My Brother's Enemy

MY BROTHER’S ENEMY Firsts & Forever Stories Vol. 8 ALEXA LAND U.S. Copyright 2023 by Alexa Land. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission in whole or in part of this publication is permitted without express written consent from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is purely coincidental. This gay romance contains sexually explicit material. It is intended for ADULTS ONLY. Contents Acknowledgments 1. Romy 2. Marcus 3. Romy 4. Marcus 5. Romy 6. Marcus 7. Romy 8. Romy 9. Marcus 10. Romy 11. Marcus 12. Romy 13. Marcus 14. Romy 15. Marcus 16. Romy 17. Romy 18. Marcus 19. Marcus 20. Romy 21. Marcus 22. Marcus Epilogue: Romy Dedication This is my 40th published book, and I’m dedicating it to my readers. Whether you’ve been reading my books for the last ten years, just discovered them, or something in between, thank you. I couldn’t do this without you, and I’m so grateful you chose to give my stories a chance. Acknowledgments Thank you Kim, Melisha, Kelly, and Valerie for your help in making this book the best it can be. I truly appreciate your time and effort! And thank you Amy for keeping me company along the way. 1 Romy “Take a chance, Romy.” “Yeah, I don’t think so.” “But that guy at the end of the bar keeps looking over here,” my friend Pete said. “He’s definitely interested, so you should go introduce yourself.” “Actually, he’s been checking you out, not me.” No surprise there. Pete looked like a model with his bleached white-blond hair, big brown eyes, and high cheekbones. It didn’t hurt that he was dressed in a tight, royal-blue T-shirt and shorts, which showed off his long, lean body. Meanwhile, I looked like a duck hanging out with a peacock—drab by comparison, especially in my baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirt. He reached across the bar and refilled my coffee cup as he insisted, “You’re wrong about that.” I snuck a glance at the guy in question, who was cute and probably in his mid-twenties. Ever since Pete had started working at my mom’s bar, he’d been attracting a younger and hipper clientele. It was interesting to see them mingling with the regulars, including a number of senior citizens who’d been coming here for decades. A minute later, the guy came over and slipped Pete his number. Then he winked at him before heading for the door. Once he was gone, I said, “See?” My friend looked disappointed as he muttered, “Oh,” and swept the scrap of paper off the bar. But then he perked up again and asked, “What about that guy in the hockey jersey? I saw you checking him out when he came in.” “I was looking at the logo on his chest, and wondering which team had a super pissed off saber-toothed tiger as its mascot.” “The Nashville Predators.” “You just made that up.” “Nope. It’s a real team.” “And you know that why?” “Because I watch hockey.” He raised a brow and asked, “Why do you look surprised?” “I just remember how much you hated all things sports-related when we were in high school.” “I’ve broadened my horizons in the nearly ten years since we graduated. In this case, I started watching hockey while dating a guy who was totally into it. I ended up kicking him to the curb after a month or two, but my love of hockey lives on.” Pete and I had been friends in our teens, but we’d drifted apart after high school and gotten back in touch just a couple of months ago. He really had changed a lot over the years, while I was pretty sure I was exactly the same. He went back to scanning the crowd. Then he indicated a tall guy by the restrooms and asked, “What about him? He’s cute. You should go over and introduce yourself.” “Once again, I’ll pass.” “Why?” “We’ve talked about this, Pete. I’m not interested in meeting anyone.” He shook his head. “I know what you said, but come on. So, you’ve had a string of bad relationships. Who hasn’t? That doesn’t mean you should give up on love, not at twenty-seven. It’s bad enough that you never go out, and—” “I’m out right now!” “This doesn’t count. It would if you got your flirt on while you were here, but you only come in to visit me or your mom. And then the rest of the time, you’re either at work or home alone in your depressing apartment.” “How is my apartment depressing?” Pete shrugged. “It’s small, and you live alone.” I was about to argue that it was small because I lived alone, and how much space did one person need? But one of the bar’s regulars joined us just then, greeting me with a back-slapping embrace as he exclaimed, “Romy, my boy! Good to see you!” The little old man let go of me and grabbed Pete’s hand, shaking it vigorously as he said, “I’m Henry Kissinger—not the famous one.” He’d been introducing himself that way all my life. Probably longer. “Pete DiChanza. What can I make you, Mr. Kissinger?” “Hot tea with brandy. Mandy knows how I like it, but I guess she isn’t in today.” “No sir, my boss went out to dinner with her fiancé,” Pete said. “But if you walk me through it, I’ll remember your drink order for next time.” After Henry explained his usual—black tea with two sugars and a splash of apple brandy—he turned to me and said, “I’ve been with my sister in Arizona. She fell and broke her hip. Terrible, at our age.” “I’m so sorry.” “She’s fine now,” he said, “so I came back home, and everything’s different here at the bar! Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy your