Fake Friends - Saxon James Page 0,3

of high school.

I swallow all that back and approach his table.

His relaxed expression immediately closes off as his eyes narrow, and I have to shift my attention from him to Royce.

“What can I get you guys?”

Royce lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “Since when do you do table service here?”

“You guys are just special, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.” He looks skeptical as hell, and it makes me wonder if Circus ever told him what happened between us. I always imagined he would run his mouth about me all over town—it was one of the reasons I took off—but when time passed with no whisper of it reaching my sister, I realized he’d somehow kept it to himself.

I don’t deserve it.

But damn if I’m not grateful anyway.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Circus tuck his hands behind his head, lean arm muscles popping under his shirtsleeves, shaggy dark hair a sinful mess. I refuse to look.

Even as my mouth goes dry.

Even as I ache to touch.

I’ve managed to mostly ignore my craving for men for the past five years, but Circus has always had a way of breaking down my resolve.

“Have you guys decided?”

Royce nods and orders a black coffee with toast before handing his menu to me. Then I have no choice but to look at Circus.

He’s so … laid-back now. I’m not used to the stillness. At school, he was always bouncing around and making people laugh, like he didn’t have a care in the world. People used to call him a clown, but he figured, why be a clown when you can be the whole circus? It’s where he got his name.

That person is clearly long gone now.

He watches me steadily, and it’s like I can see fire brimming behind his eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s picturing punching me in the face.

“And you?”

“Granola and a green smoothie.”

I frown. “Ah … we don’t do green smoothies. Just banana, strawberry, and chocolate.”

He scoffs. “See, Royce? Told you we should have met at Peg’s.”

“Yeah, but Tanner and I always meet here. And you just had to talk to me this morning.”

“I’m regretting that choice more and more each minute.”

I’d say they’ve forgotten me as they bicker, but there’s a tension crackling in the air between us that tells me Circus is just as aware of me as I am of him.

“Let me see what I can do,” I eventually say, then leave them to it.

If Circus wants a dirty green drink, I’ll get it for him. If I have to be his personal waiter for a week—a month!—I’ll do it.

Because no matter how much I tried to move on with my life in Portland, I couldn’t do it.

Not after how I left things here.

I’d like to say that what I did to Circus was my only reason for running away, but my family played a big part in that decision too.

Especially my grandpa. And all the times he’d beaten “that sissy shit” out of me as a kid.

I let out a long breath.

Right. Green shit.

I google ingredients for a green smoothie and start to throw them together. It’s not going to be what he’s after, but it’s the best I can do.

I grab Royce’s coffee, and seeing Tanner walk in, I make his usual too. Then I head back to their table.

Circus’s back is to me as I approach, and I catch the back end of the conversation. “… have a proposition for you.”

Royce and Tanner share a look.

“Just hear me out,” Circus continues. “It’s super easy. All Royce would need to do is pose in this swimwear with me, plaster the pictures all over social media, and then he’ll make an easy twenty-five K.”

Twenty-five K? I almost drop the drinks, so I hurry to plonk them on the table. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Eavesdropping,” Circus says. “What a complete surprise.”

“You’re in a public place.”

“And I wasn’t talking to you.” He picks up his smoothie, and I’m sure he wants another reason to throw a quip at me. But as he drinks, his eyes flick toward me, and then he hurries to set the glass on the table. I must have passed some kind of test because he stays quiet.

“What’s going on here?” Tanner asks. “You guys were friends in high school. Did something happen?”

Only the worst moment of my entire life.

“Yeah,” Circus replies. “I learned good judgment.”

“What was this about photos?” I ask.

“What was this about minding your own goddamn business?” The forced civility in his tone is starting to