Chapter 30 Mat #2
He’s not Trouble, but Jesus, they look similar. Same coloring and bone structure, but more than that, there’s something about how they hold their heads. Something about the angle their heads sit on their necks is the same. Exactly the same. Eerily the same.
I sit up dead straight, heart pounding in my throat.
They have to be related, right?
He has to at least know Trouble.
I don’t take my eyes off this guy until Gould turns the camera around, leaving me with a dizzying blur of legs, feet, and floor tile. Then the camera whips back up again and all but punches me in the gut when it finds focus.
“Hey, Trouble,” says Gould, “d’you have anything you want to say to Izzy?”
Trouble licks a little salt off the rim of his glass and takes a delicate sip of his margarita before casting his eyes up to the left with an innocent look that doesn’t half suit him. “Happy birthday, Izzy.” He smiles sweetly. “If I was straight, I’d totally bone you.”
Oh fuck, his voice.
I forgot how sexy his voice is.
“Oh my God, Trouble, you can’t say that. It’s her birthday,” says one of Gould’s friends. The blond one, I think.
For her part, Izzy seems to enjoy it. Gould turns the camera back to her. She’s laughing and rolling her eyes. “Trust me, babe, if you were straight, I’d totally let you.”
Another guy pushes himself into view. “What’s all this about you boning Trouble?”
The video cuts off there.
Gould knows Trouble? What the fuck? What the actual fuck?
I’ve spent an entire month wracking my brain trying to come up with a way to find Trouble, and never once did it occur to me that Gould would know Trouble.
No offense to Gould, it’s just that he doesn’t seem remotely cool enough to know someone like him. Not even close.
I have about one-and-a-half split seconds of indecision. Do I watch the video again, or do I…?
“Will! We’ve got to go!”
I get to the hallway at the same time as he does.
“What’s wrong?” He looks disheveled like he might have been pretty close to falling asleep.
“I found him. Trouble. I found him. Do you remember where Gould said he’d be tonight? The party. The birthday. His friend Izzy’s party. Do you remember where it is?”
My words are spilling over themselves, and I’m doing a frantic little shuffle and hop to get my jeans up. Though it’s a jumbled mess and I’m speaking way too fast for a normal person to understand what I’m getting at, Will understands.
“Buena Comida,” he says. “It’s in West Hollywood, literally just around the corner. It’s near that French place you hate. You know the one you said you wouldn’t go back to because the garlic bread wasn’t garlicky enough?” He’s talking faster than normal too. “How did you find him?”
“I, er, I was just scrolling looking for guys that look like him. I’ve done it a bunch of times. I-I didn’t really think I’d find him.”
“Seriously? Stalking, bro? Not cool.” He gives me a stern we’re going to talk about this later look, but I can’t help noticing he’s rushing around his room, putting on cologne and pulling on a fresh T-shirt.
We tear around the apartment, stumbling as we put our shoes on and frantically try to find my wallet.
“How many times have I said if you put it in the same place each time, you’ll always know where it is? Seriously? How many times, Mattie?”
I’d bother to act contrite if it wasn’t for the fact he has a huge smile as he says it.
On the way to the restaurant, I prattle on unbridled. I can hear myself. It’s not that I can’t. I’m not at all proud of what I’m saying. It’s just that I’m powerless to stop myself.
“Should we call Gould? Should I call him and tell him we’re coming?
Uh, no, no, he could tell Trouble, and Trouble might run.
We should just attack in stealth mode. No comms. It’ll be like…
a surprise. We’ll just surprise him. We know Gould knows him now, so if he leaves before we get there, we can find him if we have to. We can get his number from Goul—”
“Jesus, Mattie, what did I just say about stalking?”
I’m breathless by the time we get to Buena Comida.
“Be cool,” says Will for the second time. This time he says it like he really means it.
That ship has sailed, but I don’t bother pointing it out because as soon as the restaurant door swings open, I see him.
Trouble. He’s standing in the middle of the room in all his glory.
There’s a space between him and other people like there was last time.
He has his hair down. It’s glossy and raven.
He’s pulled the whisps near his face back and fastened them at the back of his head.
He’s wearing scuffed boots, a burned-out black T-shirt that clings to his chest, and a combat-style kilt.
A kilt?
A fucking kilt?
Is he trying to kill me?
My blood runs thick. So thick it feels like it’s what’s holding me upright, more than my spine or limbs. My mouth is dry and my larynx feels like someone has tied a noose around it and jerked it tight. I look at Will in a panic. I tell him with my eyes that there’s a problem, that I’m choking.
“I’ve got this,” he murmurs as he weaves through the crowd to get to Trouble. I follow, strangely curious about how my legs are moving when it’s clear my bones have turned to congealed mush.
Will walks up to Trouble with long, purposeful strides. He steps into his forcefield as if he didn’t get the memo that mere mortals can’t get close to him. I cling to his forearm, hoping he’ll drag me with him. It seems to work.
“Remember us,” says Will, leaning down to talk into Trouble’s ear.
Trouble takes a half-step back, seemingly puzzled about how the field around him has been breached. He recovers quickly.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the boyfriends,” he purrs.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
He’s beautiful. More beautiful than I remembered.
His hair’s darker and his skin’s lighter.
Masculinity sparks and clashes with the soft, fleshy curve of his lips.
A cavalier smile dances with eyes that ooze pure sex.
I’ve been thinking I must have imagined it, that there’s no way he could possibly be real and look like I remember him looking.
I was wrong.
He’s not as beautiful as I thought he was. He’s more. More beautiful. More magnetic. More unearthly. Having his hair pulled back makes him look different. Less rock ‘n roll, more elfin god.
Is it just me, or is it the proper decorum to get on your knees, lift the kilt, and worship the cock of an elfin god when you meet one?
“You’re hard to find, Trouble. Mat here had to resort to mild stalking.
” Will’s voice is steady. He sounds like himself.
He sounds normal and in control of the situation.
I glance over at him in amazement. His brows are drawn down, dark and thick.
You might be inclined to think he looks menacing if you don’t know what good sex looks like.
I know him well, and I know this look. It’s not to be fucked with.
He uses it sparingly because of the power it wields.
This is Will when he’s not playing. Will when he’s brought his A-game.
I feel a crippling, humbling gratitude that he’s here.
“Oooh,” says Trouble, scrunching his nose in a way that makes it unclear whether he’s been affected or not, “love me a stalker.”
“Uh, a-actually, I prefer ‘pursuing intently’ to s-stalking,” I stammer.
Will looks at me with soft eyes and a smile. He’s proud of me for managing a sentence, no matter how inane it was.
Will flicks his head toward the bar. “Drink?”
Trouble lets out a long, thin sigh, making it clear he’s suffering greatly and that he’s gracing us with his presence for our benefit, not his.
He leads us to the bar, finds a barstool, and takes a seat.
Will orders our drinks, and I stand, knees locked, staring at Trouble.
I’m aware I must look like the dumbest fuck alive, but I’m totally powerless to stop it.
His legs are splayed open. One foot is on the floor and the other is braced on the lowest rung of the barstool.
I don’t move. I can’t because I’m using every ounce of my concentration to stop myself from reaching out and putting my hand up Trouble’s kilt.
Is he going commando?
You’re supposed to do that, right? Go commando when you wear a kilt.
Everyone knows that, right?
I don’t allow myself to speak because I know damn well if I do, I’ll ask to see what he has on under his kilt.
“So, tell me,” he says, flashing his teeth at me. “Did you have an epic little freak out when you woke up naked in bed with your dude-bro?”
“Uh, n-no.”
“No? No?” He draws the word out long and low. “I’m not altogether sure I believe you.”
“W-we didn’t freak out.”
“What did you do then?” He smiles in a way that strikes terror into my heart. Terror or pure unfiltered lust, I can’t tell which. Either way, it makes it hard for me to breathe.
“Mattie brought me breakfast in bed, and we talked about our feelings,” says Will, effortlessly sliding into the conversation and handing us each our drink.
Trouble raises a fist to his mouth and feigns biting a knuckle. “You talked about your feelings? Oh Lawd—that’s better than porn. What happened next?” His eyes glint with something evil adjacent at best. “Let me guess, you both put on a snug little pair of tighty-whities and had a pillow fight?”
“No, but maybe next time.” Will smiles.
I drain my bourbon in a single large sip. Trouble toys with his straw, running it back and forth along his bottom lip thoughtfully.
I’ve sucked that lip into my mouth. I’ve licked it and tasted it.
I’ve licked it, so it’s mine.
“Can I touch you?” I ask, though I don’t remember consciously deciding to do so.
The look from before, the one that's almost evil, spills into evil incarnate. He smiles and nods, parting his legs a little more. The movement is slight. Almost imperceptible. It’s a dare. An offer. A temptation that rivals nothing I’ve encountered before.
I don’t take the bait.
Though my heart slams in my chest, I don’t do it.
Instead, I take his hand in mine. I feel Will’s watchful eye on me as I do it.
It bolsters me. Centering me and spurring me on.
Trouble’s hand feels light in mine. His nails are painted black, and the polish chipped here and there.
He has long, elegant fingers. Neat parallel lines crease at the knuckles.
A studded leather cuff is wrapped three or four times around his wrist. I turn his palm up to face me.
It’s rougher than I expected it to be. I run a fingertip over his thickened skin once or twice and then trace his lifeline with my finger.
I follow it all the way to his wrist. I worry his bracelet, moving it this way and that, separating it, clearing a space at his pulse point.
I lift his wrist to my lips and take his pulse with my tongue.
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t break eye contact.
His heart is beating hard. Not nearly as fast as mine, but a lot faster than it would be if he was as unaffected by us as he’s acting.
“Come home with us, Trouble.” My voice is soft but certain. Filled with such intense longing it’s painful for me to hear it. “We’ll be different this time. I promise. We’ll be gentle with you.”
Trouble’s lips curl up at the sides.
Will doesn’t skip a beat. He leans in, tilting his head to make sure Trouble can hear him. “We’ll be worse.” He sounds sure too. Deep and strong. Threatening as fuck. “Mark my words. We’ll be worse than before.”
Will’s chin is tucked down and the muscle at the side of his jaw is bunched up. He smiles at me when he sees my concern. It settles me a little, but not completely. I didn’t get the memo for this play, and it’s sure as hell not a move we’ve run before.
I stroke the side of Trouble’s face, drawing a light line along his jaw.
“We’ll take it slow,” I whisper. “We’ll give you soft kisses and we’ll make you feel good.”
Will draws a line on Trouble, too, but he draws it with his lips against Trouble’s temple.
“We’ll be rougher,” he says softly. “We’ll rail you and wreck you worse than before.
We’ll take you in turns. We won’t stop till we’re sure you’ll feel the ghosts of our dicks in your throat and your ass for days. Days.”
Trouble runs a hand through his hair, flicking and rearranging it.
He blinks several times and presses his lips together hard.
If he were anyone else, I might be inclined to think he was flustered.
He hops off the barstool and flounces toward the door.
He yanks it open hard and holds it for us, shooting us a look that spits fire.
“You coming, or what?”