Chapter 33 – King
Chapter
Thirty-Three
KING
Ipull out my cell phone and dial Mason’s number, already regretting not heading straight to his office after my meeting with Kendra McIntyre, the owner of Matrix, the club where Cassidy Jones worked.
It was a productive use of my time though.
The owner gave me insight into the clientele and confirmed my father wasn’t a regular patron.
He only ever seemed to be there when Cassidy was working.
Matrix is closer to my apartment, but the latter is missing one vital thing—Mason fucking James.
“Hey, calling to check in,” I tell him. “I don’t have anything significant to update, but I’m not going to make it to your office.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
The door to my apartment snaps shut behind me. “I literally just got home.”
“Fuck.” He lets out a sigh. “I wish I was there with you. I have back-to-back meetings until seven. Remind me to pass our European clients to our new marketing VP when she starts.”
I kick off my boots. “I wish you were here too, Playboy. I fucking miss you.”
He laughs, and I smile at the sound, loving that he laughs so easily with me.
“You saw me six hours ago. But yeah, I miss you too.” With those last few words, his tone changes from light to deep and husky.
Predictably, my cock twitches in response.
“I have a favor to ask, actually. Well, not so much a favor as a request.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“I totally forgot I agreed to go to a play tonight,” he explains.
“It’s starring an old friend of mine, and it’s his first Broadway show.
He usually does movies, so he’s kind of nervous, and he sent me a couple of tickets.
I promised I’d be there. You want to come with me? We could grab something to eat after.”
My skin itches. “Like a date?”
“No. Like two people going to see a show together and getting some food afterward. I promise to be a gentleman and not even try to hold your hand. I’ll only refer to you as bro or dude if that makes you feel better.”
Fucking Smartass. “A Broadway show though?”
Mason’s laugh fills my ears. “Relax, Hotshot. It’s not Starlight Express. It’s a serious play. So will you come with me or not?”
I really fucking want to, but the idea of someone seeing us together and somehow guessing what we are to each other scares the hell out of me. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mase.”
It’s a few seconds before he speaks again. “Okay. It’s no big deal. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The disappointment in his voice guts me.
I hang up the call and drop my head back against the sofa. Why did I say no? It’s not a date—just a show and drinks. Plenty of people do that kind of thing with friends.
Is this old friend an ex of his? Mason dated a string of high-profile actors, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s remained friends with some of them. Who am I kidding? I can pretend tonight’s not a date, but we both know it would be. Because Mason James is mine.
And I’ll be fucked if I let some A-list actor drool all over him.
I call him back, and he picks up on the second ring.
“I’ll come to the play with you.”
“Good. I’ll send a car for you at—”
“I can make my own way, Playboy.”
He laughs. “Fine. We’ll meet inside the theater to avoid any press. I’ll text you the address. There’s a bar on the second floor. I’ll see you there at quarter to eight.”
“See you then.”
We end the call, and I lean back against my sofa again, a whole lot happier this time. I’m going on a date with Mason James, and I’m equal parts terrified and excited. I focus on the latter.
Holding onto my glass of Scotch like it’s a comfort blanket, I spot him walking up the stairs of the theater bar. He smiles when I catch his eye. Dressed in a fitted white shirt with dark dress pants, he looks fucking edible.
I will my legs to stay still and not run in the opposite direction. It’s only a show. There are hundreds of people here, all with friends, family, and partners. Nobody is paying any attention to us. Well, except for the usual admiring glances he always attracts.
Mason winks when he reaches me, a rolled-up program in his hand. “That looks good.” He nods toward my drink.
I didn’t think to get him one—another stark reminder of how rarely I do anything like this. “I probably should have gotten you one too.” A bead of sweat trickles down my back. “You want a sip?”
He laughs. “Seems like you need it more than me. Relax, okay? It’s only a play.” He nods toward the doors. “You ready?”
I down my drink and place the glass on a nearby table.
No, most definitely not ready, but I follow him inside the theater anyway, and we take our seats.
I’ve been too nervous to pay attention to the name of the show or who’s starring in it, but as soon as I look at the program Mason is reading through, I recognize the name of the star performer—Tommy Castle.
“Didn’t you used to date this guy?” I ask through clenched teeth.
Mason shrugs, still poring over the pages. “A lifetime ago, yeah.”
An unexpected growl rumbles in my throat, and that gets his attention. His eyes narrow. “That’s not why we’re here, King. He’s a friend.”
I roll my neck, feeling uncomfortable. We’re in the front row, some of the best seats in the house, and I feel on display. “I know. I just …”
The house lights dim, and he gives my thigh a subtle squeeze. “It will be fine.”
It’s more than fine. The play is engrossing. Tommy gives a great performance, confirming he’s much more than an action-movie hero. But sitting here with Mason is the most incredible part. His warm thigh rests against mine, and the occasional brush of our hands ignites the constant spark between us.
When the play ends, Tommy gets a standing ovation. We join in, and Mason whistles for his friend. Tommy flashes him a wink.
“You want to come backstage to say hi?” Mason asks.
“To Tommy?” Your ex? The guy who eye-fucked you from the stage? I don’t voice those last two things. “I thought we were going for food. I’m starving.”
“We will,” Mason promises. “It will only take a few minutes, and then we can get out of here.” He weaves expertly through the crowd, and I follow close behind.
A hefty-looking bouncer with half a dozen facial piercings stands at the stage door.
He recognizes Mason and waves us through to Tommy’s dressing room.
There are several people in here already, but as soon as Mason walks in, Tommy makes a beeline for him. “Mason, you came!” He’s beaming, and who can blame him? Mason James has that effect on people.
Tommy looks like he’s about to hug him, but Mason holds out his hand to shake. “Of course, Tom. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Tom takes Mason’s outstretched hand and then glances at me, and I realize I’m probably scowling. Mason introduces me as his buddy, which pisses me off. Yeah, it’s exactly what I asked for, but I didn’t know I’d be meeting his fucking ex.
“Did you enjoy the show?” Tommy asks me.
“Yeah. It was really great. Congratulations.”
He nods. “Thanks, man.” He refocuses on Mason. “You guys want to come to the after-party? It’s nothing huge. Just the cast and a few select people.” I don’t miss the way his eyes rake over my boyfriend. It’s obvious he’d much prefer to attend a party that involved only the two of them.
Mason shakes his head. “Can’t. I have an early meeting tomorrow. But thanks for the invite.”
Tommy’s eyes dart between the two of us before fixing on Mason once more, and he raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends,” Mason assures him.
Tommy licks his lips. “Shame about the party then. Maybe next time?”
“The play was incredible, Tom. I’m really pleased for you,” Mason says, expertly dodging his question. “We’d better get going.”
We say goodbye, and a few minutes later we’re being let out of a back door into a quiet alley. “You didn’t want to go to their party, did you?” Mason asks.
“No. But did you?” There’s no cause for the accusation in my tone. Mason gave zero inclination he wanted to do anything with his ex, but the guy is a Hollywood star with abs of steel and an ass that looks like it’s been carved from marble—I’ve seen it in movies.
He stops in his tracks. “You know I didn’t, King.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. He’s standing close, his hands by his sides, and I can tell he’s trying hard not to touch me.
It’s every bit as difficult for me. I want to push him against this building and remind him that he’s mine, but I can’t.
Not even in this quiet alley. “I hate that I can’t touch you,” I whisper.
He hums. “You want to go home?”
“No. You said food.” I grunt my response like a neanderthal.
He stares at me for a few seconds and smirks. “I know just the place.”
Mason made a call, and a cab ride later found us taking a private elevator to an exclusive restaurant in Manhattan.
A ma?tre d guides us to a private room that comfortably fits a dining table for two.
Music plays softly through speakers built into the wall, and there’s a small bar off to the side, stocked with top-shelf liquor.
One wall is entirely glass, the kind that allows us to see out into the main restaurant and bar area but, I’m assured, doesn’t allow anyone to see in.
We order the Kobe filet and roasted vegetables, and it’s as delicious as one would expect from a restaurant that doesn’t list prices on the menu. As is the Ballantine’s, which also doesn’t have a price attached.
While we eat, Mason and I talk about mundane shit that doesn’t really mean anything, but it feels easy. Every so often, I glance at the glass wall and fidget in my chair.
“Relax. Nobody can see us,” Mason assures me. “Not that there’s anything to see. We’re just eating dinner.”
Just eating dinner right now, but spending time in each other’s company usually only ends one way. Is that why he brought me to a place where nobody can see us? “How many guys have you brought here?” I ask.