Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
HENDRIX AVERY
I lied.
It was only water that I drank at the club.
I’d asked the bartender to pour it into a glass to make it appear as if I was drinking—but not for the excuse I ended up using it as. My goal was to remain sober for Tahegin’s sake, like some kind of olive branch to say, “Hey, if you can’t drink, I won’t either,” but then I’d spotted him on the dance floor with that overeager asshole. I’d slammed the drink for courage, forgetting it was nothing but water until I swallowed it before stalking to the dance floor to—what? Defend Tahegin’s honor?
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
Using the “drink” as an excuse, I convinced Tahegin to dance with me. We had danced before, the last time we went to the club together, but things are different now. For me, at least.
I tried to stay away. I really did. For nearly two weeks, I avoided him, but the desire in my gut has only grown. It’s been years since I jacked off this much—going as far as to sneak into the bathroom at the hotel to get off while Tahegin slept soundly in the bedroom just on the other side of the door. His name has been on my lips each and every time.
Waking up in the morning brings with it all the memories of last night. We had danced. We danced so long I was sure our other teammates were long gone by the time Tahegin and I separated our bodies. He was probably just humoring me with the dancing—because he’s a good guy like that—and was trying to buy time to “sober” me up. To my credit, though, I hadn’t been a stumbling, babbling idiot, hadn’t acted like I was intoxicated. Still, Tahegin didn’t question my mental status as we left the club, climbed into his truck since I had taken a car service to the club with Micah, and made our way to his house. Conversation was minimal, but he had a new playlist he was trying out, so we listened and nodded to each other during the songs we thought were worth listening to again.
At his house, we both stumbled up the dark staircase to the second floor, and then . . .
I blink, taking in the familiar room, the curtains, the trash can placed beside the bed. Groaning, I cover my face with my hands as I recall wordlessly following Tahegin into his bedroom last night. I’d fallen into his bed, listened as he went about the room to close the curtains and move the trash can, and waited, heart pounding, for him to climb in the bed beside me. He had grumbled something about his expensive mattress and his bed but settled beneath the sheets without asking me to leave. It had taken a long time for me to fall asleep, knowing Tahegin was only a foot away. The blanket moved with each of his inhales, and his body heat reached me easily despite the gap between us—driving me to the edge of insanity until I was fighting to keep myself from doing anything else I would regret.
Because I do regret last night. I regret giving myself a taste of what it could be like with him, the ease with which I could lose myself dancing with him.
But it will never happen because people have types , something Micah lectured me on when I dared question if maybe Tahegin liked more than only smaller men. He’d said it was possible—something called vers, which means the man is willing to “top” or “bottom”—but the information he has points to Tahegin most likely being a “top.” When I asked what that meant, he’d given me the long explanation of both positions in full detail while I’d stared at him in horror.
He’d given me an incredulous, slightly sympathetic, look and asked, “Are you sure you’re interested in being with a man?”
I’d reluctantly confessed that I, frequently, thought about kissing Tahegin and that I thought about him while jacking off. My cheeks had flushed entirely too dark at that.
“Some guys don’t like anal.” He’d shrugged. “Maybe you and Tahegin would be fine without it.”
“I do like it, though. With women.” Being a top seems like what I’m familiar with when it comes to women. I am, obviously, the one used to doing the penetration.
Micah had pulled a face at that, then tried to convince me why bottoming is so great. When I shuttered, he’d given me a deadpan stare. “Seriously? You’re fine with a woman offering it to you, but you’re not man enough to take it?”
That question had struck a chord within me because I had to admit he was somewhat right. I took it but couldn’t give it? Wouldn’t even try?
Hmph.
“If you throw up, please aim for the trash can,” a voice thick with sleep says from beside me.
My breath catches, hands still covering my face.
Tahegin.
He’s still in bed. I thought for sure he would be up by now. As a natural morning person, he’s usually awake well before breakfast. Most of the time, I wake up alone in our hotel room, Tahegin already downstairs for the first pot of coffee brewed that morning.
“I’m okay,” I mutter, voice nothing but bass and gravel. I clear my throat before continuing. “You’re in bed late.”
“Late night,” he sighs. “And I didn’t sleep well.”
“Shit. Sorry.” The late night was my fault, and his not sleeping well . . . Probably my fault, too. I slept like a rock, which means I most likely snored. “Micah usually just pushes my face away if I’m snoring.” Dropping my hands, I roll on my side to face him, conscious of my morning breath. There is plenty of space between us, and my head says that is a good thing. My heart, on the other hand, hates it.
Tahegin looks at me, blue eyes more dull than usual, and squints. “What? Oh, no, you’re fine. You have, like, cute baby snores.”
I scowl. “No, I don’t.”
“You know the animated Hercules movie? When the baby and the Pegasus are sleeping?—”
“No.”
“Yes,” he laughs, and though the dark circles under his eyes remain, the blue within them brightens just a little. Apparently, all it takes is a little teasing at my expense to perk him up a bit. “You, uh.” He bites his lip, thinking. “You and Micah still . . .” He trails off.
It takes me a second to remember what I’d said and how I’d said it. “We—no. No. Micah and I were roommates for four years, so sometimes I accidentally speak like we still are—just a habit, I guess. He used to march across our dorm room in the middle of the night to push my face away. It woke me up every time, even though he swore he was being gentle, but . . . Yeah. He and I don’t have sleepovers or anything like that—not since we were forced to room together for years.”
“So, just me, then?” Tahegin smiles at me, and I temporarily forget every word in the entire English language.
My cheeks are warm when I whisper, “Just you.”
A stomach rumbles between us, effectively breaking a long silence in which we were just staring at each other. We both chuckle at what sounds like a dying whale.
“Breakfast?” he asks.
“I can cook,” I offer. “Unless your staff is here today and already has food waiting for you, Your Highness.”
“Nope.” He pops the P the way he always does. “They have the day off after a game because I like to cheat on my diet without feeling guilty.”
“Because cheating today is different than tomorrow?”
“We don’t have practice today.”
“With that logic, I’m scared to see what you eat during the off-season.”
Tahegin falls apart laughing, and damn him for being so perfect that his morning breath is practically nonexistent. “If you were Aleks, I wouldn’t hesitate to make a dirty response.”
I find myself quirking a curious brow. “Why not make it with me?”
Propping up on one elbow, he squints at me. “It was going to be a gay joke, but I guess I could’ve said?—”
“Do you think I care?” I cut him off. “You know who my best friend is, right?”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I would have joked and said I eat a lot of dick during the off-season. I guess I could say puss?—”
Sitting up, I plant my hand on his— Jesus —bare chest and push him back down onto the bed until I am hovering over him. “Don’t. Don’t change yourself because you think I would prefer you to be one way or the other. Besides, we expect ladies to suck us off, so who are men to shy away from the idea of a cock in our mouths?”
“Straight men, Hendrix,” he deadpans. “Straight men shy away at that.”
“Whatever.” Rolling off the bed is an excuse to put some distance between myself and Tahegin’s bare chest before I do something stupid like say, “Let’s see if this straight man doesn’t mind blowing you” because I am this close to offering.
God, am I really? A month ago, I just wanted to kiss him. I haven’t even done that, and my brain is already skipping several bases ahead. “So, breakfast?”
He reclines back, the wide expanse of his bronze chest on full display as the blanket slips low on his waist. “Ah, yes. Feed me your succulent breakfast, Rix.”
Fuck me , my thoughts are not safe. Not safe at all.
Before I can get fully hard in my boxers—Jesus, where are my pants?—I walk stiffly from his bedroom. In the hallway, where my Neanderthal brain isn’t running circles around anything to do with Tahegin, I catch a whiff of my shirt, stale with sweat from dancing and coated in the stink of the nightclub. Wrinkling my nose, I yank the shirt off and toss it over the banister as I descend the stairs. I’ll pick it up later, but no way am I wearing that nasty thing a minute longer.
So, clad in only my dark grey boxers, I invade Tahegin’s kitchen and get to work making the biggest, cheesiest omelets I can with the ingredients from his fridge. I figure if he has them, he eats them, so I toss everything from mushrooms to onions to peppers to tomatoes in his. Since I am a pickier eater than him, mine doesn’t include mushrooms or spicy peppers. The bell peppers are free game, though, and I snack on a few raw slices while the omelets cook.
After they’re done, Tahegin still isn’t downstairs, so I place the plates in the oven to keep warm, then meander around his house. Unlike his parents’ old-style home, Tahegin’s is modern and has that barely lived-in look, save for the shoes discarded by the front door. Even the Christmas tree in the living room looks as if it jumped right out of a magazine?—
Oh, shit. Is it already almost Christmas? Where did the year go?
I do a quick tally, and . . . yep. Just over two weeks until Christmas.
Tahegin even has presents already wrapped under his tree, and because I’m nosy, I sneak a peek at the name tags—his parents, his sister, Aleks, a few teammates, and . . . me.
Hold on, the fuck?
I snag the small rectangular box from beneath the tree, double-checking that it’s actually my name written across the label in a perfect scrawl. It is, and I stare curiously at the small package. When I shake it, it rattles.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch presents with your name on them?” Of course, Tahegin chooses now to appear at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister where my dirty shirt rests.
The question doesn’t bite the way it would if someone else had asked. I know he isn’t trying to upset me by reminding me of my past. “In the foster homes, we were lucky to get anything for Christmas, much less something individually wrapped with our name on it.” I return the present beneath the tree.
“That bad?”
I shrug, trying to play off the hurt of all those years. “Not all of them. The kids with the most likely chances of being adopted got the better ones. I wasn’t lucky enough.”
“Then that is everyone else’s loss. How dare they not see how great of a person you are.”
“Hmph.”
He walks toward me slowly as if I am an animal easily spooked. “There is one good thing about that, though.”
“About me not being adopted by a loving family?” I ask incredulously.
“Mhm,” he hums, stepping into my space until he can swipe a finger across my forehead, removing my messy hair from my eyes. God, what is wrong with me? My hair is probably sticking up all over the place. I haven’t checked my chin for drool, haven’t brushed my teeth, showered, or taken a piss since waking up. I look like a fucking mess standing next to a freshly showered Tahegin in a pair of bright white joggers—that I would totally spill something on within five minutes if I tried to wear—a black tank top, and his glasses. I blink, not used to him wearing them in the light of day but not at all upset about their presence. “It means I don’t have to share you for the holidays. Do you want to spend Christmas with my family? And me, of course.”
I’m immensely grateful to have an excuse to decline the offer. God knows I’d be searching high and low for mistletoe to drag him under. “I usually spend Christmas with Micah’s family. I appreciate the offer, though.”
Clearing his throat, he steps back, taking his sweet coconut scent with him. “Right. That’s good—that you have somewhere to go. Will you be coming to the team’s New Year’s party?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t yet decided, but seeing the look on his face, I’d say anything to get his crooked smile to return.
It does, just a tad. “Okay. I will give you your present then.”
I gaze longingly at the wrapped box under the tree. “What’s wrong with now?”
“Now, I’m hungry and require food,” he declares. “Feed me.”
Once again, my thoughts are not safe.
We take our omelets to the bar overlooking the backyard. The mornings have become too chilly to eat outside, especially when I am only in boxers. Boxers, I realize, that show every outline of my crotch, every twitch at every errant thought. And, boy, do I have plenty of those.
Tahegin in those glasses. Tahegin in those pants. Tahegin in that tank that shows his tattooed arm and shoulder, biceps flexing as he shakes hot sauce on his eggs?—
Okay, maybe not the hot sauce bit.
“You should wear your glasses more,” I suggest around a mouthful of food. “They’re cute.”
His blue eyes narrow on me from behind those frames. The dark circles underneath are nearly gone now. “They aren’t cute.”
“Mhm. Like my snoring isn’t cute. Got it.”
“You dick,” he laughs, nose crinkling.
I hum playfully, as if considering his words. “Mm, no. That’s you—if the whole ‘you are what you eat’ saying is true.”
He gasps and clutches imaginary pearls. “Was that a joke, Rix? I’m so proud.”
“Shut up,” I grumble, but my mouth quirks up on one side, and a chuckle bubbles out of my chest.
? ? ?
The only thing capable of dragging me away from Tahegin and back to my apartment is the Christmas tree in his living room lingering in the corner of my eye, a constant reminder that I haven’t gotten him a present. I didn’t know he was getting me a gift, so I haven’t planned one for him. What am I to get a man who can afford literally anything he wants?
So, not something he can buy on a shelf. Something unique. Personalized. Commissioned, maybe?
The answer is so clearly in front of me that I practically leap from my couch, not even bothering to change out of my lounge pants—aka pajama pants I am already wearing despite the sun still being an hour away from setting.
The heat in my car is one hundred times better than in my old one, which Tahegin helped me sell off to a blue-collar mechanic looking to give his daughter a car for her sweet sixteen. He said it wouldn’t take much to get the heat going again, which I’m sure his daughter appreciates as the days get colder.
Micah’s apartment complex comes into view, the exterior nearly as fancy as mine. In fact, the interior of his is just as nice, maybe even more so with the eccentric chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. I haven’t stopped to consider how exactly he’d gotten this apartment so soon after college, especially when his graphic design business has yet to seriously thrive.
When Micah opens his front door, clearly not expecting me since I didn’t give him a heads-up I’d be coming, we blink at each other in surprise. Him because he must have been expecting someone else, and me because . . .
“What are you wearing?” I ask, unintentionally sounding rude. It’s not my fault he’s managed to make all my coherent thoughts scramble. I mean, he’s?—
Crossing his glittery arms over his silky pink robe, Micah cocks a hip—a feat in the extremely tall heels he’s wearing—and holds his chin high. “None of your business.” A lock of nearly shoulder-length turquoise hair tumbles into his face, prompting him to shake his head until it falls in place once more.
That’s fair.
“Okay.” Shrugging, I step into his apartment, closing the door against the chilly December air. “I need your help.”
His arms fall limp at his sides. “You . . . aren’t going to push about—” He gestures at his scantily clad body, heels, and shimmery makeup.
“Not if you don’t want to tell me. Your legs look nice.” They do, all smooth and shiny.
“Um, thanks?”
“I require your services.”
Maybe not the right thing to say when he’s stressed like a sex worker.
“I need a Christmas present for Tahegin,” I clarify when Micah looks utterly scandalized. “I thought you might be able to design a player card that looks like him? And we can fill it in with personal facts instead of stats.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowed and lips parted.
“What?” I demand when he doesn’t respond.
“First of all, of course I can do that. Easy. Second—” He pokes my chest, harder than necessary. “For the last four years, you have not given me a single Christmas present. Not. One. But a few months with Tahegin, and he’s getting custom stuff.”
“I buy you pizza and beer every year.”
“I don’t like beer.”
Smiling sheepishly, I rub the back of my neck. “Okay, maybe the beer was for me. But we always have our all-night movie party, and I let you choose all the sappy holiday movies you want.”
“That’s not a gift,” he says flatly. “That’s called friendship.”
“Micah.”
Raising his hands in surrender, Micah finally relents. “All right. That’s settled.” His palms land on my shoulders, and he begins pushing me toward the door. “Send me the cute little facts you want the card to say, and I will have it finished in time for Christmas, okay? Okay. Buh-bye now!”
I feel my face twist in confusion. Is he trying to get rid of me? I open my mouth to ask at the same time he yanks open the door and?—
We both stare at the man waiting in the hallway.
“Mickey, are you— Oh. Hello, there.” The petite guy’s voice goes all soft and sultry when he spots me, and he eyes me beneath blond curls, eyes raking down my frame in a way that makes me wish I had brought a coat. Is this what people mean when they say they feel ogled?
“Frankie,” Micah hisses from behind me. “No.” The command is said like a dog owner scolding their pet.
This Frankie character is dressed similarly to Micah, at least from what I can glimpse around his long coat. My curiosity piques. Are they going to a club? Please don’t let my earlier sex worker thought be true.
“Bye, Hendrix,” Micah grunts as he attempts to shove me out the door.
I dig in my heels, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “I’m not asking for details,” I whisper softly in his ear. “But tell me, are you being safe? Are you in any danger? Are there . . . drugs involved?”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, yanking from my hold. “Yes, I am safe. No, there isn’t danger. And no, there aren’t any drugs. Go, please, Rix. I will talk to you tomorrow.”
I trust him. Four years of friendship have given me that much. So, I let him go, reminding him once more that I am here whenever he wants to talk about it.