Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARCUS
Iknew coming here was a bad idea. But I put myself in this situation, and now I don’t know what the fuck to do.
I know what I want to do. But I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.
My large hand fits his delicate throat like he was made for me—the perfect necklace for his pretty face.
He’s pushing me on purpose.
I want to kiss him.
Hell, I want to fuck him.
This attraction I have for Jeremy is addictive and dangerous, and, quite frankly, terrifying.
As if he reads my mind, Jeremy presses against me again, harder this time, and my eyes roll back as pleasure zaps up my spine.
My hand tightens.
“Hey, boss,” he rasps. “Do they teach you how to perfect hand necklaces in business school?”
I squeeze my eyes closed and press my face against his neck, my lips grazing his pale flesh. “I swear to God, Jeremy, shut your pretty mouth.”
Jeremy’s hand still shakes as his fingers slide against my cheek, scraping my stubble. I whimper again.
Since when do I whimper?
But being around Jeremy Hart is the sweetest form of torture.
His soft fingers slide under my shirt and graze the top of my waistband, tracing over the ridges of my abs. I tense, my breaths quaking. If I move my head back, I think he’ll kiss me, and I can’t let that happen. His hand moves lower, and my heart beats so hard that it’s painful.
“N-n-no.” I pull away. “We can’t do this.”
Jeremy’s eyes meet mine, his pupils blown wide, and they flash with frustration. With a flick of his wrist, he knocks my hand off his throat and straddles my lap, towering over me. My hands grip his thighs, and I’m surprised how strong and muscular they feel.
“We can’t do what, Marcus?” His voice is silk, and his cock is hard against mine. “You grabbed my throat—again—and started this little game of fucked-up foreplay.” His silver hair curtains around his ears as he looks down at me.
He smells like the ocean. Maybe he really is a merman.
I shake my head at the stupid thought and sink lower into the couch, trying to put some distance between our bodies.
“I’ve been with your type,” Jeremy continues quietly.
His hand touches his reddened skin where I gripped him moments before.
“You’re not the first person to try to dominate me because I’m small, and I doubt you’ll be the last. Stop teasing me.
You think you’re straight? Fine. Believe what you want.
To me, you’re just another hookup on the down-low.
Nothing. More.” Aggression pours off him in waves, and it’s making my dick even harder. But his words hurt. A lot.
With one swift movement, he slides off my lap and stands. “Get the fuck out.” He sounds so tired that guilt creeps into my chest.
His rejection is heavy as I stand and adjust myself, running a hand through my sweaty hair. “I’m sorry, okay?” I know my apology is worthless because I’m such a fucking hypocrite, but my body and my brain are pulling me in two very different directions. “This isn’t one-sided, Jeremy. It’s just I—”
“You’re right. It’s not, and I’ve tried to be understanding.
I know you’re scared. I get that. Truly.
But no one is watching us right now. The difference between you and me is that I’m not ashamed, and I refuse to hide in the closet.
Been there. Done that. Figure out your shit, Marcus, or you’re going to break a lot of hearts. ”
My lips tighten, anger simmering under my skin.
I hate that I have no control around this kid.
Even when I try to control him, he somehow has all the power.
Even at work, when I should be in charge, our dynamic feels unbalanced—tipped in his favor—no matter what I do.
It’s almost as unsettling as this attraction to him that I clearly can’t shake.
He points at the door. “I said, get the fuck out.”
“See you Monday,” I growl and turn on my heel.
I open the door and slam it behind me. Then I kick the neighbor’s stupid hot dog mat as I pass and stomp down the dank hallway.
When I step outside, I let the cool air calm me.
I don’t want to go home yet, but it’s not because of my washer.
It really did flood my apartment, but it was fixed earlier today.
The reality is when I left work, I felt lonely.
I’m used to being alone. I like being alone.
Other than Sebastian, I don’t really want people around.
But Jeremy left a few hours before me, and I weirdly missed him.
The wind whips up as I find myself heading toward my favorite bar.
He’s driving me to drink.
I shove my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders as my thoughts continue to spiral.
What do my feelings around Jeremy say about me?
That I’m starved for attention? Starved for touch?
It’s not like I haven’t dated. My ex-girlfriend, Ash, was fine.
We didn’t have crazy chemistry, but I’ve only ever found that with Norah, so I figured it was just a me problem.
I smile thinking about Norah. We always joke that she’s my Midwest variant because we’re so similar and have this uncanny connection to each other’s feelings.
Norah has a penchant for all that woo-woo stuff while I’m much more practical, but I indulge her because she’s one of my best friends.
She’s always been convinced that Jeremy is my soulmate.
She’s going to have a field day with this situation the next time we talk.
I shake my head in dismay as I reach The Pine Box.
It’s an elegant historic building with towering white pillars, which make its flashy beer sign seem out of place.
The building was originally a funeral home that opened in the 1920s and closed in the early 2000s before being repurposed, hence the name The Pine Box, a euphemism for coffin.
Apparently, Bruce Lee had his service here, which blew my mind.
I pull my coat closer as I climb the steps and yank open the large double doors. The bouncer waves me in without checking my ID. He knows who I am.
Inside are a mix of booths and high-top tables, and though it’s so crowded I can hardly move, the vaulted ceiling gives the space an airy feeling.
The buyer always has a couple of rotating sours on tap, which are my favorite.
Unlike almost everyone else in Seattle (or the Pacific Northwest, for that matter), I don’t like IPAs.
Being that it’s almost American Thanksgiving, I order a pint of the cranberry gose and sit at the bar.
I don’t recognize the bartender tonight. He must be new. I watch as he fills my glass and try to see him through a new lens.
Am I attracted to him?
He’s a nice-looking guy with tattoos snaking up his forearms, an earring in his right ear, and shaggy brown hair. He flashes me a knowing smile when he passes me my drink, like he knows I’m checking him out, and I flush and nod at him in thanks.
But I like that he noticed.
Maybe I am attracted to men. Or maybe I am just starved for attention.
I stare moodily into my cup. My whole life, I’ve had some sort of control—over my relationships, my feelings, my goals, my ambitions.
I’ve even had a hand in my siblings’ careers.
Sebastian wanted to be a chef, and Charlie wanted a publishing deal, so I sold my soul to the devil—a.k.a our dad—without really considering the consequences.
Martin Conner is a grade-A asshole, though I didn’t always know that. He was just my dad, once upon a time. Stern but fair, and sometimes even kind of funny. As I grew up, I noticed that he favored me, and I hated it. But I also looked up to him and loved him despite his flaws.
Until he fucked Charlie over.
By the time I found out, Dad already had his claws in Seb and Charlie’s lives, thanks to me: Skynet had invested in the Seattle pub, and he’d made sure that the right people at Rosewood Publishing looked at Charlie’s manuscript.
In return, he’s been grooming me to join him on Skynet’s board, and he’s made it very clear that his continued investment in my siblings’ dreams is contingent upon my continued cooperation.
I always assumed I’d be a wealthy businessman like my father. I figured I’d have a house, a wife, and kids by now. Sure, that all sounds boring and traditional, but I was okay with that.
But now . . .
What if I don’t want a wife? Or a house in the burbs? What if I want a condo in the city with a boyfriend and a cat?
I shake my head. Dad would hate that. It would spoil his image.
He already hates that Sebastian didn’t go to college and seems to have no interest in relationships.
Imagine if his oldest son turned out to be gay?
What a tragedy. Not to mention, he rubs elbows with a bunch of uptight pricks with outdated values.
It was a scandal when my stepmom cheated on him and then committed suicide—one that he worked very hard to keep quiet.
As far as the public knows, Ellen Conner’s death was a private matter.
Feeling suddenly anxious, I finish my drink and close out my tab. The bartender winks as he hands me my receipt, and I glance down.
Holy shit, he left his number.
I stare at the paper as I walk toward my condo, confusion and curiosity pinging through my head.
Would a one-night stand help me figure out my feelings for Jeremy?
I decide to make one more stop before I head home for the night. I shiver and walk faster, unsurprised that it’s starting to rain, the scent of damp concrete filling the air.
When I reach the pottery studio, I knock on the glass door.
A woman in her sixties with long gray hair and a flowing maroon dress unlocks the door, waving me inside.
Warmth brushes my chilled, wet cheeks as I enter, my boots squeaking on the floor.
The studio is always extra warm because of the kiln in the back.
Miss Grace embraces me gently. She smells of incense and menthol. “Marcus, honey, it’s late. I was just about to leave. Is everything alright?”
No.
“Everything’s fine, Miss Grace,” I lie, hugging her back half-heartedly. “I just wanted to see if anything sold this week.” I glance around, taking in the vases, pots, mugs, and various other creations lining the walls. I spot one of my bowls in the case near the register.
Grace smiles, following my gaze. “Yes, only one left. When will you make more? It’s been months, and I get requests for them often.”
I took a ceramics class with Grace a while back when I lived in Seattle for a summer internship, and she was impressed with my progress.
We kept in touch, and I’d bring her a few pieces here and there when I came to the city for pub supplies.
Then, when I officially moved here, she let me use her kiln.
“I promise I’ll bring some soon. I have a few ready to be fired, but I’ve been so busy with the new pub space and . . . I’ve just been uninspired lately.”
Grace walks to the glass case and opens it, taking out the bowl. She holds it under the light. Over the swirling blues and purples, I painted delicate silver stars in random patterns, trying to capture something akin to the Milky Way.
“Your pieces are beautiful, Marcus. They’re some of my best sellers.”
I nod absently. The light blue color reminds me of Jeremy’s eyes, and my throat closes.
Why is everything always about him? Why can’t he leave me alone?
“I’ll let you get home,” I say, patting Grace’s shoulder. “Keep the kiln hot for me, okay?”
“You can use it whenever you like, Marcus.” She pauses, studying me. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”
My eyes feel hot like I might cry, so I answer honestly for once. “No, but it will be. I think.”
She nods and crouches to access the safe below the counter. I hear her type in a code and open it, and when she stands, she hands me an envelope. “Your profits from the last few months.”
I take it with a smile. More money to tuck away. I’ve got to get the fuck out of this city and away from this life. And I don’t mean going back to Vancouver.
No, once I get out from under Martin Conner’s thumb, I’ve got other plans, and they don’t involve being my father’s golden child or the overprotective big brother. And while that thought terrifies me, I still cling to it because right now, it’s all I have.