Chapter 12 #2
I want you to press down on the bruises until I see stars. Distract me.
I stared at the screen, my mouth going dry. The description was visceral. It wasn’t just flirting; it was a demand.
You’re delirious. You just got beaten with a stick.
Exactly. I’m all sensitive. Every nerve is live.
I bet if you touched me right now I’d explode.
Meet me in the bathroom?
Ten minutes?
I want to taste you before we have to go pretend for the cameras…I need it, Baby.
My thumb hovered over the screen. The heat in my stomach was undeniable, warring with the anxiety of being caught.
We have to go to the club. Higher ups are watching. Behave.
Fine. But you owe me. I’m gonna be thinking about your hands all night.
The VIP section was a fishbowl.
It was raised above the main dance floor, separated by a velvet rope and two massive security guards, but that didn’t stop the eyes. Everyone was watching.
The music was a physical force. The iconic, hypnotic synth intro of “Black Beatles” dropped, and the entire club exploded. The beat was infectious, manic, a relentless driving rhythm that made it impossible to stand still.
I sat in the corner of the plush leather booth, nursing a water. I was wearing a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, playing the role of the “Professional.”
Cal was playing “Deadlock.”
And he was playing it too well.
He was standing near the railing, illuminated by the strobes. He had a drink in one hand, a soda with lime that looked like a vodka tonic and a woman under the other arm.
She was stunning. Dark curls, a red dress that barely existed. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting flat on his chest, right over his heart, fingers tracing the edge of his unbuttoned shirt.
Cal leaned down, whispering in her ear. He flashed that dangerous, crooked smile. He ran his hand down her back, resting it on her hip, pulling her slightly closer.
It was perfect marketing. It was exactly what I had told him to do. Sell the image, Cal. Be the rockstar.
It made me want to rip the booth apart with my bare hands.
“He’s good at it,” Evan said.
I jumped slightly. Evan had slid into the booth next to me. He wasn’t looking at Cal. He was looking at me.
“Good at what?” I asked, my voice tight.
“The Game,” Evan said quietly. “The Schmoozing. The ‘Ladies Man’ thing.”
Evan took a sip of his beer. He watched the woman run her fingers through Cal’s hair. He watched my jaw clench until my teeth hurt.
“You okay, Si?” Evan asked.
It wasn’t a casual question. There was a weight to it. A sympathy I hadn’t asked for. Evan was playing the dumb jock, but he saw things. He saw the way I looked at Cal.
“I’m fine,” I lied, staring at the table. “Just a headache. The lights.”
“Yeah,” Evan murmured. “The lights are bright.”
He didn’t ask why I looked like I was in physical pain watching my best friend flirt with a model. He just bumped his knee against mine in solidarity and turned back to the crowd.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, shielding the screen under the table.
She smells like vanilla. Too sweet.
I looked up. Cal was still smiling at the girl, nodding at whatever she was saying. He hadn’t broken character, but his phone was in his hand behind her back.
She’s gorgeous. Smile more. Management is here watching.
I am smiling. My face hurts from smiling.
I hate this.
She keeps putting her hand on my chest. I wish it was yours.
A jolt of heat went straight to my groin, followed immediately by a wave of bitterness.
Do your job, Kincaid.
I watched him read it. I saw his jaw tighten. He typed fast, his thumb flying over the screen, then shoved the phone in his pocket.
He turned back to the girl, grabbed her waist with both hands, and spun her around, pulling her flush against him. The beat of the song peaked, and he grinded against her. He laughed, loud and fake, and buried his face in her neck.
My phone buzzed again.
I’m pretending it’s you. I’m pretending this dress is your shirt.
I’m pretending I’m going to drag you into the bathroom and get on my knees.
Stop telling me to do my job and tell me you want me.
I couldn’t breathe. The air in the club felt suddenly thin.
I stood up abruptly. “I need air,” I choked out to Evan.
“Bathroom?” Evan asked, his eyes soft.
“Yeah. Bathroom.”
I walked away. I didn’t look at Cal. I just walked toward the back hallway where the private restrooms were.
Thirty seconds later, the heavy door to the hallway opened. Cal slipped inside. The noise of the club muffled instantly.
He didn’t say a word. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and shoved me into the narrow, dim stairwell used by the wait staff. The door clicked shut, plunging us into semi darkness lit only by a red Exit sign.
“You pushed me,” Cal hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and something frantic. “I was doing it. I was putting on the show. Why did you walk away?”
“Because I couldn’t watch it!” I snapped, shoving him back.
“You told me to!” Cal shouted, throwing his hands up. “You told me, Silas! ‘Be the playboy, Cal. It keeps us safe, Cal.’ So I’m being the playboy! I’m letting her touch me. I’m letting her breathe on me. And then you look at me like I’m cheating on you!”
“It feels like you are!” I yelled, the confession ripping out of me before I could stop it.
The silence that followed was heavy. The air in the stairwell was hot and stagnant.
Cal stared at me, his chest heaving. The manic energy from the ring and the club drained out of him, leaving him looking young and wrecked.
“It feels like it for me too,” Cal whispered. “When I’m with them… I feel sick, Si. I have to close my eyes and pretend.”
“Do you?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Do you really have to pretend, Cal? Or is that just what you tell me?”
Cal frowned, stepping closer. “What does that mean?”
“It means I know you,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
“I know you’re not like me. When women touch me…
I feel nothing. It’s just skin. It’s just a job.
But you…” I gestured to him, my hand shaking.
“You aren’t gay, Cal. You can look at her and feel something.
It’s not a lie for you the way it is for me. ”
Cal stopped. He looked at me, really looked at me, his brow furrowing as he processed the words.
“Wait,” Cal said slowly. “You think you’re just… strictly gay?”
“I think so,” I admitted, looking at the floor, the realization terrifying. “I don’t look at them and feel anything. I never have. But you have options. You could be with her and actually be happy. You could have the wife, the kids, the magazine covers, and it wouldn’t be a performance.”
I looked up at him, feeling the tears pricking my eyes.
“That’s why I can’t watch it,” I whispered. “Because I’m terrified that one day you’re going to realize you can have everything you want with someone who doesn’t force you to hide in a stairwell.”
Cal stared at me. The anger vanished, replaced by a fierce, devastating clarity.
“You think because I can like women, that I want them?” Cal asked quietly.
“I think it would be easier,” I said.
“I don’t want easy!” Cal grabbed the lapels of my shirt, slamming me back against the concrete wall. “I don’t care about the options, Silas. It doesn’t matter who else I could be with. My heart only works for one person.”
He pressed his body against mine, hard and undeniable.
“I choose you,” Cal growled, his face inches from mine. “Every single day, I wake up and I choose this. I choose the hiding. I choose the secrets. Because the alternative is a life without you, and that’s not a life. That’s just breathing.”
He moved his hand down as he pressed his hips into mine. Hard. A desperate, grinding friction that told me exactly how hard he was, how much he needed this contact.
“Feel that?” Cal gasped, his hand gripping my hip, digging into the flesh through my jeans. “She didn’t do that. You did. Just by standing there. Just by existing.”
I let out a shaky breath, my hands resting on his waist.
“Just…” Cal pleaded, resting his forehead against mine, his breath hitching. “Just ground me. Remind me who I actually belong to. Because out there? I’m drowning, baby.”
I wrapped my arms around him. I held him tight, burying my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and the faint, cloying vanilla of the girl’s perfume that clung to him.
“You’re mine,” I whispered into his skin, tightening my grip until it must have hurt his bruised ribs. “You’re fucking mine. That’s who you are.”
Cal shuddered in my arms, a rough, broken noise escaping his throat. He bucked his hips against me once, brief and telling, seeking the friction, seeking the proof that this, us, was the only real thing in the building.
We stood there in the dark, swaying slightly, sweating, aching. Two liars holding onto the only truth we had, while the music pounded on the other side of the wall.
Nobody came in. Nobody interrupted. It was just us, suspended in the heat, terrified to let go.
Eventually, Cal pulled back. He took a deep breath, fixing his collar, shaking out his hair. The mask slid back into place. The “Deadlock” smirk was plastered on his face, but his eyes were sad.
“Showtime, Si,” Cal said, his voice hollow.