7. Finn
SEVEN
Finn
What did I do?
What did I do?
One glimpse of Cameron in those training pants, and his erection, knowing he was as turned on as I was, and every single promise I’d made to myself for the sake of career vanished.
I nearly did it.
I nearly reached out and pulled him down on top of me.
Fuck.
The weight of regret was as heavy as the mix of fear and shame I’d carried for so long, and I had to stop the car when my chest got so tight I couldn’t breathe.
I’d parked in the first place I could find—a vacant lot in front of a boarded-up pizzeria, then stared at the fading signs pronouncing two for one meal deals.
I hadn’t had pizza in so long, empty carbs, not enough protein, had to keep the six-pack, had to stay in shape, had to work hard to be the Finn Kerrigan everyone wanted. I rested my head and hands on the leather steering wheel and groaned.
Stupid. Stupid. Fucking stupid.
But he was there, and he was touching me, and I felt bold and brave, and so freaking horny, and then I’d touched his hand…
I had to get some perspective, consider the scenarios, evaluate the good and the bad.
I could imagine the way Cameron would grip me, then move his hand, and fingers and… shit… it would have been so hot. His expression was beautiful, a want and a need in his stunning gray eyes. And jeez, I was getting hard in an empty lot in my car, and I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t desire what he’d done again.
Fuck.
I couldn’t even begin to make sense of it all.
Cameron could make a ton of money by selling the story of what he thought we might have done, and then I’d lose the Grierson movie role, and then I wouldn’t be able to live an authentic life.
I wouldn’t be able to cross the bridge to being out in Hollywood but still getting work.
Actors who fuck everything up before they made it big don’t get to cross that bridge.
Would Cameron do that? Did he need money? I pulled out my cell, and typed in How much is Cameron worth? It returned a few results for other famous guys called Cameron—I’m an idiot—and I added his last name of Chavkin.
The top hit was a net worth site, twenty-six million.
So maybe he wouldn’t out me for money.
But what about notoriety? Would he out me for that? Was I worth more in the public eye than he was? I doubted it—he had years of being an elite sportsman, I had three chewing-gum-for-the-eyes action movies and a kids’ movie.
He didn’t need people to know what had happened just to make him look good.
I began to feel better. And just to be sure, I pulled down the vanity mirror to check that I didn’t appear as if I was losing my shit. As I confronted my stupid-ass reflection, I swore I could see it smirk back at me for giving in.
In that moment I wanted him.
And now I’ve fucked up.
My resolve to wait for everything had crumbled in the face of Cameron with his sure grip, and his eyes, and his hair, and his thighs, and fuck… where had my self-control vanished to?
I’d nearly traded a hand job for everything I wanted and planned for.
“Fucking idiot!” I snapped at myself, then pushed up the visor so hard I heard a crack. Great, now I’m breaking my car.
I sat back in my seat, and settled my breathing, using all kinds of techniques until I relaxed into the seat. It was all going to be okay. I’d go back, talk to him, get him to sign a post-sex NDA, pay him off if I needed to.
I should call Atlas.
And tell him what? Sorry I nearly fucked up; I think my hockey player knows I was more than turned on by a massage. I held his hand. Fuck. You need to fix it for me?
I scrolled the entertainment news searching for my name—waiting for it to pop up.
The first headline I saw was “Secrets revealed derail Rapid franchise!”
Heart in my throat I clicked and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The big secret was that a plot hole had been found in the second movie. I was surprised it had taken people that long to find it.
Nothing about me. About being gay. About me losing my shit over a man I should be avoiding.
Atlas would work it out for me, hide it, make it go away, but he’d make it worse by explaining all other things I’d only just avoided making the press.
My chest tightened as I recalled the warnings Atlas had given, about Me Too, and responsibility and… wait. What if Cameron accused me of inappropriate advances? What if he stated that I grabbed his hand, and he felt like I was using my influence to get him to…
To what?
I don’t have influence.
But the media would jump all over it.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh fucking goddamn shit!
I was sweating, hot, freaking terrified.
That was way worse than losing my career—that would ruin me, ruin everything. My family would be dragged into it, I’d end up in the—
A bang scared the living daylights out of me, and after I gasped and clutched my chest dramatically, I side-eyed whoever had knocked there, and saw a cop. I sat upright, years of media training coming to the fore, and lowered the window.
“Is everything okay?” the cop asked me, and it was obvious he recognized me because his eyes widened. “Finn Kerrigan. Right?” he asked, and I was flustered.
“Sorry. Yes, of course. I’m just getting my license and ID.” I reached for the paperwork with exaggerated care, and handed it to him, and he gave it a cursory glance.
“Are you aware that you are parked on private property, Mr. Kerrigan?”
I am? I glanced up at the pizzeria sign, then noticed the one beneath it warning of consequences for parking in the space. Shit. Way to add more shit to an already crappy day.
“I wasn’t, I’m sorry. I just needed to take a call,” I lied, but it seemed to be enough to mollify the cop who nodded and passed back my ID.
He stared at me then peered into the cool interior.
“In the future I’d be careful where you park your limited edition, only ten of a kind, Lamborghini, sir.”
“My apologies.”
We stared at each other now, and he cocked an eyebrow. “If you could move it on, sir.”
“Sure. Sorry.” I restarted the engine and smiled my best action hero I’m-a-respectable-citizen smile, then left before things got any worse. Now what?
I’d had my meltdown, was convinced that Cameron was going to accuse me of all kinds of things, and there was only one thing I could do.
Talk to the man himself, but that would have to wait until tomorrow, for our lesson.
If he even turned up to the lesson.
What if he didn’t?
I knew where he was right now—at the place I’d stalked him and where the Storm played, doing something with clearing out lockers and giving interviews.
I headed in that direction, straight into midday traffic, and got caught up in the snarl of cars and buses around the arena.
I did make it to a security line, but I was twenty cars back and as conspicuous as a parrot in a gaggle of geese.
So much for getting to wait anywhere near the Cali Natural Gas Arena.
A couple of flashy cars headed in the opposite direction, heading away, and when I saw a familiar matte-blue Mercedes, it hit me that the players were leaving and there was Cameron!
All I needed to do was follow him again and hope he didn’t realize it was me and stop his car to ask me to explain what in god’s name I was doing.
Or worse, call the cops from his car, then I’d be in some kind of weird-ass chase that helicopters would hover over, then I’d end up on the news and…
Stop spiraling.
I stayed a couple of cars behind him as we headed up into the hills, a little confused when he added a convoluted left and right and ended up going around the block with no purpose.
Still, I had him in my sights, and there was no way he’d see me when I was blocked by general traffic from his view.
At last, we were out of the city and onto a quieter road going up past private gates, scrubby land interspersed with lush greenery, and it was unfortunate that the two cars between us, a Prius, and a Porsche, both turned off, which left my startling yellow Lamborghini right behind his Mercedes. Inconspicuous, not.
He slowed at a gate which opened smoothly, then pulled into the drive as I parked my car half a block down from him.
Now what?
I’d shadowed him home, but now I was on the winding street with views of the valley, and he was inside his place with the gates still open.
I couldn’t stay here all day. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I thought about what to do next, and then he appeared right there in front of me.
His hands on his hips, lips thin, and an eyebrow quirked.
A car careened down the hill, a go-kart that looked like something out of a video game with splashy colors of yellow and bright pink, only just missing me and him.
The driver yelled a greeting before disappearing around the corner.
Cameron gave them the finger as they did, so I’m guessing he knew them. Maybe he should tell them to slow down.
He gestured for me to follow, and then stalked back to the gate and thumbed inside.
I did as I was told, and once he was back in his car, we created a tiny convoy that took us from the gate down a short road to the house at the end.
Nice.
Not a McMansion like mine, but wide and low. Neat, with greenery, and a palm tree, and a brilliant-white front door. I parked behind him, and then settled my breathing, pasted a smile on my face, and then opened my door. This was impetuous, this was idiotic.
I’m so fucking this up.
Atlas will kill me.
Cameron exited his car and came over to me, his arms now crossed over his chest. He’d clearly changed out of his training stuff because he was now in a suit, which had to be hot on a day like today.
Also, had they played or something, because his left eye was puffy and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose.
“Are you stalking me, Hollywood?” he asked.
“No!”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“I promise I’m—”
“You followed me from the arena.”
“Wait. You saw me?”
He glanced at my canary-yellow car. “Difficult to miss.”
I grimaced. “Sure, yeah, I’m sorry, but I needed to talk to you.”
He relaxed then, his arms uncrossing, and after a sigh, he stalked to the house, opened the door, and waited.
Was me going in there just going to compound my situation?
What if the media got wind of me holding his hand, while I had an erection, and then stalking him to his home, and going inside? Shit. Shit.
“I’m not sure I should go in,” I called after him.
“Huh?” He turned to face me, then pointed up at the sun. “I have AC.”
“I have this thing…” I began. How to explain? “I don’t want you to feel I’m using my influence to force you to invite me in.”
He snorted a laugh. “Are you a vampire?”
I was confused, and then gestured up at the same sun. “Evidence says otherwise.”
“Then you don’t need to worry about crossing my threshold—I invited you in.”
“Yes, but…” I pulled out my phone and thumbed to record, pointing it at the ground. “Am I forcing you to invite me in?” I asked.
He glanced at me, then the phone, and frowned.
“No, Finn Kerrigan, actor, star of the Rapid franchise and a cute film about ladybugs, I, Cameron Chavkin, star center for the LA Storm, am not being intimidated into letting you in my house.” He said that all so deadpan, and then disappeared inside, as I stopped recording.
That covered me, right?
After a moment I slunk in after him and found myself in a wide hallway with a wall of photos.
This house wasn’t sterile like mine; it was filled with images of him and family and friends, along with a couple of hockey sticks laid by a small table.
There was even a misshapen bowl for keys painted in bright purple and with the initials CC on it.
Had he made that? Or was it a niece or a nephew?
I had similar things from Henry and Lilly—a lot of things with Hobart-the-elf and ladybugs on—but I hadn’t unpacked the boxes they were in yet, because my huge place didn’t feel like somewhere I wanted to call home.
Cameron went down a corridor and through a door at the end and I followed, coming into a wide kitchen with light flooding in from huge wraparound windows, through which I could see a pool beyond.
Nope. He definitely didn’t need my money.
After he tossed me a bottle of ice-cold water, he took a seat at the counter and waited.
Probably for me to say something clever and to explain it all. Emotion welled inside me, all thoughts of getting an NDA fled, and it was the very worst fear that poked me hard.
“I didn’t mean to make you do anything,” I said.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to hold my hand, or touch me with the oil and stuff, when you were just being good to me because I hurt all over.
” I lowered myself to one of his stools, thankful they were sturdy enough to hold him, so they should be okay for me.
I had more bulk than he did, but he was solid and sleek, and he wasn’t a short guy at all.
In fact, he was just the right height to—
Stop.
“You didn’t make me do anything.” He sounded confused, and took a swallow of water, which made my insides hot and squirmy. God, his lips were perfect and if they were wrapped around my cock I’d lose it in seconds.
“I did.” I lifted my chin. “I held your hand on me.”
He stared at me for a while—it seemed like forever—and then he snorted a laugh, which didn’t seem appropriate after my admission.
“Do you know Maverick King?” he asked.
I frowned. “Should I?” Was it his lawyer?
“He’s six-seven, plays up in Ottawa, built like a brick wall, muscles on muscles, a juggernaut of a D-man.”
Oh wait. This Maverick is a hockey player?
“He’s a hockey player?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“I don’t know him, sorry.”
“Wait.” He pulled out his cell and scrolled through the Internet, then turned the screen to me, showing me a photo of a huge man who towered over the skater next to him. “Maverick King, a hundred and ten kilos, like I said, a juggernaut.”
“Okay?” I had no idea where this was going but couldn’t take my eyes off the way his lips moved as he talked. He was mesmerizing.
“Not even he could make me hold your hand,” he said, and sat back.
“Oh, wow, is he gay?” I asked, then amended my question. “Or bi, or pan, I mean I wouldn’t label.”
Cameron rolled his eyes. “No.”
“Oh.” Then, what was the point of him bringing this man up?
“I don’t know if King is queer. He could be. But that’s not the point. The point is that even with your movie muscles, you couldn’t make me do anything.”
Understanding hit me.
“Oh.”
He placed his cell down, then stood and caged me against the counter, leaning in until his lips were close to my ear.
“I wanted to hold your hand,” he murmured, then before I could do anything but let out a sound that was a mix between fuck and meep, he stepped back and out of my reach. “Let me show you something.”
He walked away, and after I adjusted my pants, I followed him.