Page 35 of Spilled Coffee

“Man, you team guys these days,” Devon teased, laughing loudly. “Lightweights. C’mon, dude, don’t let the side down. It’s still early.”

Ethan sighed, the weight of his hangover was already settling in and though he knew he really shouldn’t drink anymore, it was hard to resist when Devon was so damn persuasive.

He downed the shot in one, wincing at the burn that spread from his throat to his chest, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What the fuck was that? It tastes disgusting.” His stomach lurched, and he grabbed the beer, gulping it fast, not for want, but to douse the vile taste scorching his throat. The cold fizz did little to settle him, just sloshed with the rest churning around in his stomach.

“Steady,” Devon chuckled. “Don’t want you passing out on me, not yet.” He gave a mischievous grin as he leaned in close, the velvet booth groaning under the weight of his shift. “It’ll help perk you up, if you catch my drift,” he whispered, then slid his palm over Ethan’s thigh, warm and deliberate circular motions that slowly climbed up, testing and teasing.

Ethan barely registered, his head swam and the sounds around him warped—distant shouts, a synth riff slicing through the haze, the clatter of glasses behind the bar like gunfire in his skull.

Devon was bolder now, his movements charged with confidence that bordered on arrogance. His hand slid down, deliberately cupping Ethan’s groin and massaging with firm, unapologetic pressure. There was no hesitation, no subtlety—it was him laying claim, insistent and commanding.

He kissed hard, his mouth demanding and relentless, a force that felt more conquest than connection. And for one hazy beat, Ethan responded—booze blurring the boundaries of what he wanted versus what he allowed.

The intrusion registered, and Ethan froze.

He rubbed his head, nausea clawing up his throat, the taste of that last shot still lingered long after. His head filled with a foggy haze, the room tilting as Devon’s lips again crashed against his own.

There was a flicker of something, a fleeting shadow of the fire he’d felt before, but that undeniable gravity that Logan commanded with just a glance or the brush of his hand—this wasn’t it.

A knot of discomfort began to twist in his chest as his mind struggled to push through the alcohol-induced haze, grasping at clarity like a drowning man reaching for air.

This was all wrong, and Ethan’s body remained limp. No hardness answered Devon’s persistence; no surge of arousal beneath his touch.

Frustration simmered.

He wanted Ethan. He craved him with an intensity that bordered on obsession, but this drunken, pliant version wasn’t enough. There was no fight here, no resistance to overcome or passion to ignite. Ethan was passive and the pursuit quickly became more effort than reward.

With an irritated sigh, Devon pulled back, though his hand lingered, squeezing in a way that felt more possessive than affectionate.

The moment was suddenly shattered by a voice which cut through the din of laughter and music. “There you are… I’ve been lookin’ for you!” Brick’s voice carried over the noise.

He strode toward them, his plaid shirt was rumpled and there was a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow from dancing.

His keen eyes took in the scene and his expression darkened as he spotted Devon’s hand sliding away from Ethan’s groin—not quite fast enough to go unnoticed, but casual enough to feign innocence.

“You okay, man?” he said firmly, his voice low but steady as his gaze flicked between Ethan’s pale face and Devon’s smug posture.

Ethan struggled to respond, his head lolling as he nodded sluggishly. His words felt unwieldy, and they stuck in his throat like molasses, as he tried to form a coherent answer. The alcohol had taken him over, and he was drowning in a heavy fog that made even blinking feel like an effort.

“He’s fine,” Devon interjected, his tone easygoing and almost dismissive of Brick’s concern. “Too much to drink. I was just going to get him some water, then take him home.”

Brick didn’t look convinced. His jaw tightened as he studied Devon with open suspicion—a wariness born from their earlier conversation that now flared brighter under the circumstances. “You two know each other?” he asked pointedly.

Devon leaned back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest in a display of relaxed confidence that felt more calculated than natural. “Kinda,” he replied with a casual shrug. “I know a friend of his—Logan Lockwood—we go way back.”

At the mention of Logan’s name, Brick’s tension eased slightly. Not completely, but enough for him to nod slowly in recognition. “You know Logan?” He replied cautiously. “He’s our boss. I work with Ethan.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You in the teams?”

Devon nodded once, his tone steady when he spoke again. “Was—Team Six,” he said simply, letting the weight of those words hang between them for emphasis before adding, “IED in Kandahar fucked me up.”

“Hell, that sucks,” Brick said after a beat, genuine sympathy softening his tone despite the unease in his eyes.

Unsettled but unwilling to press further just yet, he shifted his attention back to Ethan. His frown deepened as he took inthe younger man’s posture—the glassy sheen in his eyes and the way he seemed barely able to keep himself upright.

“How much has he had?” he asked, cutting through whatever small talk might have followed.

Devon waved off the question with another shrug that bordered on indifference. “More than enough,” he said, gesturing to Abbey and Lisa who stood close by—the two women giggled loudly as they swayed together under the dim glow of neon lights.

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