Chapter 30
. . .
“Evan, I’m really sorry. Never in a million years did I think a casual comment would turn into this.”
Evan rubbed his temples and stood from the couch, trying not to think about the things they’d done on it over the course of the week. “Liv, I wouldn’t have bet on these odds even with insider information. It’s not your fault.”
Who could have guessed that Lucien Baptiste, award-winning independent filmmaker of such classics as Ten to One and Caught in the Rain on the Plains, would be one of Olivia’s oldest friends and confidantes?
In a chance meeting while backpacking through Europe in her twenties, Olivia had adored Luc’s eccentricity and vision. She’d become his first patron and to that day, remained an enthusiastic supporter of his work, much to the chagrin of her somewhat less adventurous spouse.
“You can’t imagine what it’s like explaining his presence at holiday functions,” Nate lamented, garnering a scolding tsk from Olivia.
“Luc isn’t for everyone, but his art is vibrant and unique.”
“Y’know, for porn.”
“Isabella!”
She laughed and shook a finger at her aunt. “Oh no. I don’t care what you dress it up as in your mind. That man makes highfalutin porn, and we all know it.”
Olivia frowned. “The point, if we could return to it, is that I certainly didn’t expect he had business dealings with your brother, Evan. I didn’t think your father… dabbled in the arts.”
“He dabbles in a lot of things, but I can confidently assume this is my brother’s personal project.”
Whatever business Rich had with this Lucien would absolutely be on the down low.
While he’d likely never be a majority holder in the business, he still had to maintain a certain level of decorum.
Working with an artsy porn director would be hard to sell as a grey area.
This was something he could possibly use to his advantage once he had more information.
“This meeting was regarding an as-yet-unnamed film. Luc doesn’t like spoilers even among his closest friends, but I’ve asked him to provide whatever details he’s comfortable with, in case they’d be of help.”
“Thanks, Liv.”
They left him to his thoughts, the sound of their golf cart fading into the distance as he strolled onto the patio and sat by the pool. He might have expected this shitstorm with his family would take front and center, but it was Heath occupying that position.
He’d sat wordlessly, watching Heath clear his things out of the bedroom the moment they’d walked in the door. He hadn’t asked him to do it, and hadn’t wanted him to, but he’d beelined straight there, gathered his stuff, and closed himself in the porch.
Chasing after him wasn’t really Evan’s style. Plus, putting him on the spot would be shitty.
Hearing him say no would be even shittier.
From his vantage point by the pool, Evan had a clear view of Heath’s silhouette moving behind the porch’s closed blinds.
He was packing. The outline of a suitcase was on the bed, and he moved back and forth filling it with little squares.
Some flat, some less so. Clothes, books, shower shit.
Whatever other mysterious items he considered necessary for two weeks out of his comfort zone.
He sipped one of the last few beers that remained in the fridge and told himself for the umpteenth time that this was for the best. Tomorrow, they went back to their lives, and he got to deal with the fallout of Rich screaming from the rooftops that Evan had taken his honeymoon trip with another guy.
If it had been any other scenario, he could have twisted it in his favor.
After all, their father wouldn’t love learning that Rich had offered one of his real estate investments up for gangbang scenes with luxury city views.
City views that would be highly recognizable.
It wasn’t exactly difficult to track down who owned what if you knew where to dig.
Rich had him by the balls, though, and he knew it.
He wouldn’t have wagered his own ass by leaking the info if he hadn’t been sure it was worth it.
And of course, it was. His father wanted him twisted into the tightest pretzel he could tie, which meant dictating what constituted a lifestyle as an upstanding pillar of the community.
Couldn’t make the Westin name look bad. It was synonymous with steadfast reliability and getting shit done.
That was rich, coming from the man who’d had a torrid affair with his admin, gotten her pregnant, then nailed her to the wall with NDAs when she’d refused to abort.
But wasn’t that the beauty of being a wealthy asshole with connections?
It was easy to make people dance to your tune when you held their strings.
Fuck, he’d been so close, only to have his own strings yanked from a thousand miles away. There wasn’t a single fucking person he could trust not to screw him over whenever the wind shifted. Even accidentally.
“Can’t sleep?”
He startled, not realizing he had company. The porch light was still on, and the suitcase was still on the bed, but Heath stood next to him with crossed arms and weary grey eyes.
“Haven’t really tried.” Wasn’t sure he could even if he did.
“I thought you might want this.”
Proust. The book he’d borrowed without asking.
“I can’t take this.”
“You already did. I’m just giving you permission this time.”
He offered it again, and Evan let himself reach for it. He’d sworn not to make a scene, but the light touch of fingertips triggered a needy desperation so strong he couldn’t control himself, so he grabbed Heath’s wrist and held firm.
“Please.”
Please what? Use your words, asshole. Please understand that I have to do this? Please stay with me, because you’re the first person I’ve ever felt like myself with?
Heath’s eyes fluttered closed. “No.”
Evan released his hold and stood. That felt exactly as shitty as he’d expected it would.
Spending the week fucking like maniacs didn’t entitle him to shit. Heath owed him nothing. Not the benefit of a doubt. Not a second chance. Certainly not blind trust. He’d given that to people before, and look how it had served him.
Heath wanted a quiet life of tea and reading by a roaring fire. He deserved better than clandestine meetings and having to keep his head on a swivel in case someone was paying too much attention or following too close.
Asking him to cease trusting a single soul, in case one of them was buttering him up for information, wasn’t fair or realistic. Evan was already living that life, and it sucked.
“I’m… sorry. I… Thanks for the book.”
He turned on his heel and marched back into the house, not bothering to check if Heath was following. He knew he wasn’t, and that reality was a knife between every one of his ribs.
He already missed him, and the closeness they’d shared for the briefest of moments, but this was the bed he’d made, and he got to lie in it alone.
The teasing and joking. Heath’s expressions of frustration when Evan was deliberately difficult. The way his mouth curved into a smile and his eyes darkened to lapis when they came together, skin to skin, seeking all the secret places they’d discovered over their days together.
It was fucking ridiculous. He’d just had an engagement fall apart. Where did he get off having feelings for someone? And not just any someone, but another man. Wasn’t this a phase you were supposed to go through in college? Wasn’t he a little old to be having a midlife crisis?
A quiet knock shook him out of his spiral, but he struggled to convince his feet to move. What else could Heath possibly want? Were there a pair of socks still under the bed?
With a deep breath, he opened the door, the question half a syllable out of his mouth before Heath’s crushed down and shut him up.
“Don’t. Just… shhh,” he pleaded, kissing Evan harder when he tried again to ask what the fuck.
He knew better than to challenge a third time.