Jules was the perfect one. She was Farrah Fawcett and Bo Derek rolled into a perfect ten with a capital T. The blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty queen with the face of an angel and a body designed by Satan himself. She’d been a cheerleader, class valedictorian, president of the Girls Athletic Association—and a purported virgin throughout high school. She was the one you fantasized about fucking not only because she was beautiful, but because you knew it would be a wild ride. Back in high school, all the boys had wanted Jules. The girls had wanted to be her. If you were lucky enough to be her friend, everything you did was for Jules, even though she didn’t reciprocate in any way. Jules always said no, but every male who met her secretly clung to the desperate hope that sooner or later, she would change her mind.

Brick had known all of them since he was he was thirteen years old and broke Snipe’s front tooth in a game of stickball. They’d been best friends ever since. Baseball games. Campouts. Long days at the public pool. He’d laughed with them. Fought with them. Cried with them. He’d had more fun with them than at any other time in his life. He’d been closer to them than to his own brothers and sisters, a closeness he never found again. He’d shared the best days of his life with this group. But not all of those memories were good.

They were older now—strangers, in fact, having gone their separate ways years ago. They rarely saw each other. Rarely spoke. But there was one thing that would always bind them. An inescapable link that would connect them until they died.

He was on his second cognac when Snipe and Jules walked into the bar. At fifty-three, Jules was still a stunner. She was wearing a pale blue suit with pearls at her throat and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was still the same shade of blond. The kind that made your fingers itch to run through it. Beneath that skirt and jacket, he could see her body was still slender and athletic. She still had it and people still noticed, including him.

Snipe, on the other hand, at the age of fifty-four looked as bent and grizzled as the old man they’d once beat down for leering at Jules. He’d heard Snipe had a problem with booze. From the looks of him, the gossip wasn’t too far off the mark.

Raising his hand, Brick motioned them over to the table. It was still early, but he was pretty sure he was going to need another drink, so he caught the bartender’s eye. Phony smiles and overly cheery greetings were exchanged as his onetime friends settled into the booth, polite strangers bringing with them the redolence of the past—and the knowledge that this was no happy reunion, no matter how hard they tried to pretend.

Across from him, Jules offered a nervous smile. Her lips were still pouty and full and painted an appealing shade of red. Brick knew he’d never rated with her; he’d always been her least favorite, but in those early days, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing about her.