Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 37
I put my head in my hand, shaking it. Jenna met this dude when she did orientation back in April. He was her group leader. He had on rainbow shoes, so she got his number for me. Like all gays should automatically be friends.
When I moved into my new apartment about a week and a half ago, Jenna pushed me to text the guy. So I did. He was at my place in like two hours, helping me unpack my boxes. He came by with sub sandwiches, plus two of his also-gay friends. Within two days, I was coming out to everybody who seemed safe. Pretty fucking crazy.
A few days back, Daniel saw my Snapchat—I guess he got it from Jenna the Betrayer—and he weaseled me into running the social media for the LGBTQ+ student group. So now I'm doing two Snapchats, and also two Instagrams.
Daniel gets out on the dance floor, and I look down at my phone. Maybe I'll snap the olives at the bottom of my martini. Jack and Cokes my ass. Motherfucker’s definitely drunk if he mistook this martini for a Jack and Coke.
I snap the olives, throw a filter on, and then hold two fingers up at the bartender, letting him know I want more when he can. Daniel and Finn, his—our—friend, can dance all night if they want. I'm not made for dancing.
I'm made for the bar stools.
I'm smiling to myself when a low voice says, "Hello there."
It sounds like a radio announcer, so at first I'm confused.
I look up, frowning, at...whoa—this hot, hot guy. He's on the bar stool by mine.
"I saw you," he says in a soft and low voice, holding a phone up. "On Snapchat." He arches a brow.
I'm too confused to do anything but frown. Which makes him laugh. He has a nice laugh—soft and husky.
"You're pretty cute, JMills555. Does the 555 mean what I think it does?"
"What's that?" I manage, as the bartender swaps my empty for a new martini.
"It means you want to be anonymous." He smiles, making his eyes crinkle. "Everybody knows 555 is the fake TV area code."
"How did you find me on there?" I ask, trying not to check him out. He's fucking gorgeous. He's as beautiful as Ezra, but with different features.
My stomach pitches from the mere sound of that name in my brain. I fix my gaze on the guy beside me, my eyes ping-ponging from the blingy diamond necklace just above the neckline of his meshy Nike shirt to his Hollywood face. He's got a California look, with high, full cheekbones, thick-lashed hazel eyes, dark brows, and thick lips. His hair is buzzed short on the sides and long and gold blond up top.
"You checkin' me out, JMills?" He gives me a wolfish grin and tilts his head back, waving a hand at his thicc, delicious throat. I notice his nails are black as he runs a finger over his Adam's apple. "People like this," he says. There's a wicked glint in his eye.
"Who are you?" I blurt.
He gives me a high-gloss smile, tilting his head to the side like he's posing for the camera. "Who do you think?"
God, his voice is so seductive. Like...the perfect timbre. Except Ezra's.
I falter at my thought, and he gives me another coy smile. "Why don't we go talk in the back? I know a little darkroom."
The look he gives me has my heart stuffed up into my throat.
He gets off his barstool, glancing back, and I follow like he's holding an imaginary leash. Fuck, his back and shoulders are ripped. I can see the ridges of muscle beneath his black shirt as he moves. His jeans hang on his hips. And what an ass. That body’s made for fucking. Shit, this guy is a walking fantasy.
He leads me into a door and down a dimly lit hall to a closet. In the closet, there's a leather couch.
I sit on it, feeling too drunk to stand. My blood roars in my ears.
He comes between my legs, running his fingers through my hair as his eyelids go heavy.
"Such a pretty boy," he murmurs. His hand trails over my shoulder and down my arm, squeezing my triceps lightly. “What sport?” he asks.
I frown up at him as my heart pounds. “What do you mean what sport?”
He crouches down in front of me, his necklace glinting in the dim light of a lamp as his hand caresses my thigh through my shorts. "I can tell from your calves. You're either in the gym twice a day, or you're doing sports." He runs a hand over his own calf, which looks as thick as mine does. "These babies are from the gym," he says as his hand caresses my quads. "But I bet you're a real athlete. Am I right?"
His hand moves to the inside of my leg. Then he reaches inside my pants, his fingertips tickling my skin. I groan, spreading my legs.
"Oh so she's got hot from drinking." His smile up at me is pure sin. "That's because you're young, sweetie. I bet you're not even twenty-one yet."
I lean against the couch's back, breathing harder from the way his hand is moving, slowly, toward my hardening cock.
"Tell me," he says, stroking back down over my knee.
I rasp, "Soccer," and he smiles, looking a little smug and so fuck hot. "That's what I thought. An Alabama athlete. Freckles," he says, leaning down to kiss upward from my knee. "All-American," he breathes on my skin. "Athletic and down to earth, but still a pretty, pretty boy. Such soft skin. I bet you'd kill in drag."
He's sucking on the back inside of my knee, making chills pop out all over my arms. He kisses up my thigh, pushing my shorts leg up. Then his hand goes into my shorts, reaching till his fingers find the base of my dick.
"Fuck. You feel good." It's a rough whisper. His fingers close around me, dragging upward, as he leans in closer and his other hand unbuttons my pants.
"One handed," I manage.
"Oh yes." He gets me out with practiced care, pumping my shaft even as he's taking my cock out of my underwear.
His eyes come to mine, and he smiles. He rises up a little in his crouch, and then his hot mouth's taking me in. He's sucking on me, swallowing me down. I'm shuddering because his mouth is soft and hot. His hand comes under my balls, cupping, stroking my sac lightly, as he blows me fast...and—
I'm groaning.
"Ahh fuck," I whimper.
He sucks me like a lollipop and pulls me out of his mouth. "I'm gonna make you come, freckles. When I get going, you won't have a choice, so this is your time to tell me if you're underage or I should use a condom." He toys with my cockhead, stroking it so I'm moaning as he looks up into my eyes.
"I'm...tested," I manage.
"I got tested two days ago," he says, tracing a fingertip over the slit in my head. "Don't do this again, though. Always bring a flavored condom and make the guy put it on you. Okay, babe?"
I nod, and he lets go of me. "Here, I'll show you. Lemme show you how it feels if it's a thin one. I can get you there, and you'll be protected. When you've got a dick like this," he murmurs in his husky low voice, "you gotta keep it safe."
He rips a condom open and he's rolling it over my cockhead.
"See how thin it is?" The thing is white. "I still see your sexy veins." He gives me a lick. "You can't feel it as good, but it's pretty thin, right?"
"Yeah." Another whimper.
"Lemme tell you about being at a bar, in a backroom, freckles. When you're young like you, you got an ass like that and you're on your fifth drink, you gotta stay safe from the old guys, the fucking voyeurs and the perverts and the freaks that could hurt you." He leans down and gives me a warm suck. "Nobody's gonna watch your sweet ass except you. Okay?"
I nod, and he sucks me in, blowing me with such skill that my fucking toes curl despite the condom squeezing me.
"This tastes like marshmallow," he whispers. "And the size?" He smirks. "It's XL."
I don't want to seem too over-eager, but I can't help the way my hips are moving. It's a struggle not to shove myself down his throat.
He keeps pulling off me, teasing me, saying things like, "Oh, babe. You're so fucking close. You wanna get off?"
It's so good. I'm hugging his torso with my legs. My hand hovers over his hair, brushing the well-manicured waves softly.
He pulls off my cock again and smiles for me. It's the smile from before: all sex. "You can grab it and pull."
"What about you?" The words tremble from my watering mouth.
He gives me a small smirk. Then he's sucking me again. My fingers thread into his soft hair, tugging lightly. It's so good that I can't choke out, "Stop," until I'm so damn close, my balls are drawn up and I feel pre-cum pooling in the tip of the condom.
His head comes up, his eyes just the slightest bit wide. I feel his hand on my hip, realize he moved it from under my balls. Looking at his face—despite how polished to perfection he is, I realize his eyes are kind—makes my throat cinch up.
"You not good?" he asks quietly.
A tear escapes down my cheek, and I wrap a hand over my dick. "It feels amazing," I rasp.
"Nervous?"
I shut my eyes and shake my head.
"Too drunk. No." His voice is soft. "Somebody else?"
I nod, and his hand finds mine.
"You're close. Just a few strokes and you're there, babe. I'll get up," he says, doing just that, "and pull my tank off for a towel."
He turns away from me and pulls his polyester Nike jersey off first. Then he pulls the tank top off, revealing a tanned, muscular back. He puts the jersey back on, and I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining Ezra's mouth on my neck as I blow into my own hand.
Eight
Josh
I sit there panting for a long minute before he says, "You good?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
He turns to me. "Don't be sorry. Here." He passes me his shirt, and as I stare down at myself, clad in the condom, I hear something. I look up to find him toeing a small garbage can toward me. "Toss it in there."
I do, and then hesitate before I use his shirt on myself.
"Go for it, freckles. Just a twenty-dollar undershirt."
I aim a wide-eyed look up at him. "Where you get your undershirts?"
He gives me that coy smile again—sort of like a playboy. Or a call girl. "Give it to me when you're done." I frown at his face, realizing—
"Did you...?"
He's got such a beautiful smile. "Did I what, freckles?"
I widen my eyes.
"Can't even say it," he teases. "How old are you? Eighteen?"
"Maybe," I whisper. I pass the shirt to him and he turns around, wiping himself with it.
Then he tosses it in the can.
"You were good, babe. Got me hot enough to come in under a minute. By myself, at that." He holds his hand out for me, and I notice the diamond bracelets on it as he helps me to my feet.
His thumb rubs at my palm, which is nice and sweaty from the drinking. I'm pulling it away when his eyes catch mine.
"You from around here?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Got a place for the night?"
"I don't know," I manage.
He looks thoughtful. "Stay at my place. I'm not going home. You feel me? If I do, I won't mess with you." He pulls his phone out. He turns it around toward me, showing me an Instagram page. In the top photo, his profile-oriented face is shadowed, but I see the outline of his lips and his nose.
Holy shit! He’s got a million followers.
There's that smile again. The charmer. "I'm sorta...known," he says. "I don't need that sort of shit on my name. Also, not a dick." He lifts his dark brows, and I wonder if they're real. They look so thick and...perfect.
"Here ya go, babe." He puts keys in my hand. Then he pulls his phone up again. "Just sent you the address on Snap."
I lean closer to him, looking at his face. The perfect bones. Just like a model.
"You smell good," I whisper. Just like Ezra. My eyes feel so heavy.
"Let's get you to a cab, sweetie. I'm gonna let your friend the blond guy know the address if he's still here."
I nod.
His hand comes to my back as we go back down the dark hall. Back into the more exterior hall, back into the loud main room. I start toward the bar, but his hand presses against my back.
"Let me pick the tab up for you."
"Why?"
He smiles down at me, kind and mentor-like, but somehow also flirty as his fingers trace my cheek. "Because of these," he says, meaning my freckles. I have the thought: if I were older and not head-fucked, he'd be perfect. "Let an old guy help a kid out." He gets the door for me. "I promise you’ll be safe there for the night. Do the deadbolt, though. You don't know me."
My head swims as he shuts the door of my cab. I frown at him through the tinted window as the driver sets off for the address my new friend—what's his name?—gave them.
I unlock my phone, going straight to Snapchat. It has a location feature? How did I miss that?
I check messages. DomBryant. I go to his profile.
Holy fuck. Four million followers on Snapchat.
I think about his diamond bling and smile to myself. That...tricker. Trickster.
Pretty.
I imagine Ezra wearing diamonds.
Stop, drunk Miller.
I go to TikTok. Put in "Dom Bryant."
His gorgeous face comes up. Nice shades and good hair—like an ocean wave. His lips puckered. All cheekbones. Jesus. I stare at the three million followers he has there.
Dom Bryant.
I lean my head back against the seat, trying not to feel sick. I think of Ezra's arms around my waist.
My hands sweat as I pull up the contact for Ez and send a text.
‘Where did you go?’
Tears drip from my eyes. I wipe them and watch the road. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It's been a long time since I did that. Fucking dumb drunk Miller.
He never replies.
All the lanes are congested and bumper to bumper. I feel like I might throw up. I text Daniel.
'I'll pin drop where I am. You can stay too'
The cab is swerving. I'm breathing out of my mouth. Everything looks big and dark and blurry. Side streets. This one is bright. Lots of signs and buildings. Then the cab jerks to a stop.
"Here we are, at the Mahogany."
The Mahogany? Is that where I’m supposed to be? I get out, careful, since I’m so numb, and I frown up at the pale stone building. Where am I? What was I thinking?
I look at my phone, feeling a shot of fear. I'm too drunk to get back to the bar. I don't know where I am.
I find another message on Snap. 'It’s called the Mahogany. You go inside and there's a butler. He's nice. There's an elevator. You're floor five, room 501. Door passcode is 119973. If you need help, ask Richard for help. If you have trouble- call me.' He's listed his phone number.
I do what Dom tells me, feeling like a goldfish in the ocean. Then I'm in the room. It's huge and white, with gleaming marble floors and high, high ceilings. I inhale something floral, and I'm about to get sick.
I was stupid to come here. I wash my face in the kitchen sink and try to not feel so sick. I feel dizzy. I walk around the living room, noting a baby grand. It makes me want to cry.
I don't belong here.
I don't belong anywhere.
I find a bedroom. Big bed. I get in it, and the sheets feel cold.
Everything is spinning. I hold my phone to my chest.
"Ezra."
I'm pathetic. And I know it.
* * *
Something warm and heavy on my shoulder shakes me awake. "Hey, babe. You okay?"
I roll over onto my back, wanting to die from the pain in my head. I crack my eyes open and see him with his head tilted a little, smiling with his pretty lips pressed shut, looking sexy, young, and daddy-ish all at the same time.
He ruffles a hand back through his hair, long and wavy on top. "What can I do?" he asks simply.
"What time is it?"
He looks at his phone. "Ten after twelve."
"Oh shit. I need to go home." I sit up, wincing.
"I caught your friend as he left with someone. Let him know you were good."
That makes me smile, despite the fucking anvil inside my skull. "Did he believe you?" I rasp.
He shrugs, looking coy again. Or smug.
"What? Did he know you?"
He smiles. "Might've. Where's home, freckles?"
"Auburn."
He steps away from the bed and returns with a glass of water. "Drink that, babe."
I do, looking down at my phone so I don’t have to look at his face. I pull him up on Instagram, checking the page out. Fuck, he's really worked-out. Like a fitness model. But in short shorts, boots, cropped sweat-shirts…plus, weird model clothes that must have been for real photo shoots. There's this picture of him in ballet tights. Sweet baby Jesus.
"You want me to drive you?” he asks. “I won't hurt you. I know how it is."
I look up. "Are you a dancer?"
"Used to do some ballet. Tumbling."
I scroll through the page. He's got this way of posing. It's so...practiced. I guess he’s a real model. I scroll down more. There’s a few photos of him in Speedos—but they’re not Speedos; they look like really nice underwear. "Are you a stripper?"
"An e-stripper." He grins, smug AF. “Among other things. Listen, hun, I've got a rental. I'll drive you home, no big deal."
"You don't have to do that."
"All good. I was once a baby gay. New to the ways of clubs and too many martinis." Another affable grin, and I think I know why people follow him. "You want a shower first? The shower here is sick."
I shower in this massive, lots-of-headed shower, locking the door even though I don't think I need to. When I turn the water off, he knocks and tells me he's leaving some clothes outside the door. Gray sweats and a soft, white, V-necked T-shirt with a tag that says JAMES PERSE. I scoop it up, and two white Nike socks fall out.
Shit, that was really kind of him. I look at my own clothes, which smell like a bar, and tell myself I'll take this stuff off before he leaves me at my house. I have the thought as I'm dressing that it's a little weird he's being so nice, but it's hard to imagine alarm bells peeling when I emerge from the shower and find him wearing a Coach backpack purse thing, looking freshly showered in black sweats and a matching shirt to mine, and holding out a cup of...blueberries?
"For the drive," he says.
He wraps a finger under one of the straps of his pack. "Got some Propel in here, and Advil." He does a sort of winky face and the gun thing with his hand. "Berries first."
When I moved into my new apartment about a week and a half ago, Jenna pushed me to text the guy. So I did. He was at my place in like two hours, helping me unpack my boxes. He came by with sub sandwiches, plus two of his also-gay friends. Within two days, I was coming out to everybody who seemed safe. Pretty fucking crazy.
A few days back, Daniel saw my Snapchat—I guess he got it from Jenna the Betrayer—and he weaseled me into running the social media for the LGBTQ+ student group. So now I'm doing two Snapchats, and also two Instagrams.
Daniel gets out on the dance floor, and I look down at my phone. Maybe I'll snap the olives at the bottom of my martini. Jack and Cokes my ass. Motherfucker’s definitely drunk if he mistook this martini for a Jack and Coke.
I snap the olives, throw a filter on, and then hold two fingers up at the bartender, letting him know I want more when he can. Daniel and Finn, his—our—friend, can dance all night if they want. I'm not made for dancing.
I'm made for the bar stools.
I'm smiling to myself when a low voice says, "Hello there."
It sounds like a radio announcer, so at first I'm confused.
I look up, frowning, at...whoa—this hot, hot guy. He's on the bar stool by mine.
"I saw you," he says in a soft and low voice, holding a phone up. "On Snapchat." He arches a brow.
I'm too confused to do anything but frown. Which makes him laugh. He has a nice laugh—soft and husky.
"You're pretty cute, JMills555. Does the 555 mean what I think it does?"
"What's that?" I manage, as the bartender swaps my empty for a new martini.
"It means you want to be anonymous." He smiles, making his eyes crinkle. "Everybody knows 555 is the fake TV area code."
"How did you find me on there?" I ask, trying not to check him out. He's fucking gorgeous. He's as beautiful as Ezra, but with different features.
My stomach pitches from the mere sound of that name in my brain. I fix my gaze on the guy beside me, my eyes ping-ponging from the blingy diamond necklace just above the neckline of his meshy Nike shirt to his Hollywood face. He's got a California look, with high, full cheekbones, thick-lashed hazel eyes, dark brows, and thick lips. His hair is buzzed short on the sides and long and gold blond up top.
"You checkin' me out, JMills?" He gives me a wolfish grin and tilts his head back, waving a hand at his thicc, delicious throat. I notice his nails are black as he runs a finger over his Adam's apple. "People like this," he says. There's a wicked glint in his eye.
"Who are you?" I blurt.
He gives me a high-gloss smile, tilting his head to the side like he's posing for the camera. "Who do you think?"
God, his voice is so seductive. Like...the perfect timbre. Except Ezra's.
I falter at my thought, and he gives me another coy smile. "Why don't we go talk in the back? I know a little darkroom."
The look he gives me has my heart stuffed up into my throat.
He gets off his barstool, glancing back, and I follow like he's holding an imaginary leash. Fuck, his back and shoulders are ripped. I can see the ridges of muscle beneath his black shirt as he moves. His jeans hang on his hips. And what an ass. That body’s made for fucking. Shit, this guy is a walking fantasy.
He leads me into a door and down a dimly lit hall to a closet. In the closet, there's a leather couch.
I sit on it, feeling too drunk to stand. My blood roars in my ears.
He comes between my legs, running his fingers through my hair as his eyelids go heavy.
"Such a pretty boy," he murmurs. His hand trails over my shoulder and down my arm, squeezing my triceps lightly. “What sport?” he asks.
I frown up at him as my heart pounds. “What do you mean what sport?”
He crouches down in front of me, his necklace glinting in the dim light of a lamp as his hand caresses my thigh through my shorts. "I can tell from your calves. You're either in the gym twice a day, or you're doing sports." He runs a hand over his own calf, which looks as thick as mine does. "These babies are from the gym," he says as his hand caresses my quads. "But I bet you're a real athlete. Am I right?"
His hand moves to the inside of my leg. Then he reaches inside my pants, his fingertips tickling my skin. I groan, spreading my legs.
"Oh so she's got hot from drinking." His smile up at me is pure sin. "That's because you're young, sweetie. I bet you're not even twenty-one yet."
I lean against the couch's back, breathing harder from the way his hand is moving, slowly, toward my hardening cock.
"Tell me," he says, stroking back down over my knee.
I rasp, "Soccer," and he smiles, looking a little smug and so fuck hot. "That's what I thought. An Alabama athlete. Freckles," he says, leaning down to kiss upward from my knee. "All-American," he breathes on my skin. "Athletic and down to earth, but still a pretty, pretty boy. Such soft skin. I bet you'd kill in drag."
He's sucking on the back inside of my knee, making chills pop out all over my arms. He kisses up my thigh, pushing my shorts leg up. Then his hand goes into my shorts, reaching till his fingers find the base of my dick.
"Fuck. You feel good." It's a rough whisper. His fingers close around me, dragging upward, as he leans in closer and his other hand unbuttons my pants.
"One handed," I manage.
"Oh yes." He gets me out with practiced care, pumping my shaft even as he's taking my cock out of my underwear.
His eyes come to mine, and he smiles. He rises up a little in his crouch, and then his hot mouth's taking me in. He's sucking on me, swallowing me down. I'm shuddering because his mouth is soft and hot. His hand comes under my balls, cupping, stroking my sac lightly, as he blows me fast...and—
I'm groaning.
"Ahh fuck," I whimper.
He sucks me like a lollipop and pulls me out of his mouth. "I'm gonna make you come, freckles. When I get going, you won't have a choice, so this is your time to tell me if you're underage or I should use a condom." He toys with my cockhead, stroking it so I'm moaning as he looks up into my eyes.
"I'm...tested," I manage.
"I got tested two days ago," he says, tracing a fingertip over the slit in my head. "Don't do this again, though. Always bring a flavored condom and make the guy put it on you. Okay, babe?"
I nod, and he lets go of me. "Here, I'll show you. Lemme show you how it feels if it's a thin one. I can get you there, and you'll be protected. When you've got a dick like this," he murmurs in his husky low voice, "you gotta keep it safe."
He rips a condom open and he's rolling it over my cockhead.
"See how thin it is?" The thing is white. "I still see your sexy veins." He gives me a lick. "You can't feel it as good, but it's pretty thin, right?"
"Yeah." Another whimper.
"Lemme tell you about being at a bar, in a backroom, freckles. When you're young like you, you got an ass like that and you're on your fifth drink, you gotta stay safe from the old guys, the fucking voyeurs and the perverts and the freaks that could hurt you." He leans down and gives me a warm suck. "Nobody's gonna watch your sweet ass except you. Okay?"
I nod, and he sucks me in, blowing me with such skill that my fucking toes curl despite the condom squeezing me.
"This tastes like marshmallow," he whispers. "And the size?" He smirks. "It's XL."
I don't want to seem too over-eager, but I can't help the way my hips are moving. It's a struggle not to shove myself down his throat.
He keeps pulling off me, teasing me, saying things like, "Oh, babe. You're so fucking close. You wanna get off?"
It's so good. I'm hugging his torso with my legs. My hand hovers over his hair, brushing the well-manicured waves softly.
He pulls off my cock again and smiles for me. It's the smile from before: all sex. "You can grab it and pull."
"What about you?" The words tremble from my watering mouth.
He gives me a small smirk. Then he's sucking me again. My fingers thread into his soft hair, tugging lightly. It's so good that I can't choke out, "Stop," until I'm so damn close, my balls are drawn up and I feel pre-cum pooling in the tip of the condom.
His head comes up, his eyes just the slightest bit wide. I feel his hand on my hip, realize he moved it from under my balls. Looking at his face—despite how polished to perfection he is, I realize his eyes are kind—makes my throat cinch up.
"You not good?" he asks quietly.
A tear escapes down my cheek, and I wrap a hand over my dick. "It feels amazing," I rasp.
"Nervous?"
I shut my eyes and shake my head.
"Too drunk. No." His voice is soft. "Somebody else?"
I nod, and his hand finds mine.
"You're close. Just a few strokes and you're there, babe. I'll get up," he says, doing just that, "and pull my tank off for a towel."
He turns away from me and pulls his polyester Nike jersey off first. Then he pulls the tank top off, revealing a tanned, muscular back. He puts the jersey back on, and I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining Ezra's mouth on my neck as I blow into my own hand.
Eight
Josh
I sit there panting for a long minute before he says, "You good?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
He turns to me. "Don't be sorry. Here." He passes me his shirt, and as I stare down at myself, clad in the condom, I hear something. I look up to find him toeing a small garbage can toward me. "Toss it in there."
I do, and then hesitate before I use his shirt on myself.
"Go for it, freckles. Just a twenty-dollar undershirt."
I aim a wide-eyed look up at him. "Where you get your undershirts?"
He gives me that coy smile again—sort of like a playboy. Or a call girl. "Give it to me when you're done." I frown at his face, realizing—
"Did you...?"
He's got such a beautiful smile. "Did I what, freckles?"
I widen my eyes.
"Can't even say it," he teases. "How old are you? Eighteen?"
"Maybe," I whisper. I pass the shirt to him and he turns around, wiping himself with it.
Then he tosses it in the can.
"You were good, babe. Got me hot enough to come in under a minute. By myself, at that." He holds his hand out for me, and I notice the diamond bracelets on it as he helps me to my feet.
His thumb rubs at my palm, which is nice and sweaty from the drinking. I'm pulling it away when his eyes catch mine.
"You from around here?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Got a place for the night?"
"I don't know," I manage.
He looks thoughtful. "Stay at my place. I'm not going home. You feel me? If I do, I won't mess with you." He pulls his phone out. He turns it around toward me, showing me an Instagram page. In the top photo, his profile-oriented face is shadowed, but I see the outline of his lips and his nose.
Holy shit! He’s got a million followers.
There's that smile again. The charmer. "I'm sorta...known," he says. "I don't need that sort of shit on my name. Also, not a dick." He lifts his dark brows, and I wonder if they're real. They look so thick and...perfect.
"Here ya go, babe." He puts keys in my hand. Then he pulls his phone up again. "Just sent you the address on Snap."
I lean closer to him, looking at his face. The perfect bones. Just like a model.
"You smell good," I whisper. Just like Ezra. My eyes feel so heavy.
"Let's get you to a cab, sweetie. I'm gonna let your friend the blond guy know the address if he's still here."
I nod.
His hand comes to my back as we go back down the dark hall. Back into the more exterior hall, back into the loud main room. I start toward the bar, but his hand presses against my back.
"Let me pick the tab up for you."
"Why?"
He smiles down at me, kind and mentor-like, but somehow also flirty as his fingers trace my cheek. "Because of these," he says, meaning my freckles. I have the thought: if I were older and not head-fucked, he'd be perfect. "Let an old guy help a kid out." He gets the door for me. "I promise you’ll be safe there for the night. Do the deadbolt, though. You don't know me."
My head swims as he shuts the door of my cab. I frown at him through the tinted window as the driver sets off for the address my new friend—what's his name?—gave them.
I unlock my phone, going straight to Snapchat. It has a location feature? How did I miss that?
I check messages. DomBryant. I go to his profile.
Holy fuck. Four million followers on Snapchat.
I think about his diamond bling and smile to myself. That...tricker. Trickster.
Pretty.
I imagine Ezra wearing diamonds.
Stop, drunk Miller.
I go to TikTok. Put in "Dom Bryant."
His gorgeous face comes up. Nice shades and good hair—like an ocean wave. His lips puckered. All cheekbones. Jesus. I stare at the three million followers he has there.
Dom Bryant.
I lean my head back against the seat, trying not to feel sick. I think of Ezra's arms around my waist.
My hands sweat as I pull up the contact for Ez and send a text.
‘Where did you go?’
Tears drip from my eyes. I wipe them and watch the road. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It's been a long time since I did that. Fucking dumb drunk Miller.
He never replies.
All the lanes are congested and bumper to bumper. I feel like I might throw up. I text Daniel.
'I'll pin drop where I am. You can stay too'
The cab is swerving. I'm breathing out of my mouth. Everything looks big and dark and blurry. Side streets. This one is bright. Lots of signs and buildings. Then the cab jerks to a stop.
"Here we are, at the Mahogany."
The Mahogany? Is that where I’m supposed to be? I get out, careful, since I’m so numb, and I frown up at the pale stone building. Where am I? What was I thinking?
I look at my phone, feeling a shot of fear. I'm too drunk to get back to the bar. I don't know where I am.
I find another message on Snap. 'It’s called the Mahogany. You go inside and there's a butler. He's nice. There's an elevator. You're floor five, room 501. Door passcode is 119973. If you need help, ask Richard for help. If you have trouble- call me.' He's listed his phone number.
I do what Dom tells me, feeling like a goldfish in the ocean. Then I'm in the room. It's huge and white, with gleaming marble floors and high, high ceilings. I inhale something floral, and I'm about to get sick.
I was stupid to come here. I wash my face in the kitchen sink and try to not feel so sick. I feel dizzy. I walk around the living room, noting a baby grand. It makes me want to cry.
I don't belong here.
I don't belong anywhere.
I find a bedroom. Big bed. I get in it, and the sheets feel cold.
Everything is spinning. I hold my phone to my chest.
"Ezra."
I'm pathetic. And I know it.
* * *
Something warm and heavy on my shoulder shakes me awake. "Hey, babe. You okay?"
I roll over onto my back, wanting to die from the pain in my head. I crack my eyes open and see him with his head tilted a little, smiling with his pretty lips pressed shut, looking sexy, young, and daddy-ish all at the same time.
He ruffles a hand back through his hair, long and wavy on top. "What can I do?" he asks simply.
"What time is it?"
He looks at his phone. "Ten after twelve."
"Oh shit. I need to go home." I sit up, wincing.
"I caught your friend as he left with someone. Let him know you were good."
That makes me smile, despite the fucking anvil inside my skull. "Did he believe you?" I rasp.
He shrugs, looking coy again. Or smug.
"What? Did he know you?"
He smiles. "Might've. Where's home, freckles?"
"Auburn."
He steps away from the bed and returns with a glass of water. "Drink that, babe."
I do, looking down at my phone so I don’t have to look at his face. I pull him up on Instagram, checking the page out. Fuck, he's really worked-out. Like a fitness model. But in short shorts, boots, cropped sweat-shirts…plus, weird model clothes that must have been for real photo shoots. There's this picture of him in ballet tights. Sweet baby Jesus.
"You want me to drive you?” he asks. “I won't hurt you. I know how it is."
I look up. "Are you a dancer?"
"Used to do some ballet. Tumbling."
I scroll through the page. He's got this way of posing. It's so...practiced. I guess he’s a real model. I scroll down more. There’s a few photos of him in Speedos—but they’re not Speedos; they look like really nice underwear. "Are you a stripper?"
"An e-stripper." He grins, smug AF. “Among other things. Listen, hun, I've got a rental. I'll drive you home, no big deal."
"You don't have to do that."
"All good. I was once a baby gay. New to the ways of clubs and too many martinis." Another affable grin, and I think I know why people follow him. "You want a shower first? The shower here is sick."
I shower in this massive, lots-of-headed shower, locking the door even though I don't think I need to. When I turn the water off, he knocks and tells me he's leaving some clothes outside the door. Gray sweats and a soft, white, V-necked T-shirt with a tag that says JAMES PERSE. I scoop it up, and two white Nike socks fall out.
Shit, that was really kind of him. I look at my own clothes, which smell like a bar, and tell myself I'll take this stuff off before he leaves me at my house. I have the thought as I'm dressing that it's a little weird he's being so nice, but it's hard to imagine alarm bells peeling when I emerge from the shower and find him wearing a Coach backpack purse thing, looking freshly showered in black sweats and a matching shirt to mine, and holding out a cup of...blueberries?
"For the drive," he says.
He wraps a finger under one of the straps of his pack. "Got some Propel in here, and Advil." He does a sort of winky face and the gun thing with his hand. "Berries first."
