Giving It Over
When the past comes knocking with bedroom eyes, will Justin open the door... or bolt like he did last time?
Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr. has it all. Money, power, and a penthouse view of the world.
But when the city lights dim and the champagne runs dry, all he's left with is silence—and a heart that’s never been claimed.
Returning to Sweet Water, Alabama was supposed to be a quick visit. Instead, it brings him face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go—Enon Green. The boyhood best friend. The long-lost lover. The one who left a mark he never stopped feeling.
The chemistry’s still there—undeniable, electric, and dangerous. But love like this doesn’t come easy. Not when pride, pain, and unfinished business hang between them.
To have what he’s always wanted, Justin will have to stop playing it safe... and give it over.
Prologue
I flicked the light off, then on again. Checked the clock. Midnight. I’d been sitting at the table for over an hour, waiting for Chris to walk through the door and press kiss after kiss over my skin like he used to. The man I’d spent nearly a decade with.
My eyes drooped as my chin sank to my chest. I wanted to be awake in case he tried to sneak in like he always did—quiet, guiltless.
I reached for the wine bottle to top off my glass. Empty.
Shit.
Who was I kidding? He wasn’t coming. He probably forgot.
Across the room, the cluster of balloons Janet brought me swayed in the dim light. I stared at them for a second, wondering what Chris’ excuse would be this time.
I cleaned up the dishes I’d set for two, slid the untouched meal into the fridge, and checked my phone.
Nothing.
Of course.
I flipped off the lights and padded down the hall to my bedroom. Stripped down, I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror—eyes glassy, mouth set tight, like I was trying not to feel anything.
The wine buzz hit hard. Thoughts jabbed at me from every angle. Don’t go there, I warned myself. I wasn’t going to be that guy who breaks down, turns bitter, and starts hating love.
The sheets were cold. My body curled into itself on instinct.
A single tear soaked into my pillow. Then another.
Happy birthday to me.
I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. Can you keep one? I, Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr.—folks call me JJ. In fact, I’ve done it for so long that I've started believing the lie. The lie being that my life is perfect. No biggie, right? It’s a pretty big fucking deal to me.
Okay, maybe I'm being a tad dramatic.
I'm an Infopreneur. Fancy word, simple concept: I package and sell readily available information to people hungry for it, all about targeting, hitting the right audience.
“JJ, you've got a two-thirty with Mr. Killman from Ringer,” Janet said, breezing into the kitchen.
My office was my home—no need to set up in some overpriced Manhattan high-rise. Give me decent Wi-Fi, power, and a continuous flow of hot tea, and I'm golden. I loved New York—the buzz, the energy, the endless adventures.
Janet was my assistant and trusted confidante. I’d found her on a rainy autumn day, fresh from an audition for "The Color Purple." She lost the part because she was too pretty—no joke. They wanted homely; Janet was anything but.
Standing about five-six in heels with flawless graham-cracker skin, a dazzling smile, and curls that cascaded down her back, she was striking even through the tears running down her cheeks. She was my best friend and the world's greatest assistant two years later.
“Janet, can you call Mr. Killman and push him back an hour? I—”
“Can't," she interrupted. "You've got a doctor's appointment at three-thirty.” She buttered her toast without looking up. Janet always knew my schedule better than I did. It was part of her charm—no sugar-coating, no nonsense.
“Fine,” I sighed, closing my laptop.
I moved to the kitchen island where Janet sat, sipping coffee and side-eyeing me over the paper. She'd made my favorite breakfast: omelet, grits, and toast. She'd even brought homemade jam from her last visit home—another southerner like me, which instantly bonded us.
“What’s with the daggers?” I asked, spooning cheesy grits onto my omelet.
“What’s happening with you and Chris?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play. You know exactly what I mean. He’s been calling nonstop. Should I tell the poor guy to give it up?”
I washed down my toast with orange juice. “Do that.”
Janet scowled. That wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
Chris, my ex, was a complicated mess. We'd been off and on like a worn-out light switch. Since he missed my birthday last month and showed up two days late with flowers, he'd been calling, thinking I'd forgive him again. Once, maybe. Twice? Absolutely not. Chris was notorious for vanishing, then reappearing as if nothing had happened.
“Sort this out with Chris. I can't handle him clogging up the line with his foolishness,” Janet said, grabbing her bag.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, mouth half-full.
“I've got lunch with one of the app developers. Pretty sure he's into me.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn't do,” I teased.
“That leaves almost nothing,” she laughed, blowing a kiss. “Smooches.”
I hated being alone.
Finishing breakfast, I ignored the unread newspaper—too depressing, and I was halfway there already. I could retire comfortably, even now. My dad retired in his sixties and returned to work, claiming he missed the routine. Maybe I just needed a new challenge. Or perhaps I needed a solid man in my life—wasn't that the go-to remedy? New hairstyle or a new man? Already cut my brown locks shorter, so that was out.
My phone rang, loudly pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen—Chris. I let it ring through to voicemail.
It was still morning, and I had time before my meeting. I sauntered into my bedroom, drew the blinds, and crawled back into bed. Maybe I'd go clubbing tonight and find a man who could make me forget everything, at least temporarily.
Why did Mondays have to suck so hard?
I’d just popped the final bag of popcorn when Janet arrived. Everything was ready: popcorn, cheesecake, three flavors of hot wings, baby carrots, strawberries, string cheese, and an array of spirited beverages. Yet, something nagged at me—I felt I was forgetting something.
“Hey, baby!” Janet called from the foyer. She’d brought the DVDs for our weekend ritual. Every other weekend, we indulged in movie marathons until sugar comas or exhaustion took over.
Janet pulled me into a tight embrace, her perfume sweet and comforting. “How you living, chicka?”
“Like a hooker on parole, JJ,” she quipped, slapping me on the back playfully.
I cherished these nights. After the grind of the workweek, Janet could make anything feel like a celebration. We collapsed onto the couch, surveying our spread.
“Impressive,” Janet said, reaching for the strawberries. “Wait—where’s the whipped—”
“Shit! I got it!” I leaped up, rushing to the fridge and grabbing the whipped cream. “Knew I forgot something. Pop in the DVD.”
Just as I turned back toward the couch, a knock rattled the door. Janet looked up, confused, mouth full of strawberries. Setting the cream down, I moved cautiously toward the door. Odd—the doorman hadn’t announced anyone.
Peering through the peephole, I whispered sharply, “It's Chris!”
I edged away, hoping he’d assume I wasn't home.
“JJ, open up,” Chris called through the door, knocking insistently.
Music blared from the TV as Janet started the movie. I waved frantically for her to mute it, but too late.
“Justin! Open the door. We need to talk.”
I sighed deeply, leaning my head back against the wall.
Janet gestured for me to open up. Reluctantly, I released the chain, cracking the door just enough to see Chris's piercing eyes staring back at me.
“What is it, Chris? I'm busy,” I said, avoiding direct eye contact—his gaze had a dangerous charm that could melt resolve.
“You're on a date?” His voice rose slightly, disbelief clear.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Hey, Chris!” Janet called cheerfully from the couch.
Rolling my eyes, I stepped back, letting Chris enter. He strode confidently past Janet, nodding in acknowledgment before settling into the kitchen.
“Give me a minute, Janet,” I murmured, approaching Chris at the island. His hands were buried deep in his pockets as he paced, placing his bolo hat aside. Tall and effortlessly stylish, Chris was every bit the modern hipster, minus the pretentiousness. His emerald eyes, framed by dark curls, were serious and intent.
“What do you want, Mr. Lenier?” I asked, sitting near the window.
“I want another chance,” Chris said abruptly, turning and heading to my bedroom.
I followed anxiously. “Chris, we've been over this. It's better this way.” I nervously smoothed my hands down my thighs.
“You can't toss years like trash, Justin. You can't wake up one day and decide you're done.”
“It's not that simple—”
He interrupted sharply, “Yes, it is, JJ. Maybe I wasn’t perfect, but this was new territory for me. I was trying.” He reached out pleadingly.
“Eight years isn’t ‘new,’ Chris.” My voice was gentle, yet firm.
Tears traced down his cheeks, and I averted my gaze, unable to meet his wounded eyes.
“When did things change?” His voice trembled slightly.
“Two months ago, I guess. Things just… shifted.”
“You shifted, JJ. I haven't changed—you did. And not for the better.”
Chris and I had a history stretching back to Sweet Water, Alabama. He’d joined my circle, and years later, fate reconnected us in New York. I’d helped him land a comfortable job leveraging his charm and looks, but our personal relationship struggled. Despite the amazing sex, we wanted different things.
“Justin!” Chris slammed his fist onto the dresser, jolting me from my thoughts.
“What? Are you thinking about him again?” His voice edged with anger, veins prominent.
We both knew the truth, and silence was my only answer.
“If you can't talk calmly,” I warned, "you can walk your loud ass out.”
“Mwen damou pou,” he said softly in Creole, kneeling to clasp my hands.
“Chris, don't say things you don't mean,” I whispered, gently pushing him away. I opened the door, catching Janet quickly retreating to the couch.
Without another word, Chris stormed out, the door slamming shut. His hat remained behind, probably intentionally. I picked it up, inhaling his lingering scent, and sank onto my bed. Maybe he was right—perhaps a part of me still held on.
“You okay?” Janet called from the living room.
“Yeah,” I replied weakly.
“I don't know how you let that fine-ass man walk outta here,” she teased loudly. “You must be crazy!”
Maybe I was.
When the '205' area code flashed across my caller ID, my gut told me it wasn't good news. I rarely got calls from back home, especially at three in the morning. I’d just stumbled into my apartment after a night of partying with the girls from 212D, still half-drunk and barely coherent.
I squinted at my phone, making sure I wasn’t seeing things, and tapped the green icon. Loud music burst from the speakers, and after a couple of failed hellos, the call dropped. Shrugging it off, I headed to the bathroom, only for the phone to ring again.
Same number.
It took a few more tries, but the call finally connected. Cousin Lonnie's voice broke through, urgent and serious—Aunt Mae, my dad’s sister, wasn't doing well and wanted to see me. I hadn’t seen her or anyone from my family in over ten years.
Yet, going back wasn't all dread. It meant potentially seeing Enon Green. We’d been inseparable once, until I abruptly left Sugar Town without a goodbye, afraid he'd convince me to stay.
The flight passed in restless anxiety, and by the time I rented a car, exhaustion was pulling at my eyelids. Speeding through backcountry roads toward town, I barely noticed the flashing blue lights behind me.
Shit.
I glanced at the speedometer—sixty-five. On a deserted country road, pulling over felt dangerous. There have been too many horror stories lately of fake cops taking advantage of unsuspecting drivers. So, I kept driving until the lights flashed brighter, and the patrol car pulled up alongside me, signaling sternly for me to stop.
“Not until I reach town!” I shouted through the open window, wary and determined. A brightly lit gas station ahead became my safe haven. Pulling under its canopy, I relaxed slightly, noticing an attendant watching from inside.
Footsteps hurried toward my car. “Don’t you know to pull over for blue lights?” the cop barked, irritation evident.
“I need to see some ID,” I insisted, skeptical.
“What?” He seemed startled.
“How do I know you're a real cop?”
“Badge says I am,” he growled, pointing aggressively at his chest.
“What seems to be the problem, officer?” I asked, just as the attendant stepped out to observe.
“You were speeding.”
“Was I?” Innocence filled my tone.
“The limit here is fifty-five.”
My eyes fixated on his thick, gray eyebrows, reminiscent of Boss Hog from The Dukes of Hazzard. “How fast was I going?”
He shook his head, clearly frustrated, then leaned against my window. His radio crackled to life with dispatch. After a brief, tense exchange, he pulled back sharply.
“You got lucky this time, punk. Watch your speed.”
The attendant approached as the cop drove off. “Real lucky there, mister. Jimmy's known for hauling folks in quicker than a bee shits.”
“Good to know. Fill it up, would you?” I asked, relieved.
Sugar Town hadn't changed much—still offering full-service gas stations with a charm lost on most modern cities. Inside, I searched hopelessly for something healthy, settling instead on junk food.
“You got a slow leak in that back tire. Did a quick patch,” the attendant mentioned casually at checkout. “Fifty-two forty-five.”
Handing him my credit card, he shook his head. “Cash or checks only.”
“You’re joking. Who carries cash?”
“I do,” he replied, folding muscular arms with a smirk.
Frustration mounting, I sighed deeply. “No ATM either?”
“Nope.”
Perfect. The night was officially a disaster.
But then he softened. “Look, I know your mama. Bring the cash next time you're in town.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thanks, man,” I said, offering my hand.
“And JJ—watch that speed. Cops are prowling tonight. Take care now.”
After checking on Aunt Mae, I headed back to the hotel. I kicked off my shoes, collapsed onto the bed, and flipped through emails. Messages from Chris caught my eye, but I quickly marked them as read—not tonight, not here.
The realization sank in: I was back in Sugar Town after nearly a decade, and oddly, things weren’t as dire as they seemed. Aunt Mae was surprisingly spry, her health scare exaggerated, her spirits high, especially when she hinted at a new "friend" ensuring her "pipes stayed clean." Aunt Mae had never been shy about sex talk.
Night came, moonlight illuminating my restless thoughts. Family fussed about my hotel stay, but I needed my privacy. My life, my rules.
Restless, I drove toward a familiar bar just outside town, unsurprised by the lot full of trucks—the Southern man’s luxury ride. Loud country music greeted me as I stepped inside, memories of sneaking beers and playing pool with my uncle flooding back.
Sliding onto a crowded barstool, my eyes caught sight of Enon, alone, nursing a drink. Heart thudding, I debated bolting but steadied myself, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.
“Hey there, cowboy,” I smiled softly.
He spun around, eyes lighting up instantly. No resentment, just warmth. “Justin Jr.! Damn good to see you. Sit your ass down, boy!”
“Still drink Seven and Seven?” Enon asked.
I nodded, reaching for my wallet.
“Nah, your money’s no good here. One Seven and Seven, one SoCo,” he called out to the bartender.
We settled in. Enon looked as rugged and handsome as ever, his muscles sculpted from years of farm work, his jeans snug, and his belt buckle prominently advertising his assets.
“Sorry about your family,” Enon said gently, eyes momentarily softening.
Just then, a busty redhead sidled up, draping herself around Enon possessively. “Daddy, I hoped we’d have some fun tonight,” she purred, her hands wandering shamelessly.
Enon politely untangled himself. “Rain check, honey. My buddy's in town.”
She scowled at me, but Enon brushed her off smoothly. Watching her retreat, he chuckled, “Hell of a lay, but too damn needy.”
“So, did you find what you were chasing when you left?” Enon finally asked bluntly.
“Enon, I—”
“Justin, you ran off without a word. Now you're only here because you have to be.” His voice was low but firm.
Silence stretched between us. He wasn't wrong—I’d bolted, chasing something I still couldn’t clearly define. Eager to diffuse tension, I ordered patron shots. Ten shots later, our mood was lighter, the music louder, and laughter easier.
My phone buzzed; my cousin Jack was checking in. Enon noticed my hesitation. “Crash at my place,” he offered, and after a quick text letting Jack off the hook, we headed out.
The short drive to Enon’s estate felt surreal. A sprawling plantation, unchanged and nostalgic, welcomed us through iron gates. Inside, Enon’s "playroom" was modern luxury hidden within classic southern architecture. We settled into oversized bean bags, gaming until laughter turned quiet, touches more intentional.
Enon’s closeness sent sparks down my spine. His lips found my neck, gentle yet purposeful. “Enon—” I murmured uncertainly.
“You know exactly what this is,” he whispered, guiding my lips to his. His mouth, soft yet demanding, silenced my hesitations briefly.
Breathless, I retreated to the bathroom, splashing cold water to calm my racing heart. Returning, I found Enon had moved upstairs, leaving an enticing trail behind.
Following hesitantly, I discovered him stripped, cock hard, eyes playful yet intense. Desire overwhelmed logic briefly until sobriety reasserted itself. “Enon, we shouldn’t—”
He resisted gently, persuasive yet respectful. Ultimately, I pulled away, needing clarity.
As I made for the door, Enon blocked it, naked and earnest. “Stay. Sleep here, any room you want,” he urged, sincerity evident.
I conceded quietly. Alone in bed, the southern night sounds soothed me. Enon knocked softly, entering with a thoughtful gesture—a blue nightlight.
“I remembered your fear of the dark,” he smiled warmly, slurring slightly.
"Thanks," I whispered, touched.
He leaned in, softly kissing me goodnight. “Glad you’re back, JJ.” He nodded and leaned in again, planting a soft kiss on my lips. “I’m not trying to get in your pants right now. I want to, but I don’t, if that makes sense. Just having you here is good enough, my favorite guy.”
“Nite, Enon.” I kissed him softly on the cheek. The door clicked shut. I rolled onto my side, eyes settling on the soft glow of the blue night light—then, slowly, a smile tugged at my lips.
