Chapter 15
Fifteen
Come Out and Play
Spencer
Taking a deep breath, I school my thoughts.
Get a grip, Stark. Ryan is not a hook up—he’s barely a friend. He’s certainly not Travis Hale. And you are not the same stupid boy you were in college.
I glare at my hand on the door handle, willing the memory clawing at the back of my mind to stay buried where it belongs. Tonight is not about that. It’s not about old wounds or bad decisions or men who whispered promises they never intended to keep.
Tonight is about Chance and Anthony. It’s about something good.
Something I’m actually proud to be a part of.
The nonprofit. The agency. The work. My role in it.
And Ryan—whether I like it or not—is part of that too.
The agency’s first signed athlete. The Primary donor for the THRIVE Foundation and Queer Youth Center I’ll be running.
We both need to be at this event. We’re just carpooling. That’s it. A sharper knock rattles the door. “Hey, Spencester, open up!” I close my eyes briefly, exhale once more, then twist the knob. The door swings open.
Jesus Christ. Someone help me.
Ryan Buterbaugh stands at my door wearing a powder blue tux. Powder. Blue. He’s also wearing a million-watt smile—the same one he flashes in his latest cologne ad. I look him up. Down. Back up again. Then I shake my head. “No.”
His smile drops. “What?”
I step back, waving a hand at his ridiculous choice of evening wear. “I’m not walking into an event with you in a powder blue tux, Ryan.”
He blinks at me then laughs. “Aw, c’mon, Spency. What do you have against powder blue tuxes?”
I level him with a look. “For starters, we’ll look like Harry and Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber.”
His grin comes roaring back. “I love that you know that movie. But we’d need to get you into an orange tux for the full effect.” Before I can react, his knuckles brush my shirt, rubbing the fabric over my chest like he’s appraising it.
I roll my eyes, stepping back. “Not happening—and don’t touch the Gucci.”
“Gucci, huh?” he echoes, amused. He raises his hands, curls his fingers like claws, and starts creeping toward me.
I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, eyes glinting with something dangerously playful, and in a tone that feels deeply, profoundly stupid, he says…
“Gucci.”
My eyes widen and I point at him. “Don’t you dare.”
“Gucci,” he repeats, taking another step forward.
I step back. “Ryan—”
“Gucci.”
I bump into the back of the sofa. Shit. He lunges, fingers dig into my sides and then he shouts…
“Gucci-gucci-goo!”
I clamp my mouth shut.
I absolutely will not.
A laugh bursts out of me, loud and helpless.
“Stop!” I twist, laughing, trying to shove him away, but he’s relentless, grinning like a maniacal menace as he keeps going.
“Gucci-gucci—”
“Ryan!” I finally manage, laughing harder than I have in—Christ, I don’t even know how long. “Stop!” I shove him, stumbling free, breath coming fast as I point at him. “You’re an asshole.”
He barks out a laugh, completely unapologetic. I glance down, brushing at my shirt. “And you wrinkled my shirt.”
He steps closer again, but slower this time. Deliberate. His gaze drags over me, head to toe. Then back up.
Ryan’s expression softens and he meets my eyes, voice dropping. “I did not,” he says quietly. “And you look fucking delicious.” Heat creeps up the back of my neck, settling low in my stomach in a way I categorically refuse to appreciate.
I shift on my feet, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. My clothes, the space between us, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he wants to sink his teeth into. “Are you ready to go?” he finally asks.
I clear my throat, forcing my brain back online. “Yeah.” I gesture toward the door. “Let’s go.” We move out into the hallway, and I lock the door behind me, focusing on the simple, mechanical action.
Anything but him.
“You really shouldn’t say things like that to gay guys, Ryan,” I say, keeping my tone dry. “Especially when you’re, well… you. They might take you seriously and cause you a public relations nightmare.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him turn toward me as I finish locking up. Before I can move back, he steps in close. Too close. I feel the heat of him at my back. The brush of his breath against the shell of my ear.
“Who says I’m not serious?” he murmurs as my pulse stutters. “And what makes you think I tell anyone else they look delicious?”
I don’t move. Hell, I don’t even breathe. For half a second, the world narrows to just that voice in my ear and the dangerous, electric weight of him behind me.
Then…
“Rawr.”
I jerk, spinning around just in time to see him already retreating down the hall, grin back in full force.
“Come on, Perfect!” he calls over his shoulder. “Your chariot awaits downstairs.”
“What did you just call me?” I shout after him, heart still thudding. My mind is racing and completely, utterly off balance. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. Recovering from whatever that was, I straighten my jacket and square my shoulders.
I follow him into the elevator and it’s immediately too small. Too quiet. Too filled with him. We take opposite sides, both of us keeping distance, but it doesn’t help. Not when I can feel him there anyway. Not when the air feels thicker, charged with something I don’t want to name.
I try to keep my eyes forward, but I feel the weight of his stare. When I give in and glance over, he’s devouring me with his eyes. He’s not subtle about it either. Not even pretending to be. I cross my arms, shifting my weight. “Why are you staring at me?”
Ryan just gives me a toothy grin, those stupid fucking dimples taking up all the space in this elevator. Even his chin dimple is more pronounced. “I just like looking at you.”
My stomach flips, and I turn sharply, facing the elevator doors, hands in my pockets so that I’m not tempted to use them. My eyes lock on the floor counter above them. Could this elevator be any slower? I think, jaw tightening. Behind me, I can feel his amusement. The quiet, contained energy of it.
The bell finally dings and I’m out before the doors are fully open and I storm across the lobby, pushing through the front doors, needing to escape. Cool night air hits my face, grounding me—that is, until I see a black limo idling at the curb, the driver leaning casually against it.
Ryan shoots out from behind me like his shoes are on fire.
“I got it, Tony. Thanks.” The driver nods, straightens, heads back to the driver’s side.
Ryan turns to me, dimples back in full force as he grabs the door handle, swings it open, and gestures inside like some kind of overgrown puppy in a tux.
I shoot him a look. “I can get my own door, Ryan.” I get in anyway. Because apparently, I make excellent life choices. I slide across the seat toward the far side, putting as much space between us as the car allows.
Ryan follows, settling in beside me. “I know,” he says easily on a wink. “But I wanted to do it.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I don’t see brain. “Why did you even get a car? It’s not that far. I could have driven—”
“I know,” he cuts in smoothly. “But you deserve to arrive in style.” I scoff softly as I watch the partition behind the front seats rise. Ryan continues, voice dropping, “Besides, I plan on getting you drunk.” Before I can even process what the fuck that means, two of his fingers land on my knee.
And now he’s walking them up my thigh. My breath catches, but he keeps going. Higher. And higher. And—I grab his hand, ripping it off me. “What are you doing?” I look at him and catch it—a flicker. Panic. Quick, sharp, gone almost as fast as it appeared.
He turns forward, hands fisting in his lap. “Just teasing, bro.” I look out the window, jaw tight.
Great, straight boy panic.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax.
Don’t do this.
Don’t spiral.
I glance down at my thigh. It’s still burning where his fingers were. And I hate it. At least he showed up, Stark, I tell myself. He didn’t leave you waiting. He showed up—and he opened your car door, not someone else’s.
Emotion tries to claw its way up my throat, but I shove it down.
Still, my rules can stay firmly in place without the need to be a dick.
I huff quietly. Besides, jocks flirt like that all the time with each other.
I swear, their banter and horseplay is gayer than a pride parade on Cher’s birthday. That’s all it is.
Before I can spiral any further on the topic, Ryan lifts my arm and turns my wrist. “What’s this?” he asks, admiring my cufflink. The set I had custom made.
“It’s a cufflink, Ryan.”
“I know that,” he scoffs. “There’s a number twenty-two engraved on it. Does that number have special meaning?”
Shit. He would have to notice.
“It does. But I’m not telling you what it is.”
Ryan shoots me a slightly wounded look, but I’m saved as the car slows.
I look up at a building that is now familiar to me.
The home of the agency, the queer youth center, and Chance’s opening exhibit.
The limo comes to a stop at the curb. Ryan moves immediately, reaching for the door handle on his side.
I’m certain he’s about to circle around and open my door. I grab his arm. “Stay.”
Ryan freezes and looks at me, confused. He swallows, and I track it, my eyes dipping to his throat, watching the movement before I can give my dick the memo not to stir.
I open my own door, stepping out onto the street.
Then I turn, leaning down, extending my arm into the car.
Using two fingers I beckon to him. “Come.”
He stares at me for a second, but he moves, and slides across the seat, taking my hand. His grip is warm. Solid. I pull him out onto the curb. He lands beside me, a grin already spreading across his gorgeous face.
I roll my eyes, dropping his hand. “Come on. Let’s get in there.” I start toward the entrance. “And put those dimples away.”
Behind me, I hear him scramble to catch up. “Wait,” he says, a laugh threading through his voice. “Is that a thing? Do my dimples make you weak?”
Just keep walking, Stark. Do not answer that.
Behind me, I hear the grin in his voice. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” I close my eyes briefly as I push through the doors.
Fuck.