Page 41 of Manhattan Tormentor

“Fuck yeah.” He makes a call, then bounds through the bar to meet the guy outside. I’m like a crackhead grabbing out my phone once I’m alone. I don’t know what it says about me that Raene Fierro’s social media is first in my search history.

I don’t care about reading her boring teen cheerleader statuses. I deep dive the pictures she posted with her brother and my chest constricts. “Boys, my best friend, is single and ready to mingle. You have to pass my test to date him, no twinks or f*ck boys. No meatheads either.”She posted a recent pic of him in a pair of shorts and sliders. His chest is bare, wearing a pair of aviators, his hair a mess around his face, his head thrown back laughing.

There is no way I can deny the burst of arousal I have pulsing through me. It chokes me until I have to close out the account.

Preston saunters over and goes to sit. I can’t deal with another of his dramas today. He’s like a walking trouble magnet with chicks fighting over him on the regular because he’s a rich manwhore.

“Go get the drinks,” I say.

“You don’t order me.”

My eyebrow lifts, and I lean forward, arms on my thighs, staring. “I could make you, but that’d be embarrassing for you.”

He sits for a challenging second, staring at me before he hauls ass to the bar.

Now I can do what I was doing without an audience.

Professional stalker at your service.

Reduced to digitally prowling, pouring over a picture ofhimlike I’m looking at porn. My dick hurts like I am. Right on the tailcoat of my arousal comes the puzzled anger.

I let it bubble and fester while I finish my beer and spy Paris across the bar making out with Avery. Their on again off again girl hook-ups appear to be having a farewell party too.

But even their make-out session doesn’t stir me like that goddamn photo does.

I go through a game of chicken with myself while I listen to the guys talking and getting drunk. How soon I’ll look again. How fast I’ll scroll to one of the Fierro’s pages. There’s always something new posted, especially on their mom’s social page.

If you swiped my mom’s social media, it’s charity banquets and events, with very little family posted on there.

The Fierro mom over-shares the love of her family like vomit.

I last three minutes before I get on her page.

I’m looking for answers as though I can find them in snapshots.

I wonder what Theo and Lachlan would say if they knew I had the hots for their younger brother.

You can tell a lot about someone’s social presence.

What you see is not what always can be believed.

My gut grows tighter with every unearthed pic of Sage.

He’s the one who most looks like his dad. Same smirk.

“Got it, bro.” Bates appears and I slip my phone away.

We get high that night. It’s the end of an era. We have to do it right by getting fucked up. I stand in the backyard while Bates gets it on with Paris inside. His parents are away more than they’re home, so he has the house to himself.

Blowing smoke to the sky, I push my back to the wall and sink down to my ass, legs bent at the knees, my arms resting on top of them. It’s because I’m mellow that I start a video call. He’s not smiling when Sage appears on the screen. My eyes streak over him, searching for answers about why he makes me feel funny.

“Have you ever fucked a girl?”

His brows fall over his brooding eyes. “You need to work on your phone presence, Maverick.”

“Have you?”

“I’m a gold star gay.”

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