Page 37 of Good Friends
Gavin tried to answer him, but the heat of the Florida morning sun beating down on him, oppressively hot, baked into the pavement and radiating up at them, had dried all his spit and stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Arching over them, a clear, gorgeous blue sky witnessed everything.
I’ve lost him.
In that moment, framed with perfection and aching beauty all around them, he knew Porter was going to walk away as soon as he heard the next thing from him.
Because he’d have every right to.
Worse—Gavin knew he deserved it.
Gavin had to swallow again, and this time it was to keep from puking. “Jayce told me you and him were fucking on the regular,” he finally managed to force out of his throat.
Aaaaaannnnd here comes the eyebrow.
It was always Porter’s right one, something Gavin used to tease Porter about all the time. He was a lefty, and it was always his right eyebrow that went up.
“Let me get this straight,” Porter slowly said in an ominous tone. “You thought I was sleeping with Jayce…becauseJaycetold you I was? And you neverbotheredto askmeif that was true or not?”
* * * *
Gavin nodded.
Porter felt a lot of shit click into place.
Including a metric fuckton of anger.
Scratch that—rage.
He struggled to rein in that rage and kept his voice low and even. “You thought I was pulling a Geoff and wasn’t being honest with you, so instead of, oh, I don’t know,callingme and discussing this like a functional adult, you decided to blow me off andghostme?”
“I—”
“Tenyears,” Porter whispered, rage seething within him, and not all of it directed at Gavin. “Tenfuckingyears we’ve been friends, Gav. Good friends. You were mybestfucking friend.Howmany times in all those years have Ieverlied to you about something?”
“I—”
“Howmany times have youeverseen me lie toanyone?” He steamrolled him now. “Jesusfuckingchrist, Gav. We were lovers for oversixyears. You’re telling menowyou don’ttrustme? After all the times we played? After all we’ve been through as friends?”
Part of him wanted to grab Gavin and pull him into his arms. His gorgeous blue eyes looked full of pain.
He doesn’t trust me.
Sweat trickled between Porter’s shoulder blades, running down his spine.
There were a lot of things he could forgive and forget.
Alot.
But if someone didn’t trust him…
A cold, hard ball congealed in the pit of his stomach, pain and anger and guilt and no telling how much else garbage.
It finally hit him they were standing out in the middle of the apron. They hadn’t attracted any attention—yet—but it was only a matter of time.
“I can’t do this,” Porter said, struggling to keep himself in check. “Especially not here and now.”
What he wanted to do was fucking scream.
And pound the shit out of that little bastard, Jayce, but that could get him arrested. Because the kind of pounding he wanted to do to Jayce wasn’t the kind of pounding Jayce so obviously wanted.
