Before I could ask how she planned to find someone for security when it had taken weeks to find Tim, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m going to get Mikey back.”

Chapter Two

~ Mike ~

I stumbled out of my bedroom, naked as the day I’d been born, cursing my willpower. I’d told myself I wouldn’t drink too much last night, but fuck if I ever listened to the annoying asshole in my head. Hell-bent on proving that he wasn’t the boss of me, I’d drank myself into the hangover from hell.

Heading straight to the fridge, I grabbed the carton of OJ and tipped it to my mouth. I needed fluids and pain meds, and to sleep for another week or two. Setting the juice back on the shelf and slamming the door, I leaned my head against the cool, smooth surface of the freezer.

I didn’t remember how I got home last night, but I did remember the fucked-up dreams I’d had. Lee. They were always about Lee. This time, she’d come to Hooligan’s. It was so real, I would have sworn on a bible she’d actually been there.

I heard the bathroom door open, but I didn’t bother to cover myself. Courtney, my roommate, had seen it all before. More than once, actually. Nothing about me fazed her anymore, and I didn’t have the parts that she was interested in, so I just didn’t give two fucks. I’d told her once that she was more than welcome to walk around naked too, and if her girlfriend wanted to join, I’d be okay with that. I’d suggested that we could have a “clothing optional” apartment, but she’d just laughed and flipped me off. Probably for the best, considering she did have the parts I was interested in, and my body would most definitely react to hers, frightening them both with my girth and causing blue balls of epic proportions.

If my mind had been a little less foggy, or if I hadn’t been trying to recall the dream from last night, I might have registered the fact that Cort wouldn’t be home on a school day. She taught physical education at a local high school, so she couldn’t possibly be here mid-morning on a Thursday.

“Well, this is a new look.”

I snapped my head back, turning toward the voice I knew all too well, my hands dropping down to cover myself because my morning wood was definitely something she hadn’t seen before. “Lee?” Before she could answer, I continued. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid. What in the hell are you doing here?”

She raised a single eyebrow, crossing her arms the way she did when she was pissed. “Who do you think brought your drunk ass home last night, genius?”

“You came to Hooligans.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact as I realized it hadn’t been a dream.

“You always were a smart one. I’m glad to see all the booze you’ve consumed this summer hasn’t changed that.”

I didn’t miss her icy tone. Or the way her eyes washed over me in an extremely judgmental way. Part of me wanted to lift my hands and give her the full show, while telling her to fuck off. The other part wanted to wrap her in my arms, because I’d missed her that fucking much. Before I could make up my mind, she turned away.

“Why don’t you go put something on? Then we’ll talk.”

Keeping my hands cupped in front of me, I stepped into the main part of our apartment that we used as a living and dining space. Across the room were two doors, one right across from the minuscule kitchen that led to the bathroom, and another that led to Courtney’s bedroom. Lee had moved to the other end of the room and stared out the sliding glass doors, ignoring me, so I quickly jogged the few steps to my room next to the kitchen and shut the door. Not that I thought she’d look, but I needed a few minutes to get my shit together.

To understand me, to really understand my story, there’s one thing you need to know. I’m the idiot in love with the woman he can never have. I’m the little whiny bitch I complain about—the loser who sits down, ties one on, and writes depressing-ass love songs about the one who got away. There’s more to me, sure, but in order to get me, and appreciate my relationship with Lee, you need to know the history.

If I’m being honest, I can’t remember a time in my life when Cecelia Marie Merrill-Foster, now Lia fucking Kelly, didn’t matter to me. Even when I was supposed to hate her, when I’d acted like I didn’t know she was alive, I knew her every move. The term “best friend” couldn’t even begin to describe my feelings for her.

It happened so early in life, our relationship, that by the time I was old enough to know my ass from my elbow, she was as much a part of me as my parents, or my grandmother. I can’t look back and tell you the day that I started playing with the chunky little redhead that lived down the road from my Grammy Ginny. I can recall thousands, if not millions, of times the two of us spent hours racing trucks in the dirt, chasing each other over trails on our ten-speeds, fishing in one of the local brooks, and telling secrets under the stars in the backyard. LeeLee, as her dad called her, was the most important person in my life for years.

When we were six, she’d turned her beloved Red Sox baseball hat around, as if she was some little punk, and in one fluid movement, punched Jeremy Westcott in the nose hard enough to break it, giving him the bump he still has today. Why did the innocent little pacifist turn into a blood hungry hit-man-in-the-making, you ask? Because Westcott called me a geek, knocked me down at recess, and ripped my copy of James and the Giant Peach out of my hands, destroying my prized possession. I will never forget the war whoop she screamed as she lunged at him, or the way he avoided her until…well, forever.

When we were seven, she talked her dad into teaching me how to play catch, because I wanted to play baseball and my own father never had the time. She sat on the sidelines for hours, watching us instead of begging Mr. Foster to pay attention to her. Lee was the best second baseman her little league softball team had ever seen, but she gave up valuable practice time so I could get better.

When we were eight, she’d held my hand and told me it was okay that I’d wet the bed while we were at a sleepover, the first one I’d been invited to. Then she snuck out of the room, found a pail, and “accidentally” knocked the entire thing over, soaking both me and my sleeping bag, washing away my shame. She swore she’d never tell anyone what had really happened—a promise she’d kept, even though parents labeled her the “bratty” kid.

When we were ten, she’d watched Stephen King’s It with me, because all the cool kids at school had seen it and I was too scared to watch it alone. Then she pretended she was the one that was afraid of clowns, instead of me, so that I didn’t get made fun of for not going to the circus. And miraculously, every time the creepy traveling act came to town, Lee needed me to do something with her, so I never had to face my fears.

Lee had always been the epitome of a redhead—a mouthy little spit fire, never afraid to back down. If she loved you, she loved you with everything she had, and always had your back. That passion went both ways. If she didn’t like you, or if you did something to hurt someone she cared about, she’d never let it go. Loyalty wasn’t just a second-grade spelling word to Lee, it was her entire existence.

That’s the kind of friend you have for life, the one who stands up on your wedding day and gives a heartfelt toast, wishing you the best of everything because they truly believe you deserve it. She wasn’t the friend who you ditch when you’re twelve because Ally Jackson, the prettiest girl in the school, realizes you’re alive when you make the school’s baseball team. And she sure as hell wasn’t the kind of friend you start to torment, making fun of every chance you get, because it isn’t cool to live in the poorest part of town.