Chapter -18- #2
“Th-this isn’t a competition.”
“You’re right.” Denz grins. “Because I’d win. Every fucking time.”
Before Braylon can retort, his accent thickened, words clipped, Denz kisses him. It’s quick and messy and perfect.
Braylon lifts Denz off his feet. A low swear leaves Denz’s lips after Braylon’s cock slides from his fingers. But it’s fine. He lets Braylon kick out of his jeans and boxers. Carry him to his bedroom, ease him down onto the mattress.
He pulls Braylon apart with his hands. With teeth on taut nipples. With fingers on hips, then thighs.
With his mouth and tongue along an aching cock that happily responds to Denz’s every motion like a snake to a charmer.
Every other gasp and moan from Braylon is punctuated by his squirming along the sheets. His muscles tightening. By Denz’s name chanted until his throat’s sore.
When Denz is finished, there’s another first in this apartment:
Braylon Adams, speechless.
Crema’s remarkably empty for a Thursday. Only a few patrons huddled in their own worlds of laptops or phones. Denz grins at an unoccupied corner table, the same one he shared with Braylon months ago.
Planning the retirement party with both Kami and his dad has been time consuming. Braylon’s hands are equally full. Their communication has whittled down to emails about their upcoming parties. Nothing else. Definitely not what happened at his apartment last week.
He’s not saying today’s lunch is because he misses Braylon. Because his pillowcase smells like oranges. Because he wakes in the middle of the night thinking about the inside of Braylon’s thighs, the way Denz’s name whispered in a British accent was like a secret prayer.
He’s not saying when he stands in his kitchen, he imagines a future with Braylon.
Today is completely work -related.
For once, he’s early. According to his last text, Braylon’s ten minutes away. He studies Crema’s new spring menu until a throat clears. Denz is greeted by a beautiful man around his age. Light sepia skin, tousled dark hair, a knowing smile.
After a beat, recognition settles: it’s Jade Suit Guy from the Valentine’s gala, from Elite Events.
“Javier,” the man says by way of introduction. “Javi, preferably.”
“Denzel Carter.”
“Oh, I know.” Javi’s smile grows, revealing dimples. “Hard to ignore the competition when they look like you.”
Denz half smirks. “Is that so?”
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Javi tells him. “We were supposed to meet at the gala. Your aunties—”
“Are nosey and aggressively wrong about things,” Denz finishes.
Javi laughs. A rich, melodic noise. “Aren’t all tías?”
“I guess.”
Javi’s brown eyes are piercingly attentive, as if he’s reading Denz, no context needed. “They tried to set us up,” he says. “Something about you being on the rebound?”
Denz frowns. “They were wrong.”
Javi crosses his arms in a smooth, relaxed way that doesn’t intimidate Denz. Or turn him on. “I’m in a relationship,” he manages to get out. “We’re very happy. I’m in a good place.”
And he is. Sure, his “relationship” isn’t real. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll either be CEO of his dad’s company or working for someone else next week. Someone who won’t give a shit about his family’s legacy like he or his sister does. But he’s fine.
“That’s… good,” Javi says, then laughs again.
“And you?” Denz asks. “Life must be great at the second-best event planner in Atlanta.”
“You’re funny.” Javi’s lips curve upward, a twinkle in his eye. “Just like the client I had the other day. Said he wanted to commission 24 Carter Silver to host his engagement party and future nuptials. Unfortunately, you guys don’t do weddings.”
Denz’s confident expression slips.
“That’s a shame,” Javi comments, even though he doesn’t look disappointed.
“Yeah,” Denz chews out. “Real shame.”
“For the record—I’m always looking,” Javi says. His eyes roam Denz’s face, then lower, those dimples relentless. “In case you’re ever not good.”
He steps around Denz to get to the front counter.
Denz waits three minutes, enough time for Javi to order and walk away, before he tugs out his phone to call Kami. He can’t let this continue. It’s time for 24 Carter Gold to get back into the wedding industry. Prove to everyone they’re still the best event company in Atlanta.
Turning, he almost slams right into Braylon.
“He-hi-lo,” he stumbles out.
“’Ello.” Braylon’s gaze looks past Denz. To the bar where Matty’s passing off a drink to Javi. “Another friend of yours?”
Denz doesn’t know why his face blisters. Or why he’s laughing nervously as he says, “Not like that . Just my aunties interfering in my life. Back when they still didn’t like you.”
Braylon hums.
“They won’t shut up about you now,” Denz adds. “My uncles too. Everyone’s in love with you. You’re doing a great job.”
“A job,” Braylon deadpans.
“And my dad’s finally coming around.”
An hour ago, after another meeting, Kenneth didn’t make his usual judging face when Denz said he was meeting Braylon for lunch. That counts, right?
“He’s nothing,” Denz whispers as Javi exits the café.
“Like Matty?”
Denz fights a flinch. “Both. Nothing at all.”
A beat. Braylon motions toward the counter. “Shall we?”
After ordering and avoiding eye contact with Matty, Denz leads them to the corner table. He licks sugar from his blueberry-lemon scone off his thumb. “This is a new look.”
Braylon’s in a soft hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. All black. “We were rearranging the furniture. Nora’s hosting a movie night,” he explains. “Whit’s looking forward to your social media tutorial tomorrow.”
“By which you mean she’ll have an hour-long Dateline episode dedicated to her after she murders me.”
“Strong possibility.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
“You won’t,” Braylon says. “You always try, Denz.”
“History, according to my family, says otherwise.” Denz does his best not to sound self-deprecating. It doesn’t work.
Braylon sips his tea. “Have you ever considered their opinion of you is wrong?”
Tangentially? Sure. But it’s hard to brush off what your family thinks of you. Hard to not let it bleed into everything you do.
It’s why Denz chose UGA.
By senior year of high school, he wanted to get away.
Be anyone other than Denzel, young face of the Carter legacy.
It’s not a coincidence that he waited until his acceptance letter arrived before he finally came out.
His family wasn’t— isn’t —homophobic, but he knows how the public sees him.
How his every move as a Black man is watched.
Layering his queerness on top of that? No, thanks.
College was his escape from the unwanted spotlight.
Now he’s back to being the only son of Kenneth Carter. Constantly proving himself. Not only as a Carter, but as a successful Black man. A capable queer man. He walks into every situation five steps behind most people because of who he is.
On the table, Braylon’s fingers brush across his knuckles. He knows Denz is overthinking. He doesn’t hesitate to let Braylon hold his hand.
“They’re wrong,” Braylon says, low and serious.
Denz wants so badly for that to be the only voice in his head, but it isn’t. It never is.
“I didn’t invite you to lunch to be my therapist,” he jokes.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Therapy? I don’t think it is.” Denz bites into his scone. “Never tried it.”
“It saved my life.”
Denz smiles, genuinely. “Then it’s the best thing in the world.”
He eats one-handed. Tells Braylon about the time Cheryl auditioned for American Wonder, a short-lived reality singing competition.
How she met Tevin backstage, reconnecting years later after Jordan was born.
He admits Kami thinks Mikah’s first word was “Mom” when it was actually “shit” after a weekend of Denz babysitting.
He gushes about better times with his family, when he felt like one of them instead of someone wearing a Carter face, trying to fit in.
Denz wants to ask Braylon about memories with his own parents but is scared to reopen a wound for either of them.
When Braylon finishes his tea, he pulls his hand away. “I bet loads of lads will be chuffed to see you back in the dating world. Once this is over, of course.”
It comes out of nowhere. Denz didn’t expect to have this conversation now. This thing always had an expiration date. But Denz is just learning Braylon again. The parts of him he never knew.
He’s not falling for Braylon—he swears—but there’s this unnamable, loud, fierce beating in his chest that he can’t shake.
“What makes you think that?”
“The comments on your social media are—”
“Thirsty? Bold?” Denz offers.
“You’ll have plenty of options.”
Yeah, Denz really can’t wait to update his profile: 25. Cancer. Loves muffins, rom-coms, and being your perfect fake boyfriend.
He clears his throat, switching tactics. “What about you? I’m sure there are hot, eligible guys all over Atlanta eager to snatch you up.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Pink spills across Braylon’s cheeks like paint. “Work is my focus. I love what I do. I want to see Skye’s the Limit expand.”
“How’d you end up there, anyway?”
Denz isn’t avoiding the dating interrogation. Part of him believes Braylon’s full of shit. He can date and have career goals. Kami’s doing it. But his fight or flight has kicked in. He doesn’t want to hear about Braylon’s future boyfriends.
A smile quirks Braylon’s mouth. He launches into how Nora built Skye’s the Limit in honor of her nephew Skye, who “needed somewhere where he was safe, loved, and always allowed to be himself.” How she started paying attention to the lack of LGBTQ+ resources for teens in Atlanta.
So she created her own. Hired people with the same mission.
“I stumbled on a video interview of hers after my dad’s funeral,” Braylon says, his voice a mix of sad and fond. “Nora had me in the first minute.”
“Really?”
Braylon describes his last weeks in London. The unhappiness. Constantly feeling lost. Then, his dad passed and he “never went back.” He emailed Nora for an interview a week after the funeral.