Chapter 14
Fourteen
In the Closet
Spencer
I stand in front of the mirror in my dorm room, fingers fumbling with the silk of the bowtie at my throat.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
The words don’t even feel real in my head.
Neither does the tux. It fits well for something that isn’t mine.
Black, sharp, clean lines hugging my shoulders, tapering at my waist like it was made for me instead of rented off a rack with money I absolutely did not have.
I smooth my hands down the front of the jacket anyway, like I can press the doubt out of it.
Out of me.
I huff a quiet breath, eyes flicking over my reflection again. Hair perfectly in place as usual. Ugh. My bowtie’s crooked. You drained your savings for this, I remind myself, the thought sharp and immediate. Rent. Books. Food. All of it took a backseat to tonight.
To him.
Travis Hale.
My body reacts to the name, same way it always does—something bright and hot sparking low in my ribs despite the nerves twisting through me.
Travis Hale, the star pitcher for Stanford’s baseball team.
Campus royalty. The kind of guy people orbit without even realizing they’re doing it.
Tall and broad-shouldered with a thick baseball ass.
Charisma for days. Pair all that with an effortless, devastating smile, and people fall at his feet.
He’s the heir to Hale Enterprises. The golden boy.
The frat king with a secret.
Yes, folks, Travis Hale likes to be bent over every which way ‘till Sunday taking a fat cock until he’s screaming and fucked breathless. And for the past six months… the fat cock in question has been mine.
My lips press together as I stare at myself, something softer slipping into my expression.
Six months.
Six months since that stupid party I never even wanted to go to.
I can still see it if I close my eyes—the crush of bodies, music too loud, beer spilled on the floor.
My friend Heather dragging me by the wrist, insisting I “needed to live a little.” I remember trying to escape to the kitchen, needing air, needing space.
There he was, drunk and grinning. His eyes drew me in instantly. They focused on me like I was the only person in the room. “Hey,” he’d said, leaning in like we already knew each other. “You’re really fucking hot.”
I’d laughed because I knew exactly who he was. Knew his skirt chasing reputation. I’d laughed, because what else do you do when Travis Hale says something like that? He was clearly very drunk and joking.
Except he wasn’t. He continued flirting in a voice soft enough no one else could clock. I continued to laugh. But then he’d followed me back to my dorm.
My lips turn up into a smile at the memory—not because of what we did, but because of what came after. Because he stayed. Because he came back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Six months of late nights and quiet mornings and whispered conversations in the dark.
Six months of stolen time and careful exits and doors that always closed just a little too fast behind him.
Six months of something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Except it does. Especially now. I swallow hard, forcing my attention back to the mirror as my fingers adjust the bowtie one last time.
Get it together, Stark.
Tonight is different. Tonight is everything. A slow breath fills my lungs, steadying the tremor in my hands. He said he was ready. I can still hear his voice from that afternoon, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m done hiding, Spence.”
I’d gone still when he said it, heart pounding so hard I thought he’d hear it. “What do you mean?” I’d asked, even though I already knew.
He’d smiled at me, nervous, but sure. “I’m bringing you to the gala. As my date.” My stomach flips at the memory. The Hale Foundation Gala. His family’s big annual event. He’s inviting me into his world, where the biggest names in society will be. Where he’s going to tell them.
About him.
About me.
About us.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself, voice low in the empty room. “You’ve got this.” I step back, checking the full look one more time. It’s… good. More than good. I look like I belong in a room like that. Like I belong at his side. Hell, I’m even starting to feel like I belong at his side.
Me. The kid who people don’t stick around for.
The thought sends a quiet, dangerous kind of hope curling through my chest. I glance at my phone on the desk.
6:05.
He said he’d be here at six, but he’s probably running late. I nod to myself, grabbing my jacket and slipping it on, smoothing the lapels as I start pacing the small space of the room. Back and forth on repeat. My gaze keeps darting to the phone.
6:12.
I check it. No texts or missed calls. “Traffic,” I mutter. “Or—something.” His apartment is a good fifteen minutes from my dorm. He could have gotten delayed or practice went late. He’ll text. He always texts. I pace faster.
6:23.
Still nothing. A flicker of unease creeps in, threading through the excitement.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over his name before I tap it.
You close? The message sends. Three dots don’t appear.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair and immediately fixing it again.
“Relax,” I say under my breath. “He said he’s coming. ”
6:31.
I call. No answer. I send another text. Everything okay? This time I don’t even pretend I’m not staring at the screen.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Nothing.
By the time it hits 6:45, my stomach is in knots. I call again with the same result. This isn’t like him. It’s really not. He might be secretive, careful, sometimes frustratingly distant when it comes to anything outside these walls—but with me? He shows up.
Always.
My gaze drifts to the mini fridge. To the small, clear container inside.
I walk over slowly, opening it and pulling it out.
The boutonnière is perfect. White, delicate, carefully arranged.
I’d stood in that tiny florist shop for twenty minutes debating it, ignoring the price tag until I decided it mattered.
Because tonight mattered.
Because he mattered.
I feel a little stupid. I don’t even know if people wear boutonnières to something like this. But I didn’t get to go to prom, so I figured why not? I run my thumb lightly over the petals, my nerves crawling up my throat.
6:58.
I look at my phone again. Still nothing. The excitement has long since curdled into something sharp and uneasy. By 7:05, I’m done waiting. I grab my keys. The drive to his apartment is a blur. My thoughts won’t sit still long enough to form anything coherent.
Maybe his phone died.
Maybe something came up with his family.
Maybe—
Each possibility feels thinner than the last. I pull into his apartment complex, parking like a soccer mom late for a game. The engine cuts, and for a second, I just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, boutonnière clenched in my other hand.
“Don’t be dramatic,” I mutter, forcing a breath out of my lungs. “Just… go check.” I open the door, step out, and stop short when I see him walking out of his apartment. Relief surges so fast it almost knocks the breath out of me.
Until I see her.
Blonde and bubbly, hand hooked around his arm like it belongs there. Like she belongs there. My chest caves in on itself. I don’t move. I can’t. I just watch, paralyzed.
My stomach turns as she leans into him, head tipping back with another giggle. My neck heats as he smiles down at her—easy, effortless, the same smile he gives everyone. Not the one he gives me. No, this is his public smile. Safe. Not even remotely real.
He walks her to the car, opening the passenger door like it’s second nature. My fingers tighten around the boutonnière box, crushing the petals. “Who’s that?” she asks, her voice carrying just enough in the quiet lot.
My heart stutters as Travis looks up and sees me. And for one split second— just one—I see it. Panic. It’s raw and sharp in his eyes. Hope flickers, fragile and desperate in my chest.
Say something. Do something. Come to me.
Instead, he shatters my heart into a million pieces…
“Nobody.”
My legs won’t move, so I just fall back against my car. I try to play it off, crossing my ankles like I’m just casually here. Like I didn’t just watch my entire world tilt off its axis. He doesn’t look at me again.
Not once.
He rounds the car, gets in the driver’s seat, and a second later the engine roars to life. The tires screech as he peels out of the parking lot like he can outrun it. Outrun me.
The silence that follows is deafening. I stay there for a second, then push off the car, numb, and slide into the driver’s seat. The door shuts and everything breaks.
Hot tears spill down my face before I can stop them, a choked sound ripping out of my chest as my hands slam against the steering wheel repeatedly. “Fuck—!” My voice cracks, the word dissolving into something raw and ugly as I hit it harder, like I can beat the feeling out of my body.
Nobody.
The cruel word echoes in my head. Over and over. I squeeze my eyes shut, chest heaving, hands trembling where they rest against the wheel. Six fucking months and I’m nobody to him.
Then my breath shudders and something inside me goes cold. Not just numb. Not just empty. It’s sharp, precise, and locks into place. I drag in a slow breath, forcing my hands to still. The tears stop and the shaking eases. I look down at the crushed boutonnière in my hand. The petals are ruined.
Bruised and useless, like me.
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” I murmur, voice hollow. “That tracks.” My fingers loosen, letting it fall to the floor of the car. And in the quiet that follows, I make two decisions. Clear, unshakeable, and final.
I will never give my heart to anyone again.
And I will never—ever—hook up with another straight guy as long as I live.
I stare ahead, jaw tightening as the decision sets like cement over my heart. Lesson learned. The engine turns over and I drive away, leaving the old Spencer Stark standing in that parking lot.
He’s dead to me.