Chapter 9 Nicholas #2
“I don’t know,” Amanda says. She’s not yelling anymore, and he almost wishes she were.
“I tried to call him, but he isn’t answering his phone, and I can’t even use Charlie to get ahold of him because to my knowledge Charlie doesn’t know yet.
Because it was supposed to be a secret. You’ve imploded Andrew’s entire life, Nicholas.
He’s going to wake up today and the normal, quiet life he knows is going to be gone.
His face is everywhere. His name is everywhere.
You threw him to the wolves with no warning, you selfish asshole. ”
“I’ll fucking fix it then,” Nicholas grits out, unsure why he’s sick to his stomach at the idea. He’s never cared who was collateral damage before, but the prospect of hurting Andrew bothers him.
“How? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to protect him? Because I swear to fucking god, Nicholas, if you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Andrew is better than you, better than all of us, and if he gets hurt—”
“He won’t,” Nicholas snaps, pausing when he hears a loud ringing. “Is that your phone?”
“It’s not mine,” Amanda says, pointing to hers, still on the counter.
If it isn’t hers, then it’s Nicholas’s personal phone, the one he left in his room. Ignoring Amanda, he all but runs to his bedroom knowing there’s only one person who would call his personal line this morning.
Sure enough, Andrew’s name flashes on the screen. He prepares himself to be yelled at, to be chastised, to be broken up with before they even get a chance to finish this deal of theirs. What he’s not prepared for is the shaky timber of Andrew’s voice when it filters through the phone.
“Nicki?”
“I knew you’d need me,” Nicholas says, desperately trying to feel in control.
“Conceited asshole,” Andrew huffs. He breathes in deeply. In and out three times before continuing. “There’s so many people.”
“What kind of people?”
“Paparazzi.” The answer isn’t unexpected given what Amanda just revealed, yet it’s a gut punch all the same. She was right. This is all Nicholas’s fault. He’s fucked Andrew over. “They keep asking about you, about us. I ran to my car but they’re surrounding me so I can’t back out.”
Andrew’s voice, usually calm and collected or slightly prickly, has an unnaturally panicked tone to it that sets Nicholas’s teeth on edge. He might like to rile Andrew up and annoy him for attention, but this—Andrew sounding scared—is fucking bullshit.
“I’m coming,” Nicholas says, phone balanced between his ear and shoulder as he grabs a pair of jeans from his drawer and tugs them on. Peripherally, he’s aware of Amanda hovering in the doorway, watching him hurriedly get dressed while eavesdropping on his conversation.
“I don’t like this,” Andrew whispers. “I don’t like being trapped.”
“I know, princess. I’m going to handle this, just stay put. Don’t unlock or open the door for anyone but me.”
“Okay.” Andrew takes a deep breath, the melodic lull of classical music playing softly in the background at odds with his heavy breathing. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Me. You call me,” Nicholas says with force in his voice. “You’re in trouble, you call me, you got it?”
Andrew doesn’t answer, just turns up the music to a frankly deafening level.
“I’m coming,” Nicholas promises before the line goes dead.
“Well, that was something,” Amanda says once Nicholas has shoved his phone into his pocket, pulling on the first clean shirt in his closet. “You sounded like you care about him.”
“Fuck off, Amanda.”
Amanda hums, only serving to irritate Nicholas further. “You like him.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Nicholas insists, moving past her. To the surprise of no one, she follows behind him as he heads towards the front door.
“Yesterday wasn’t a publicity stunt gone wrong. You went to see him because you wanted to see him. Did you miss him?”
“I don’t miss people,” Nicholas protests, staring at the row of keys by his door. He grabs the ones to his BUGGATTI knowing it’ll be the fastest and the showiest. He’s going to get the attention off Andrew one way or another, and if there’s one thing Nicholas knows how to do, it’s get attention.
“That photograph,” Amanda starts, a knowing look in her eyes. “The way you were touching his neck. You—”
“I’m leaving,” Nicholas yells, cutting her off. Her intuition and perception make her an incredible agent and a massive pain in the fucking ass when she butts into Nicholas’s personal life. “Lock the door on the way out.”
“Go get your man, asshole. I’ll text you his address!”
* * *
“Get out of the fucking way,” Nicholas yells, laying on his horn before swerving through traffic. He presses down on the gas pedal, the roar of the engine when he significantly exceeds the speed limit sending a thrill of pleasure through him.
Thankfully, there are no cops around to clock him going over ninety miles per hour.
Not that he cares if he gets a ticket, but he’d be beyond pissed off if he had to waste time with some dickbag police officer with a god complex when he’d much rather be spending it on a khaki-wearing man with pretty brown eyes.
Thinking about Andrew’s eyes makes Nicholas think about other things, like his sharp jawline and full lips. Ugh, that fucker is getting under Nicholas’s skin. He needs to get laid or something. Clearly he’s just got plenty of energy.
“Move,” he yells again, weaving in and out of traffic until he spots the exit for Andrew’s place.
Despite his desire to speed through the red light he hits upon exiting, he doesn’t.
Instead, he yells at everyone who has the audacity to be able to move when he can’t.
Minutes later, his destination comes into view, and any worries he had about not being able to find Andrew are proven unwarranted when he spots the vultures around a red car parked along the curb out front.
Gunning his engine to garner as much attention as possible he speeds forward, before slamming his breaks hard enough to leave tire marks in the street and startle the fuckers bothering Andrew. They scurry like the pests they are.
Ignoring the flurry of questions thrown his way and the honking from people behind him for blocking traffic, he exits his car.
With hurried steps, he makes his way around the front of the car and around to Andrew’s driver side door, hyper aware of the flash of cameras and eyes of paparazzi and strangers alike.
It’s not the first time Nicholas has been under this type of spotlight, but it is Andrew’s, and he tries to look at it from his point of view, acutely aware of how invasive and loud it must be for someone like Andrew who likes quiet and privacy.
It’s a harsh reminder that Andrew would never date Nicholas for real, no one would.
Which is exactly why he’d needed a fake boyfriend.
People either crave Nicholas’s money and limelight or they’re horrified by it.
Either way, it leaves Nicholas in the shadows.
The unwanted reminder of how impossible it would be to ever find someone who actually wanted him, not someone motivated by money or fame chasing or someone who would run from the attention, puts his nerves on edge.
He doesn’t want a relationship because they’re stupid and pointless, but if he did, no one would stick around. Not for the right reasons.
“Nicki,” Andrew yells, loud enough to be heard over the cacophony or shouting and horns and chaos around them.
The crowd is growing and Nicholas’s mood is tanking.
He wants to get out of here, wants to get Andrew safely out of this pandemonium.
He also doesn’t want to think about why the idea of other people staring at Andrew, possibly touching him, makes him want to break something.
Grunting, he grabs Andrew, kicking his car door shut before manhandling him towards his own car despite Andrew’s clear confusion. There will be time to explain later.
Using his own body to try and block Andrew from view, he guides him into the passenger seat, going so far as to lean over him to try and buckle his seatbelt.
It puts Nicholas’s nose in Andrew’s thick head of hair.
The scent of his shampoo—crisp and clean—goes straight to Nicholas’s dick, which is apparently very interested in how Andrew smells.
Thankfully, Andrew doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m pretty sure I can at least handle this,” Andrew grumbles, trying to push Nicholas’s hands away.
“Princesses don’t buckle themselves,” he says, lips against the shell of Andrew’s ear to be heard.
Andrew grumbles but lays his hands in his lap, a flare of possessive pride flooding Nicholas’s system at the submission. He’s never taken care of anyone else before, but taking care of Andrew lights up an unused part of his brain like a fucking firework.
Mine, his brain screams as he slams the car door, breathing easier once Andrew is out of direct public viewing. He’ll breathe even easier once Andrew is in his home.
Blinking at the onslaught of flashes, he flips the paparazzi off before sliding into the driver’s seat and peeling away from his spot with a screech.
“Fuckers,” Nicholas curses, watching them disappear in his rearview mirror.
The ghost of their existence lingers in the way Andrew taps at his legs, three times on his left knee and three times on the right. Always the same, repeating the pattern over and over while chewing on his bottom lip.
“They don’t matter, princess.”
Andrew doesn’t reply, and Nicholas hates that more than he should. He’s gotten used to Andrew bossing him around or being his slightly haughty, controlling self. Something he apparently likes more than he realized now that he can’t have it.