Chapter 13
Thirteen
Sebastian
When I finally wake up, it’s light out and I’m alone.
I’m under the quilt now, yet I’m sure I fell asleep on top of it.
Rolling over, I squint at the nightstand.
There’s a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen sitting right where I can see them, and suddenly I have the worst cotton mouth and headache.
The water looks like a desert oasis. I reach for the glass, chugging half before I set it down, and shake out two pills into my palm that I swallow to work on the bass drum kicking in my skull.
This can't be from the Coronas. Those are weak-ass beers, and I only had four.
This is what expressing grief does to you.
It wrecks you so bad emotionally, you feel it physically.
I get out of bed and pad down the hall toward the kitchen, where I hear noise and smell coffee.
Walking around the corner, I find Tucker shirtless, wearing faded jeans that hug his ass and hang off his hips, showing the band of his black boxers.
His back is massive, broad, and defined without being overly muscled.
You can see his strength despite his lack of bulk.
He’s barefoot, and his hair is a bit unruly.
He looks like he rolled out of bed, threw some pants on, and came in here hunting for coffee.
“Hey,” I say, my voice gravelly with sleep.
Tucker turns, eyes wide with surprise, like he didn’t expect me to be here. “Mornin’. How are you feeling?”
“Better than I ought to, I expect. Thanks for letting me stay.”
I rub the back of my neck and think through the events of last night.
I remember getting buzzed and spilling my guts about everything I feel, and crying like a baby over the unfairness of it all into Tucker’s shoulder while he held me.
Then he brought me back here and put me to bed and…
oh, God, I almost kissed him. And I cuddled him.
“Fuck, man, I’m so sorry for taking advantage of your hospitality. I shouldn't have asked you to stay with me last night. I was messed up and didn’t think about how you’d feel about it.”
Tucker shrugs like it’s nothing. “You needed someone there with you. I don't have a problem with that, and it wasn’t taking advantage of my hospitality. You’re welcome here in any state, and you can ask anything of me. Want some coffee?”
I smile, grateful for his understanding and change of topic. “Yes, please.”
“How do you take it?” he asks, opening the fridge to show me the options.
“That seems like a question that can be answered several ways, but I won't go there.”
He snorts out a laugh into the fridge before he turns with a few cartons in his hands, mirth twinkling in his eyes. “It’s not Starbucks, but I have half and half, two percent, and I keep oat milk for my sister. There’s sugar, too.”
“I’ll take your milk,” I say, biting my lip to keep from laughing. “Make it oat.”
He tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes as he tries to control his grin. “You’re on a roll with the comments. Do you remember what you said last night?” he asks, mouth quirking up on one side and popping his dimple.
“I said something stupid, didn’t I?”
“You said you’d been drained earlier but could go again and made a comment about someone helping you this time. I told you to go to bed because there wasn’t going to be any draining happening, but I’d make you breakfast in the morning—”
“If I were a good boy,” I say, cutting him off with a groan. “I’m such an idiot. Please don't hate me for what I said while sad and desperate.”
He laughs and hands me a cup of coffee. “You’re funny as hell. I don't hate you. Now, are you an overnight oats, or eggs and bacon guy? I have both.”
This is so bizarre. I’m usually the one up early, making sure Enzo has breakfast and our day is off to a good start.
Chef Rudy doesn't make our breakfasts, so I usually put together something easy that my kid will enjoy and I can eat before practice. Not having any responsibilities and having someone else take care of the food and all the details is way nicer than I expected. I forgot what it feels like to have someone who’d do this for me because they wanted to, not because it was expected or I was paying them to.
Maybe dating wouldn't be so bad if I could find someone I’d like to share my morning with, who could help take some of the mental load off my plate.
Someone with strong shoulders and arms that can hold me up when I’m breaking down.
“So you’re saying I was a good boy?” I ask in a flirty tone before I can stop myself.
What the fuck? What is wrong with me?
I think I damaged my brain-to-mouth filter last night.
These are supposed to be inside the head, thoughts, not something I act on.
Unless…my sexuality is becoming more fluid than I thought, and I’m actually attracted to Tucker.
He is incredibly good looking, kind, and gets me.
It’s not that far a stretch that I’d be interested for those reasons alone.
Tucker walks toward me with something like humor on his face, but there’s a more devious tilt to his lips, and his eyes are focused on me in a way they haven't been since maybe the photo shoot. My heart speeds up as I straighten, pulse thrumming with anticipation and cock stirring with desire.
“Do you want to be my good boy, Sebastian?”
The moment is charged and electric. I’m caught in the shock of the question and my body’s response to it, because my dick is thickening along my thigh.
Neither of us looks away as I struggle to find words to answer him, deciding whether I’ll play it jokingly, or push it further into the flirting territory we’ve both dipped our toes in now.
Wait, Tucker’s flirting with me, right? I’m not reading this wrong because I find him attractive, and I’m all messed up about it?
The sound of the front door opening breaks the tension between us like ice shattering beneath our feet.
My stomach drops out from under me with the plunge, but Tucker jumps into immediate action.
He looks around quickly before moving to a cabinet, where he pulls down a panel and presses his thumb against it.
A door pops open, and he pulls a handgun out, holding it like he knows what to do with it, which I expect he would, after his time as a police officer.
It takes seconds, but the capable way Tucker moves in front of me, weapon at his side, body tense and ready for action, is fucking hot.
“Tucker! Where are you, you big hot beast? It’s after eight, your truck is here, and I know you have Sundays off,” a genteel male voice calls from the living room.
Tucker’s shoulders relax, going from high alert to his usual chill vibe in a heartbeat. He quickly puts the gun back, closing the panel and shutting the cabinet. He sighs and rubs his face before dropping his hands and facing the living room.
“What have I said about coming over unannounced and letting yourself in?” he calls back in a harassed tone. “You’ll get a bullet to the face someday and make me fill out a lot of paperwork.”
He crosses his arms over his chest as a beautiful man walks in.
He has wavy, highlighted hair, a nose ring, and perfect eyebrows.
He’s dressed in one of those fashionable outfits that look super casual but are so put together, you know it was curated.
He strides around the corner and comes up short when he sees us.
“Oh, hello,” he says, drawing out the word as he looks me up and down.
He’s probably five-eight or so, with a willowy build that takes on a fashion model elegance as he stands in the doorway observing us, hand cocked in the air with palm up, and face far too pretty despite his scrutiny. He cuts his eyes to Tucker with a devious smile, but Tucker just shakes his head.
“No wonder Tucky wanted a warning. You’re scrumptious, darling.
I approve,” he says, dipping his wrist in my direction before walking breezily over to Tucker.
The pretty man throws his arms around Tucker’s shoulders, then hops up and wraps his legs around Tucker’s hips as he kisses Tucker on both cheeks.
I take a step forward as anger surges through me at his casual familiarity, and I want to rip his hands away from Tucker’s bare skin. Why is he basically humping Tucker? I need this to stop right the fuck now.
What the hell? Where is this proprietary feeling coming from? He’s not anything to me other than a nice dude I hang out with and consider a friend now. And maybe I find him attractive and want to kiss him. But why am I jealous? I don't have any claim on Tucker.
Tucker grunts in displeasure, lifting the man off and setting him down, which seems easy enough, as Tucker has to outweigh him by eighty pounds and has a few inches on him.
“Damnit, Callum, just sit at the bar. Stop climbing on me,” Tucker growls, pushing the man—Callum—toward the breakfast bar while looking at me with apologetic eyes. “Sebastian, this is Callum Jaynes. Callum, this is my friend, Sebastian Montenegro.”
The way he emphasizes friend is not lost on me, especially when he doesn't give a title to Callum. Did he enjoy that little display of territorial marking by Callum? Does he secretly want to be with the smaller man despite his aggravated tone and not giving in to the affection? I don't like this.
“Nice to meet you,” I grit out, fighting the anger in my tone. I don't like watching them together, but maybe I have no right to even think that way. Is this Tucker’s partner? Is he gay? Do I want him to be?
“The pleasure is all mine, or could be if either of you big strong beefcakes would take pity on a pretty little twink and bend me—”