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Assistant: Title: Fourth of July
        Author: jrrmint jrrmint 
        Chapter: 1/14 
        Summary: You’ve known Joel Miller for years. He’s practically part of the family - always by your dad’s side with that dark, brooding frown.You’ve never really thought much of him. He’s just…Joel. Dad’s best friend, occasional ride home, somewhat-scowly dinner guest.Until you come home one summer, after graduating college, and suddenly -You can’t think about anything anything else.
        Contents: Chapter 1: fourth of july
    

    


  

  
  
    
     
  It’s good to be back in Texas. Back home. You’re only here for a few months, in that awkward, post-grad summer between college and real-life - but it’s nice. Good to see your dad, and your friends, and…Joel.

  You’ve known him since you were a kid. He’s your dad’s best friend. You shouldn’t be nervous to see him - you see him every summer, every Christmas, every family get-together. But this time feels different. The past few times have felt different, if you’re being honest. He’s…

  No. He’s 
  
    Joel
  
  . He taught you how to swim. Showed you how to ride a bike. He’s got an ex-wife, and a daughter, and twenty years on you. But still. 
  
    Still
  
  . 

  You’ve only been home for a few days, but you still haven’t seen him. He makes himself scarce. Always at work, or busy with Sarah, or bailing Tommy out of jail. It’s probably better that way, anyway. The last thing you need is that f@ck@ng Southern drawl in your ear every day. 

  But you’ll see him today. Today it’s inevitable. The annual Fourth of July barbecue, organized by your dad and hosted by Joel. They’ve modified the theme this year - Fourth of July meets 
  
    Graduation!
  
   - to celebrate you. The guest of honor.  
So, yeah. You’re nervous. You’re really f@ck@ng nervous. You take an hour to pick out a sundress, and if you pick a matching set of underwear to go beneath it - black, lace, expensive - it’s definitely not because of him. 
  The walk across the street to Joel’s is torture. You drag your feet the whole way, mute alongside your father. He fills the silence with inane chatter. Something about Joel’s contracting business, you think. You follow him to the front door, and through the foyer, and out to the back yard - and there he is. Joel Miller, leaning heavily against his fence with a beer in one hand. A wallflower at his own party. 
He perks up when you approach. Tips his beer in easy greeting. 
  “Hey, kid. Long time no see.” 
You swallow. “Yeah. Long time no see.” 
  “College graduate,” he muses. “Too smart for me now.” 

  “Hardly.” 
“What’d you study, anyway?” You eye him. “You actually wanna know? Or you just making conversation?” The corner of his lip quirks. “Humor me.” 
  “English. Lit. You know, Jane Austen. Brontë sisters. That kinda thing.”
“Mm.” He looks amused. He takes a long sip of beer and you watch him swallow. “Bet you could teach me a thing or two. Last book I read was the Givin’ Tree.” 
  You stare at him. 
“Sarah’s favorite,” he elaborates. You laugh, then. “Sure.” 
  He eyes you. Keeps drinking. You shift a little in the silence, picking at the peeling wood along his fence. 
“Can I have a sip?” He pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. His brow lifts. But he hands the bottle over, fingers brushing yours when you reach out to grab it. 
  “Keep forgettin’ you’re old enough to drink,” he says. 

  You take a sip in response. He watches you closely, eyes twinkling. 
He’s almost smiling. Almost. It fades when he steals a glance over your shoulder. “You got company,” he says, snatching the beer back from your hand. 
  You turn in time to see Carter Thomas loping towards you. Twenty-something, next-door neighbor, one-time boyfriend. And perpetually, persistently, in love with you. You have enough time to sigh before he approaches. 
“Hey,” he says. He turns to Joel. “Mind if I steal her?” 
  Joel’s jaw ticks. “No,” he says, after a moment’s hesitation. “‘Course not. Don’t have too much fun.” 

  He pushes himself from the fence. You watch him go with a sinking heart. He turns to watch you over his shoulder, and you could swear there’s something in his eyes — 
  
    something
  
   — and then he blinks, and turns away, and it’s gone. You’re stuck with Carter Thomas.
“—last semester at Syracuse,” he’s saying, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know how it is.” You nod absently. Your eyes wander, searching aimlessly for Joel as he disappears back into the crowd. You catch a flash of flannel and smile softly. 
  “Are you even listening?” Carter whines. He sounds annoyed. He snaps his fingers — like, actually snaps — and your eyes flick back to him. “Like, you can’t even pretend to be interested? God. I text you, I call you, you can’t even be bothered to respond, and now you can’t even listen to a word I say—” 

  You 
  feel
   Joel before you see him. At your side again, slinking there like a shadow, all brooding, quiet, six-foot something of him. 
“There a problem?” he asks, softly. 
  “No,” Carter says, quickly. “We’re just talking.” 

  “Sounds more like you’re yellin’.” 

  Carter turns, exasperated. “Look, we’re fine,” he says. “Just — it’s really not your business.” 

  “It’s my house,” Joel says, quietly. “Think that makes it my business.” He looks at you. “You alright?” 
“Yeah.” You glare at Carter. “He was just leaving.” Carter blinks. He looks between you and Joel in disbelief. “Fine,” he huffs, putting his palms to the air. “Nice to see you.” 
  Joel grunts in response. He watches him go, standing silent at your side. You turn to face him after a brief moment. 
“Thanks for that.” You shrug. “He can’t take a hint.” 
  Joel grunts again. Not much for talking, you remember. Seems to speak less and less with each passing year. 

  But then he surprises you. 

  “You okay?”  

  “Yeah,” you say, a little caught off guard. “Fine. He’s harmless. Just annoying.” 

  He nods. “Sure. You wanna…you wanna talk about it?” 
You stare. 
  “
  You
   want to talk about something?” 

  He laughs at that. A short, sharp chuckle. “Not particularly. Good excuse to get away from this.” He gestures with his beer to the party; to the people milling through his yard. 

  “You hosted.” 

  “Yeah, well. It’s your dad’s thing. I just have the grill.”

  You shake your head, laughing a little. “Whatever. I could use a break, too. Lead the way.” 

  He weaves his way through the yard, stopping to pluck two beers from a cooler. You follow him inside, through the kitchen and up the stairs and down a quiet hallway. 

  “Through here,” he says, ducking into the guest bathroom. 

  “The … bathroom.” 

  “You’re impatient, you know?” 

  He moves to the back of the bathroom, to a window there. He puts his shoulder into the pane and nudges it open, letting cool air wash the room. And then he bends, grumbling softly as he climbs through the open window and steps onto the roof. 
You pause for a minute before you follow. He’s still grumbling when you make it onto the roof, catching your balance on the ledge. You take a cautious seat and let your legs dangle over the eave. 
  “Gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters. 

  You laugh, watching as he stumbles over to join you. The guests look smaller from up here. Distant. The sun slips beneath the roof and stains the sky purple. 

  He makes it to your side and drops down next to you with a sigh. He cracks both beers open and passes you one. 

  “I hate parties,” you blurt, after a moment’s silence. 

  He hums appreciatively. “Sure.” 

  More silence. He takes an excruciatingly long sip. 

  “I could kill him for you, if ya want,” he says, casually. “That Carter kid. Just say the word.” 

  Your head whips to him. A laugh bubbles up from your throat, and his lip quirks.  
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” He nods. “I got you covered,” he says. Playful, but…you get the sense he’s not entirely teasing. “Any boys give you a hard time, you send ‘em my way.” 
  You laugh again. Shake your head. 

  “So,” he says. “Carter. Anyone else I gotta watch out for?” 

  “Since when are you interested in my love life?” 

  He puts the bottle to his lips. “It’s called makin’ conversation,” he says. 

  You roll your eyes. Ignore the way your pulse quickens at the question. 

  “No one at school, if that’s what you’re asking.” 
He can read your tone. It’s not exactly subtle. “So there is someone,” he says. “It’s nothing.” You glance away from him. You swing your feet and watch the tips of your shoes. 
  “You told him how you feel?” 

  “No.” 

  “No,” Joel repeats. He sounds amused. “Why not?” 

  “It’s complicated,” you say, a little sharper than you intend. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just…” 
“OK. Alright.” He hoists his hands in mock surrender. But there’s something else in his eyes - something darker. It’s gone before he can blink. 
  “How’s my dad?” you ask. It’s a terrible attempt at a tone-shift, but he lets it go. He shrugs, lifting his bottle. 

  “You know. He’s alright. Think he misses havin’ you around.” 
Your heart tugs a little. “Yeah. I miss him too. Feel kinda bad, leaving him all alone here.” 
  Joel nudges your leg with his. “Don’t worry about him,” he says. “I make sure he does alright.” 

  You nod. It’s suddenly painfully obvious how close he is - how his shoulder brushes yours; how his bottle clinks yours when he shifts. 

  “We should probably go back down,” you say. “You’re the host. And I’m the guest of honor, or something. We can’t both be missing.” 
His gaze lingers half a second longer. 
  “No,” he agrees. He stands, brushing off his jeans, and offers you his hand. 

  You take it. He helps you up and your hand stays in his for a split-second longer than it should. Just long enough for your breath to catch. 

  He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “After you,” he says, motioning back through the window. He follows after you, closing it shut, and again you find yourselves in a rapidly-thickening moment of silence — this time in the confines of his tiny guest bathroom. 

  “Um, I think —” You blink. “I’m just gonna freshen up in here, if that’s cool. I can meet you back downstairs.” 

  “Oh. Sure. ‘Course.” He shuffles past you to the door. He pauses before he lets it close, peeking back in at you with one hand on the handle. 

  “You look real pretty tonight,” he says. “In case I didn’t say. Meant to tell you earlier.” 

  You blush. He nods, half to himself, and closes the door. 

  “
  
    F@ck
  
  ,” you mumble. You stand in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink as his footsteps recede. Your heart sits at the base of your throat. 

  
    You look real pretty tonight. 
  

  He’s never called you pretty before. Not ever. You’ve never heard Joel Miller call anything 
  
    pretty
  
   in his life. But, then, maybe it’s a friendly kind of pretty. A fatherly sort of pretty. A 
  
    you’re still the girl who used to babysit my daughter
  
   sort of pretty. 
Or maybe not. 
  An idea starts to form. It’s not a good one. It’s probably a 
  
    terrible
  
   one, actually, but you’re more than a few drinks deep, and something about the way he looked at you - the way he snapped at Carter, the way he led you to the roof - is telling you to do it. 
So - f@ck it. You do.
  You lift the hem of your sundress and work your underwear off. Black. Lace. Somewhere deep in your brain you 
  
    know
  
   you must have worn them for him. 

  You’re more than a little embarrassed to find they’re already damp. Just the f@ck@ng 
  
    thought
  
   of him - just that caramel drawl calling you 
  
    pretty
  
   - and you’re already soaked.

  You swear silently, balling the fabric into your fist, and push the door open before you can talk yourself out of this. Out of the bathroom, down the stairs, back into the yard. 

  You make a beeline for Joel. Your dad stops you, and your heart sinks — but you fend him off pretty easily. He’s too drunk to notice the blush on your cheeks, or the fabric stashed in your fist. 
You find Joel by the pool, trapped in conversation with his aggressively eager neighbor. Ms. Simmons. You remember her. Recently divorced, forever on the prowl. She’s got her claws sunk into Joel like a botoxed vulture. She’s laughing loudly — too loudly — when you approach. You get the sense Joel hasn’t said anything that resembles a joke. 
  “You’re 
  too
   much,” she coos, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You have to come by sometime. I’ll open a bottle of wine…” 

  She stops when she sees you at Joel’s side. Her expression sours. 
“Sorry,” you say, softly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 
  She opens her mouth to say something. Joel is faster. 

  “You ain’t interruptin’,” he says. He scoots a little to make room for you, even as Ms. Simmons scowls. 

  “I was just inviting Joel over for a glass of wine,” she says, eyeing you. “You’re always welcome too, of course. Just as soon as you’re old enough to drink.” 

  “I’m twenty-three,” you say. You manage a fake smile. You can feel Joel try not to laugh beside you. His hand hangs at his side, brushing yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.” 

  Ms. Simmons huffs. She’s determined, though - the way half of the women in this town are determined when it comes to Joel Miller - and she doubles down as if you’re a ghost. 

  You ignore her. You move closer to Joel, almost imperceptibly, but you can tell the way his frame goes rigid that he can feel you. You move your hand to his as Ms. Simmons chatters away. Joel is grunting politely every so often - that quiet, deadly Southern charm - but he goes quiet when he feels your fingers on his. And quieter still when you slip the scrap of black fabric into his palm.
His whole body stiffens. Even Ms. Simmons - oblivious as all hell and three sheets to the wind - can sense the change. She frowns. “Joel? Are you alright?” 
  He blinks, hard. His fist tightens on the lace. 

  “Fine,” he grits. “Would you excuse me a second?” 

  “Oh.” Her face falls. “Sure.” 

  You’re not expecting him to move as quickly as he does. You’re also not expecting him to 
  
    grab
  
   you the way he does, his free hand snatching at the back of your dress and 
  
    yanking
  
   you into his chest. 

  “
  
    Bathroom
  
  ,” he growls, stubble raking your ear. “Two minutes.” 

  He releases you before you can answer. You watch him stalk past you - past the party - and disappear into the house. 

  And then you follow. 

  You barely have to knock. Your knuckles graze the door and it swings open, wide enough for Joel’s hand to drag you inside. 
The door slams shut behind you. You stand sandwiched between Joel and the handle. 
  “What the hell are you thinkin’?” he snarls. His fist is still wrapped around your underwear. You can see the fabric peeking out between his fingers. 

  Your face goes hot. 

  “I don’t…I thought—”

  “What did you think?” he says, accent rough. “You thought takin’ off your panties —” he opens his fist and hooks a finger through the band, letting them dangle — “and handin’ ‘em to me at a 
  
    party
  
   was a good idea?” 

  You swallow. 

  “You know what your dad’d do to me if he saw this?” he hisses. “What he’d do to 
  
    you
  
  ?” 

  “Kill us both,” you offer, unhelpfully. 
He lifts a brow. Your underwear dangles from his middle finger.
  “D@mn right, kill us both.” 

  “So don’t tell,” you say, softly. It’s a hell of a lot bolder than you feel. 
He looses a low whistle. You can’t tell if he’s amused, or p@ss@d, or…something else. 
  “You used to be a good girl,” he says, and now his voice is dangerous. Low, silken, 
  
    Southern
  
  . “What the hell happened?” 

  “Don’t know.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that he’s stepped closer. A lot closer. “Grew up, I guess.” 

  “I guess,” he echoes. 

  He lifts his free hand to your face. Your breath catches. You’re halfway convinced he’ll kiss you — but then he grabs your jaw, holding it between rough fingers — and tilts your face to his. 

  “What am I supposed to do with these?” he growls. 

  You shake your head, as best you can with his hand on your jaw. 

  “Whatever you want,” you manage.

  “Whatever I want,” he repeats. His eyes are black, his lips inches from yours. You can taste whiskey on his breath. “And you? What am I supposed to do with you?” 

  You stare at him. His fingers slacken on your jaw, slipping lower, wrapping loosely around your throat.

  “Let me guess,” he mutters. “Whatever I want?” 

  You swallow. Nod, slowly. 

  He huffs. 

  “Alright,” he murmurs. His voice is velvet. His hand squeezes your throat. “Get on your knees.” 

  You look at him, a little surprised. His expression is almost unreadable. 

  “Anythin’ I want, right?” He c@cks his head. “Don’t make me ask twice.” 

  You don’t. You kneel on the ground, knees digging into the tile. It’ll leave a mark, you’re sure. You couldn’t care less. You put your hands on his belt and he doesn’t stop you. Your panties hang from his finger, still, dragging by your cheek as you work his belt free and tug his jeans past his hips.

  “You do this for all the boys?” he taunts. His drawl is thicker, now, slipping to a slur as his self-control wanes. 

  You shake your head. “No,” you mumble. 

  “No,” he agrees. His eyes are dark. 

  You work his boxers down and his c@ck springs free. You let out a small sound at the sight. 

  “Quiet,” he clips. He c@cks a head toward the window, where the sounds of the party filter through. “Unless you wanna give ‘em a show.” 

  You shut up. He moves his free hand to the back of your head and wraps his fingers in your hair, pushing you into his c@ck. Your mouth parts, gasping slightly as his tip drags past your lips. 
It’s the first reaction you’ve pulled from him. A ch@nk in brooding armor. A small, quiet grunt as he slides into your mouth.
  You smile a little, lips curving around his c@ck. He tightens his grip in your hair and pulls you closer, wiping your smile clean, making you choke. 

  “
  
    F@ck
  
  ,” you breathe, when his grip finally slackens. You take a breath, panting softly. His c@ck is slick with your saliva. 

  “You ain’t finished.” 

  He doesn’t grab you this time. He waits for you to move; waits for you to shuffle closer, and brace your hands on his thighs, and take him in your mouth. Waits for you to set the pace. 

  You can feel him tremble when you move faster, head bobbing, fingers digging at his hips. His hand stretches, steadying himself on the lip of the counter. 

  “Good?” you murmur. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his c@ck. He flinches.

  “Thought I told you—” he swears, knuckles tight on the sink, “—
  
    quiet
  
  .” 

  You smile again. He’s losing control. You can tell — the way his hips twitch, the way his c@ck jumps in your mouth. 

  “Don’t always listen,” you breathe, placing a kiss to his tip. 

  “
  
    F@ck
  
  ,” he mutters. His head tilts back. His fist b@lls around your panties. “That’s good, sweetheart. Just like that. Good—god 
  
    d@mn
  
   — good 
  
    girl
  
  .” 

  You swirl your tongue along the head of his c@ck. His hips buck into your mouth. 
“Don’t be a f@ck@n’ tease,” he growls. 
  You grin. You hum a soft apology around his c@ck and take him deeper, ignoring the throb in your knees. 

  He shudders. His hand flies off of the counter and buries again in your hair. 

  “Where you want it?” he breathes. His eyes are dark, blown black with l@st. His drawl drips down your skin and settles in between your legs. 

  You draw back long enough to speak. Those same three words. 

  “Whatever you want,” you mumble. 

  That drives him f@ck@ng crazy. 
  
    You
  
   drive him f@ck@ng crazy. His hand tangles in your hair and he f@cks your mouth, swearing softly, your own soaked panties crumpled in his other hand. 

  And then his hips jerk, and his half-silent swears spill broken from his mouth. He c@ms hard, clutching at your hair. 

  “F@ck,” he pants. You stare up at him, holding him on your tongue, swallowing slowly as he watches. “Good girl
  , baby. F@ck.” 

  His praise makes you blush. You sit back on your haunches and watch as he drags his boxers back up, then his jeans, then his belt. He fastens the buckle and looks down at you, still on your knees. He slides your panties into his back pocket and offers you his hand for the second time that night. 

  You take it and stand, a little shaky. Joel watches you. That impenetrable look is back.

  You’re not sure what to say. You’re pretty are you should say 
  
    something
  
  . But you’re spared — for better or worse — by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Loud footsteps. 
  
    Close
  
   footsteps. Footsteps that stop, suddenly, and darken the light under the bathroom door. 

  Joel moves faster than you. He grabs you, pressing his chest to your back, and claps a palm across your mouth. 

  The footsteps shuffle, a little uncertain. A knock follows at the door. 

  “
  
    Hello
  
  ?” 

  Your heart drops. You slacken in Joel’s grip. 

  You know that voice. You both do. 

  Your 
  
    dad
  
  . 

  “Hello?” he repeats. “Someone in there?” 

  You squirm. Joel’s hand tightens on your mouth. 

  “Yeah, sorry,” he calls. “Gimme a sec.” 

  “Joel?” You can hear your dad chuckle. He sounds drunk. “You seen my kid anywhere?” 
You mumble into Joel’s palm. He digs his fingers into your cheek, chest tight against your back. 
  “Don’t think so,” he calls back. 

  Your dad sighs. “Saw her talkin’ to that Carter boy…” he mutters. “Kid is bad news.” He pauses. “You okay in there?” 

  You giggle. You can’t help it. Joel’s arm flexes by your head. 

  “Fine,” he says, shortly. “Go ahead and use the bathroom downstairs. I need a minute.” 

  Your dad pauses again. You stifle a laugh, muffled in Joel’s palm. 

  “Okay,” your dad says, finally. “Let me know if you see my d@mn daughter.” 
“Yeah. Sure.” 
  His footsteps fade. Joel waits until he’s doubly sure he’s gone to release you. 

  “Really?” he scowls, when he sees your grin. 

  “
  
    Need a minute
  
  ,” you imitate him, affecting his drawl. You laugh. “You’re a bad liar.” 

  “Like hell I am. Saved your ass.” He nods at the door. “Get out of here,” he says. 

  When you don’t move, he puts a hand on the small of your back and pushes you to the door. “
  
    Out
  
  . Now. ‘Less you wanna explain this.” 

  “Not particularly.” 

  “Didn’t think so.” He cracks the door for you, sweeping the hallway before ushering out out. 

  You turn back to him before he can shut the door. 

  “I’m here all summer, you know.” 
An almost-smile ghosts his lips. 
  “You got a death-wish, or somethin’?” 
You shrug. “Maybe.” 
  “Mm.” He huffs. He leans in, desperately close, eyes flicking over your shoulder to ensure you’re alone. “Make sure to f@ck you properly next time, if you want it that bad.” 

  Then he draws back, and that narrowed gaze is back. He yanks the door shut and leaves you alone in the hall.

  You take a breath and start downstairs, smoothing your dress down your thighs. 

  You wonder if that was a promise. 

  And later — when you make it home, and climb into bed, and slip your hand between your legs — 

  You hope it was.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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