23. PARKER
TWENTY-THREE
PARKER
Connor:
Hrkp mr. 5her;s too mayn ddues grioopng my jukn
I stare at the message that’s come through. I’ve just climbed into bed after getting home from the game and showering, and I assume, judging by Connor’s completely incomprehensible text, that he didn’t do the same.
I guess hockey players party hard, whether it’s a win or a loss.
I stare at the message harder, trying to work out if it was something he sent on purpose, or if he sat on his phone. If he sat on his phone, it might be awkward to text back, but if he is drunk enough to be sending texts like that, it would make sense to check on him, right? As his team owner. The person who doesn’t want his star player found dumped in a ditch tomorrow morning.
Me:
In English please?
I jump when, a second later, my phone starts ringing.
“I’m in a gay bar.” His voice is borderline slurry, and he’s doing that shout-whisper thing that drunk people do.
Warmth floods my cheeks. On the one hand, his voice in my ear is giving me some cozy, intimate vibes; on the other, he’s out. At a gay bar. Where men are likely all over him. My teeth bury into my lip, and I remind myself this is good. Normal. He’s cutting things off before I get mixed ideas and is taking the chance to explore his sexuality, which is exactly what he should be doing. This is a respectful phone call to let me know. Huge points for him. Very mature.
I can’t make my voice believe me when I reply. “How great. For you.”
“No, no. No. No, that’s not the right idea. I’m here. But I don’t want to be here. I need to go, but they kidnapped me.”
I jolt upright in bed. “Who kidnapped you?”
“My brothers.”
Relief sweeps over me. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Just … this … much …”
“You are aware I can’t see you, right?”
“Maybe eleventy. Or twenty. No … Yeah. Twenty.”
“Twenty what ?” Dear God, do I need to confiscate his liver?
The line goes muffled as he talks to someone in the background, and then he’s back, voice pitched low but still loud enough I can hear him over the blasting music.
“My jailers have gone to the bar. Quick.” He hiccups. “Meet me out front. I’m gonna ditch out like a shadow ninja!”
The line goes dead, and I pull my phone away and stare at it.
I guess I’m getting back out of bed and going in search of my drunk … player. The one thing he is to me. And I’m definitely not moving quickly because I’m happy he’s not out hooking up. Nope. That would not be fair of me.
I send him a quick text to send me his location and try not to constantly glance at my phone as I take the elevator down. There’s every chance he got distracted in his drunken daze and has already forgotten about our call, but I’m not going to focus on that .
At least, I think I’m not, but I don’t miss the breath of relief when his location comes through to me. I get in the car and take off.
My stupid hair is stupid and fluffy, but thankfully, he’ll be too drunk to notice. Which leads me to a conundrum. If he’s that drunk, I can’t take him back to my house, but I also have no clue where he lives.
I guess I’ll figure it out once he’s in my car. Worst case, I have a spare bed. He can sleep there.
Only when I pull up on the curb out the front of the club, it’s not only Connor waiting.
He dives in the front seat, stinking like vodka and looking like a sexy dream. “Quick. Before they notice I’m gone.”
Before he can finish getting the sentence out though, my back door opens, and Easton, Knox, and the littlest Kiki all stumble and crawl into the back seat of my Lexus.
Did I mention I drive a sports car ?
“Why is your car so small?” Lachie slurs, elbowing Easton in the ribs.
I watch in shock and also morbid curiosity as two hockey players and an even bigger ref fold into my back seat and somehow manage to get the door closed behind them. Easton is half on his brother and half on his boyfriend’s lap, but they’re in.
“Ah … seat belts, please?”
It takes Connor four failed attempts before I reach over and save him from himself. One of his giant mitts comes up and roughly strokes my cheek. “Sorry, baby, I might be too drunk to suck your cock tonight.”
I don’t think my eyes can get any wider as I stare at him … and Connor promptly passes out.
What the fuck have they been doing for the last—it’s barely been three hours since the game ended?
“Address?” I call weakly to the other three, but Easton and Knox have their mouths fused together, and Lachie is looking at something on his phone.
Fuck me.
I guess it’s back to my place, then.
I’m still tired when I wake up. By the time I got those four drunken idiots into beds that weren’t my own, it was past three when I finally got some sleep.
And yet, judging by the heavy arm and leg wrapped around me, someone found their way into my room last night anyway.
I already know exactly who by his scent that still manages to be sexy beneath his actual smell of seedy brewery and booze sweat. By the heaviness in his limbs, he’s still very asleep.
I slip out of his hold, unable to stop my smile at the way he grasps around in his sleep and eventually wraps the blankets under his arm. It was a real skill how quickly they managed to get drunk last night, and I wonder if the others are still passed out or if they made an early exit.
My money is on the early exit. No one wants to be caught in awkward conversation with the team owner.
Only when I walk out into my living room, I find I’m very, very wrong.
Knox is shirtless in my kitchen, standing next to my humming coffee machine, Easton is sitting at the counter with his head in his crossed arms, and Lachie is sprawled over my couch with Conishkin on his chest.
“Umm … hello?” That’s a totally normal greeting for this very unnormal situation, isn’t it?
“Morning,” Knox replies, and all I get is a grunt out of Easton.
“You know,” Lachie says like we were already in the middle of a conversation, “if you ever get sick of my brother, I’d date you just for this apartment.”
I don’t know how to feel about that. “Thanks?”
“Way to make yourself sound like a whore,” Easton grumbles.
“Sorry,” Lachie replies. “I couldn’t hear you over the Connor coming out of your mouth.”
“I think we all know whose mouth Connor comes in,” Knox snarks.
My whole face goes hot. I have no idea what’s happening here or what they think they know. Or do know. Fuck. “I … uh, I don’t think?—”
Before I can deny anything at all between us, Connor appears in nothing but boxer briefs and bed hair and walks over to kiss me on the cheek before joining Knox in my kitchen.
And now my face is even hotter.
“They know,” Connor says.
I almost die.
“We won’t say anything.” Easton slowly lifts his head from his arms. “He might be an overbearing twat sometimes, but he’s still our brother.”
It’s so weird hearing Easton call him overbearing because that’s not the Connor I know at all. Sure, he has his possessive streak, but it’s never once felt overbearing. The opposite, actually. Whoever Connor ends up with will never not feel wanted. Or like a priority.
“We won’t need to say anything.” Lachie sits up, relocating Conishkin from his chest and into his arms. “You’re all Connor talked about last night. If I hadn’t lost all respect for him a really long time ago, that would have done it.”
Connor flips him off, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to defend him when they both start laughing. Laughing . After being insulted. I do not understand siblings.
“I respect him very much,” I say stiffly, mostly because I feel like I have to say something in his defense, but I’m confused if I should be defending or insulting him.
I guess now I know why hating him got his attention. The Kiki brothers are backward.
The coffee machine finishes, and Knox grabs out two more mugs. “You weren’t saying that a few weeks ago.”
“Well … no.” I finally manage the courage to move further into my living room. “That was more of a?—”
“He hadn’t had time to adjust to my charming personality,” Connor cuts in. “I’m an acquired taste.”
“I’m still acquiring it,” Easton says, making gimme hands at the cup Knox holds out for him.
Before they can start being mean again, I turn to Lachie.
“You have my rat.”
“Yeah? I mean, unless it’s someone else’s rat. In which case I’m confused why you have it in a cage.”
“No, no, it’s mine. But your brother won’t even hold Conishkin, so I wasn’t expecting someone related to him to be cuddling with it.”
“He’s a good snuggler.”
I eye him. “Exactly how long have you been holding him?”
“Fucked if I know. I liberated him from captivity last night, and we’ve been spooning ever since.” And then, as if that isn’t bad enough, Lachie lifts Conishkin to his face and covers the little rat’s face in kisses.
Conishkin is cute as hell, but that’s a line I will never cross.
“That’s disgusting,” Connor says, screwing up his face.
“Ehh.” Easton rubs his stubble. “Lachie’s used to picking up rats. At least the animal is probably cleaner than half the guys he sleeps with.”
Before Lachie can reply, Knox walks over and holds out a coffee for me. I stare at the mug for a moment.
“This is for me?”
“Yeah?”
I take it and look around at the four of them. Knox joining Easton at the counter, Lachie still making kissy faces at Conishkin, and Connor leaning beside my oven, coffee mug in one hand and watching me steadily.
He’s still looking slightly green, but he manages a smile.
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
“I’m getting there.”
I move closer to him. “I swear I put you in one of the spare rooms about five times last night.” He kept trying to sneak into my room, but a drunk Connor is about as stealthy as a herd of elephants.
His face falls. “Did you not want me there? I just remembered that you like cuddling, and now I think I like cuddling, and so I thought …”
“I wanted you there,” I say before he can start doubting. “But you were drunk. I didn’t want you to wake up and think I’d taken advantage.”
“Nah, you’d never do that.”
He sounds so casual and confident about that, and it makes me happy to know that underlying the words, it means he trusts me.
“What’d you say this cutie’s name is?” Lachie asks, breaking my attention from Connor.
“Conishkin.”
He turns to me in horror. “No. You can’t name this sweet little creature after …” He nods Connor’s way. “ That .”
“Fuck you. He’d be lucky to be named after me.”
That’s a change of tune. “Good thing he is, then.”
Connor looks torn between arguing the point and denying that’s what his name is. I give him an innocent smile, and I swear his brain short-circuits.
“Frankie is a cute name.”
I turn back to Lachie, trying to figure out if he’s serious. “No.”
“What about Gretzky?” Easton suggests.
“Stuart Little?” Knox throws out .
“Demon overlord?”
I backhand Connor’s abs. “No. It’s Conishkin. He already answers to it.”
Lachie sighs and lifts the rat back up to his face. “I’m so sorry, little dude. I tried.”
He keeps talking to Conishkin while Connor and Easton start bickering. Knox sips his coffee and scrolls through his phone, and I stare down at the coffee I’m holding.
A coffee I didn’t make.
Other than the takeout types, I can’t remember the last time someone made me a coffee. I’m sure my ex did at some point, but it’s a distant memory now.
Not like this.
The steady conversation humming around me, Lachie’s joy, and Conishkin’s squeaks as they play, the warm taste of caffeine sliding down my throat.
I want to bottle this moment.
This brief flicker of time where my place feels full for the first time since I bought it.
How can Connor ever feel lonely when this is his life?
My gaze slides back to where he’s standing. If I kept him, this would be my life too.
I’m too scared to even hope for that.