Chapter 7 Nicholas #3
Ugh, this entire situation is a mess, and it’s all Nicholas’s fault.
He’s never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend, and for a good fucking reason.
The commitment and responsibility of a relationship is way too much.
Nicholas doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to care about someone else, but apparently having even a fake one is fucking with him.
That’s got to be why his head is a mess right now.
“Andrew,” Nicholas bellows. “Where the fuck are you?”
“In the kitchen,” Andrew answers, appearing a second later with two glasses of wine and an unexpected smile. “It’s not cognac, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
Nicholas accepts the wine grudgingly, refusing to drink it on principle alone. Well, that and he dislikes wine.
“You should get real liquor.”
“I’ll add it to my grocery list,” Andrew replies in such a no nonsense tone that Nicholas can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.
“Good. Do that.”
Unexpectedly, Andrew plucks the wine glass from his hand, setting it on the table.
“The fuck you doing?”
“You don’t want it.”
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want,” Nicholas gripes.
“Did you want the wine?” Andrew asks with an arched eyebrow.
Part of Nicholas wants to say yes just to argue, but he hates wine, and Andrew is clearly aware. “No.”
“Stay here.”
“Fine, but only because I want to,” Nicholas yells, throwing himself onto Andrew’s couch.
There’s a rummaging sound from the kitchen followed up by the sound of Andrew approaching.
Nicholas refuses to open his eyes and acknowledge Andrew, but something is set on his stomach.
He listens to the sound of Andrew’s receding footsteps and the bedroom door shutting, waiting until he hears the shower turn on before exhaling a heavy breath and opening his eyes.
There in his lap is an apple juice box and a granola bar.
He’s pretty sure even as a child no one had given him snacks like this.
When he was hungry, he’d been required to sit at the table and eat off a plate, staring down his father or one of the nannies.
He’d never been allowed juice boxes and snack bars.
He’s not sure he’s ever even had a juice box.
“I’m not a fucking toddler,” Nicholas says, mostly for his own benefit since Andrew won’t be able to hear him in the shower. “God damn fucking juice box. Fuck you, Andrew.”
Fingering the juice box, he almost throws it, annoyed by the realization that he is, in fact, thirsty. Fumbling with the stupid tiny plastic wrapped straw, he shoves it into the hole, a little bit of juice dribbling down his hand as he brings it to his lips.
All it takes is two large gulps before the tiny box has collapsed in his massive grip, quenching some of his thirst but alerting him to his hunger.
Since Andrew isn’t here to see him, he unwraps the granola bar and eats that too, more than a little annoyed when he does in fact feel slightly better after the snack.
If it were his own house, he’d leave the trash laying around for his house keeper to clean up, but there’s no one like that here.
He strongly suspects Andrew would castrate him if he threw his trash on the floor, so he makes his way to the kitchen to find a trash can before returning to the living room and throwing himself on the couch.
Only this time when he does, his head lands on the throw pillow, dislodging a Kindle which slides to the carpet.
Curiously, Nicholas retrieves it from the floor, pressing the button on the bottom and swiping the screen open to see what exactly a man like Andrew King reads in his spare time.
He said it wasn’t memoirs, but Nicholas isn’t sure he believes him.
It’s probably something like the history of bird watching or finance for fun or some shit.
The screen loads slowly, unfamiliar titles popping up.
Not that any title would be familiar. Nicholas can’t remember the last book he read, probably some required reading in high school.
He skipped college and went right into the draft, much to the chagrin of his father who saw his hockey career as a slap in the face.
It never mattered how talented Nicholas was or whether his name was in the news for a fight or a goal.
To his father it was all the same—beneath the Whitmore name.
When the images of the covers load, Nicholas is surprised to find that most of them are of shirtless men.
Judging by the salacious titles, it’s not at all hard to guess what they’re about.
He’s never used one of these before but it doesn’t take him long to figure out the percentage is for which books are partially read, and he clicks on one titled—Knot Drunk—unsure what the hell he’s reading.
Mind reeling as he skims over a page describing someone taking what sounds very much like an asteroid sized, not fully human dick.
Clicking out of that one he goes back to the main menu, scrolling through until he finds another one with a half naked man on the cover.
Picking up where Andrew must’ve left off he starts reading, taken by surprise when someone shrieks.
“Put that down,” Andrew yells.
Blending into the apartment, Andrew is dressed in a matching sweatshirt like Nicholas’s, but his is all white.
It looks incredible against his dark hair and skin.
Unlike Nicholas who squeezed into the outfit, it hangs loose and very oversized on Andrew’s lankier frame, which is just distracting enough that he almost loses the Kindle. Almost.
“Drop it, Nicki.”
“Nu uh, I was reading,” Nicholas says, holding the Kindle against his chest.
Andrew’s face pales. “Reading what?”
“Well, this charming fellow named Bryce was just about to give his bodyguard the dicking down of a lifetime with—”
A hand covers Nicholas’s mouth as Andrew quite literally jumps on top of Nicki. He’s not heavy, or very strong, but he catches Nicholas off guard enough that he loses his grip on the Kindle, which Andrew quite literally chucks across the room.
“The fuck?” Nicholas mumbles against Andrew’s palm, still covering his mouth.
“You saw nothing. You read nothing. Got it?”
Nicholas remains quiet, at least until Andrew removes his hand.
“Didn’t peg you for a porn man.”
“It’s not porn,” Andrew hisses. “It’s literature.”
“If they’d had literature like that when I was in school, I might’ve been a better student.”
“I hate you,” Andrew groans. There’s the faintest flush of red on his cheeks.
“No, you don’t.” Nicholas takes advantage of having Andrew in his lap to grapple with his hips, ready to offer his own bit of surprise when he flips them over so Andrew is beneath him on the couch. “Do you, princess?”
Andrew makes a small sound of surprise, staring at Nicholas like he’s never seen him before. “You’re strong.”
“I am.”
“And a brute,” Andrew huffs, pushing against Nicholas’s chest. “Let me go.”
“You sure you don’t wanna stay right here beneath me?”
“Unless you plan to spoon feed me ice cream, I’m quite sure.”
The answer takes Nicholas by surprise. He’d expected a flat out refusal.
Interesting.
“Is that what you want? You want someone to spoon feed you ice cream? You wanna be treated like the princess you are?”
Andrew huffs, but he doesn’t deny it. What he does do is shove Nicholas onto the floor, the sting of the hardwood against his ass a small price to pay for getting such a visceral reaction from his normally composed boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend, he reminds himself before he gets carried away. Fake or real, Andrew’s reaction is delightful, and Nicholas smirks at him from the floor, very much hoping to see him so ruffled in the future.
“You wanna tell me more about that book of yours?”
“No.” Andrew glares, which is strangely hot. “Behave.”
“Fine,” Nicholas sighs, if only because he doesn’t want Andrew to make him leave yet. He hasn’t had his ice cream, and he still wants to ask him some questions.
“Just sit down and don’t move.”
“Am I allowed to get on the couch? How about breathing? Or is the expansion of my lungs too much movement?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “You can breathe, smartass.”
“Aw, you think I’m smart, princess?”
“I think you’re a pain in my ass,” Andrew grumbles, marching towards the kitchen.
“Speaking of ass—”
“No.” Andrew’s expression stops anything else Nicholas means to say. “I’m going to get the ice cream. Do you have any dietary needs or sensory preferences?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good then just…get on the couch and sit there. And behave.”
Nicholas obeys, glad when Andrew turns away from him so he can grab a couch cushion to disguise his reaction to being bossed around. Nicholas has always hated being told what to do, but apparently he doesn’t mind so much when it comes from Andrew.
“You better not be snooping,” Andrew yells.
“I’m not, but thank you for the idea.”
Andrew curses under his breath followed by the sound of jangling cutlery.
When he returns, it is with two pints of ice cream, each wrapped in a dish cloth.
He passes one to Nicholas before settling himself into the opposite corner of the couch, his legs tucked underneath him as he rests the ice cream on his knee.
Very carefully, he peels off the lid, depositing it upside down on the coffee table before he digs a spoon into his pint and lifts it to his mouth.
Unsurprisingly, Andrew seems to be eating vanilla ice cream, as white as his sweatsuit. White like the couch. White like the carpet. So much fucking white.