brushes it back absently, waving at a few people who pass while he waits for his drink.
“Do you come here often?” I ask, my eyes widening in horror that that’s what my brain chose to tell my mouth to say, and I didn’t even try to stop it. He turns his head in my direction, his dark blue eyes landing on me with an amused twist of his lips, and my stomach jolts so violently that I’m acutely aware the only thing that could make this moment more embarrassing would be if I hurled all over him.
“Classic, I like it.” His smile gets wider, revealing a dimple in his left cheek, nearly hidden by the stubble of his dark facial hair. “Xeno.” He offers me a hand.
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” I wrap my hand around my empty glass, my fingers twitching with the indecision of whether I should shake his hand and introduce myself or clear up the misunderstanding as quickly as possible. “I wasn’t…” I let go of the glass quickly, sending it spinning towards the edge of the bar. Xeno reaches out and grabs it before it can topple over the side and shatter.
“You weren’t hitting on me?” He quirks an eyebrow as he rights the glass and folds his arms again. “What, you don’t think I’m hot?” There isn’t an ounce of offense in his tone, just a light, playful air that hits me squarely in the chest with an overwhelming sense of jealousy. What would it be like to have confidence like that? To be rejected by someone and keep flirting anyway?
I swallow around the lump in my throat, my eyes roaming over him again without any conscious decision to do so. He’s clearly familiar with the inside of a gym, but that’s not the thing that’s most interesting about him. There’s some kind of white powder clinging to his shoes. Flour? The bartender returns with his drink and Xeno thanks him with a purr in his already deep tone and another grin. There’s a hole in his jeans, just above the knee, a hint of colorful tattoo ink showing through.
“No, you’re hot,” I answer, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. Did I really just say that? I told a perfect stranger, a man no less, that he’s hot. It’s official, whiskey is not my friend.
“But you’re not hitting on me?” he clarifies, humor still obvious in his voice.
“No.” I clear my throat. “I’m straight.”
“Ah.” He takes a sip of his drink, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the glass.
I frown. His response was only a single syllable but somehow it sounded disbelieving. He doesn’t even know me. He doesn’t have any right to think I would lie about my sexual orientation.
“I am,” I insist, bringing my empty glass to my lips and sighing when I realize there’s nothing in it to drink. I wave down the bartender again. “Can I get another?” I push the glass towards him, but Xeno puts his hand over the top.
“Get him a water, Mick.”
“Hey,” I complain when he does just that, filling my glass with water this time instead of more whiskey.
“So, what’s a straight guy doing in a gay bar, getting drunk all by himself?” Xeno asks, ignoring my protest altogether.
I grumble and take a sip of the water. “It’s my birthday.”
He cocks his head. “No shit? Happy birthday.”
I slump forward, mirroring his position with my elbows on the bar. “I thought a drink would make the surprise party more bearable.”
“Ugh, I hate surprise parties,” he sympathizes.
“Yeah.” I reach up and loosen my tie. “It’s not the party, it’s just the whole birthday thing.” I wave my hand in a broad gesture. “Have you ever looked at your life and just felt like you did it fucking wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
I push my glasses up my nose and shake my head. “I’m a list guy. Lists make the world make sense. I followed the list and checked every damn thing off. So, shouldn’t I be happy with how things turned out?”
“You’re, what, thirty?” he guesses, looking me up and down, and I nod. “Fuck it then, maybe you just need a new list. The first list was a rough draft, you tried it and it didn’t work out. I own a bakery—”
“You own a bakery?” I give his rippling muscles a pointed look. “What do you bake, steroid muffins?”
He chuckles. “No, smartass. I just spend every other waking second of my life at the gym working off any taste testing I’ve done at work. At the bakery, I try to keep things fresh, come up with new recipes from time to time to keep customers coming back to find out what’s new. Sometimes I mix up a batch of something that sounds like it will taste great, but in reality, it doesn’t pan out. Your first list was a batch that didn’t pan out.” Xeno shrugs and takes another sip of his drink, tilting his head back slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
I’m not sure why, but my eyes are fixated on the movement. When he sets it back down, he drags his tongue along his bottom lip to gather a stray droplet and my skin heats.
“This is my life, not a batch of cookies. I can’t just toss it in the trash and start over.”
“Why not?” he challenges. “It’s your life and you don’t have to be stuck with anything that isn’t working for you. Don’t like your job? Quit. Stale relationship? End it. Hate your name? Change it. Your sexuality doesn’t fit quite right? Figure it out.”
I scoff at the last part. “I’m straight,” I say again, but there’s a quaver in my voice this time.
“Okay. I’m just saying, if it turns out you’re not, there’s nothing wrong with that either.”
My stomach flutters and I stare down at my glass of water, tracing my fingers along the grooved edges of the glass, watching the water inside ripple. “People don’t suddenly become gay at thirty.”
“No, they don’t,” he agrees. “But sometimes it takes that long to realize they always were.”
My throat tightens and things I’ve spent most of my life forcing to the back of my mind, stuffing down deep and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge, all rattle against their chains. My insides squirm and my phone vibrates in my pocket again, adding guilt to the writhing mass of emotions pulsing inside of me.
“Listen,” Xeno goes on, “there’s a great diner just around the corner. Why don’t I take you out for a high-class birthday dinner. They serve burgers bigger than your head for only five bucks.”
I huff out a sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh but ends up being more on the verge of a sob. “Thanks, but I should really get home and face the music.” I turn on my stool, wobbling before I even manage to get my feet under me.
“Let me give you a ride, at least,” he offers.
“Thanks, but I’ll call one.” I pull my phone out of my pocket with a dozen missed texts from my wife flashing on the screen.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
I nod. “Thanks for…” I swallow again, unable to form the words I need, but he seems to understand.
“No problem. And for the record, I do come here often, so feel free to swing by again.”
“Maybe,” I lie. I won’t be back—at least not anytime soon. “It’s Ezra, by the way.” I offer him my hand like I should have at the start, and he takes it.
His skin is warm and there are calluses on his palm and fingertips. From burning them on too many hot pans? From gripping weights at the gym? From something else? I’ll likely never find out.
He uses his grip on my hand to gently pull me a little closer. I could easily shake him off or resist, but that’s the last thing on my mind as he leans in, the strange combination of chocolate and a natural masculine scent wafting off of him. He pauses for a second and then brushes his lips against my cheek. “Happy birthday, Ezra.”
As I stumble out of the bar a minute later, my rideshare already on its way, and an apology text to Cassie sent, I’m tingling from head to toe from that brief, barely there touch of his lips.
Maybe Xeno was right. Maybe I need a new list.
Author K.M.Neuhold is a complete romance junkie, a total sap in every way. She started her journey as an author in new adult, MF romance, but after a chance reading of an MM book she was completely hooked on everything about lovely- and sometimes damaged- men finding their Happily Ever After together. She has a strong passion for writing characters with a lot of heart and soul, and a bit of humor as well. And she fully admits that her OCD tendencies of making sure every side character has a full backstory will likely always lead to every book having a spin-off or series. When she's not writing she's a lion tamer, an astronaut, and a superhero...just kidding, she's likely watching Netflix and snuggling with her husky while her amazing husband brings her coffee.
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Bro Split #2
Series
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