57. Indy
FIFTY-SEVEN
INDY
By the time I walk into work later that morning, I’m composed mostly of adrenaline and nerves, which doesn’t make any sense since Nick never works in the morning at Callum’s. I don’t let that kind of logic stop me from internally freaking out, though.
The smart thing, I’m beginning to think, would have been to stay at Nick’s until he woke up and just faced the awkward music then and there, but the idea of watching him open his eyes and seeing regret there…
I mean, it might have not happened? But there was a chance, and facing it seemed impossible.
Not after everything that had happened between us.
I know he might regret me, I just don’t want to see it for myself.
Which means here I am, stomach in knots, jumping every time I hear a noise, preparing myself to face Nick, and it will be awkward as fuck, and it will hurt, and why am I such a fucking idiot?
Callum jogs in a little before noon and drops his gym bag in the corner of the room, throwing himself onto the couch face first.
I raise my brows as I get up from the kitchen table where I parked myself earlier with my laptop.
I stand over him for a bit before I poke him in the shoulder.
“You okay there, big guy?”
He groans in reply before he turns over and squints at me.
“I don’t have a will,” he says.
I stare at him. “I’m sorry?”
“And I make a lot of money, Indy. Like, a shit-ton of money. I thought it would be hilarious to get, like, a dog, and leave all my money to him, you know? But then that would make me kind of an asshole. People could do a lot of good with that kind of money, right? But then, like, which charity would I even pick? There’s a lot of crap going on out there in the world. ”
“Can we rewind a bit to the part where you’re apparently at death’s door?” I ask.
“Somebody uploaded some stuff to social media from the party,” he says. “Coach saw it. He was not happy.”
“I thought it was good to upload things about the event? Draw more people’s attention to the cause? Right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Definitely. It was the Sunday afterparty he wasn’t that happy with.”
I would laugh, but he looks really pathetic. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says defensively. He pauses for a bit. “I don’t think. I have the slightest of hangovers.” He squints. “Possibly a touch of amnesia.”
“I feel a lot less sorry for you all of a sudden.”
He grabs my arm, a pleading look on his face. “There was so much running, Indy. So much running. You don’t understand. I have flashbacks.”
I bite back a smile. “Do you want something to eat?”
“I’ll puke,” he says grimly.
“A smoothie?”
He considers it for a bit. “If it’s not green?” he says hopefully.
“You did raise a lot of money for charity, so I guess you deserve a little reward for that.”
“I did,” he says with almost eager nod. “I really did.”
“Give me twenty. I’ll go buy you one.”
He lets go of me and closes his eyes, throwing his arm over them. “I have a blender somewhere.”
“Isn’t that nice for you,” I say off-handedly before I grab my things and head out. I get the smoothie for him, then circle back and pick up a couple of sandwiches just in case he changes his mind about puking.
When I get back to Callum’s place, I run into Bridget and Dia just outside.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Damage control,” Bridget says grimly. “Marcus is on his way.”
“I just like to watch people yell at other people,” Dia says cheerfully before she reaches out, pinches my cheek between her thumb and forefinger, and smacks a kiss on my nose. I try to bat her away with the smoothie cup, but it’s not really working.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook either,” Bridget says.
“What did I do?”
She pokes her manicured fingernail into my chest. “You’re his goddamn PA. What happened to keeping an eye on him?”
“When I left, he was having fun!” I protest. “The regular, nice type of fun.”
“I’m talking about yesterday,” Bridget says impatiently.
“At any point, did it maybe sound like a good idea to stop him? At any point? Because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night with my phone going absolutely insane with notifications about a viral video where, and I quote, ‘Patriots star Callum Hayes drives a golf cart into Boston Harbor after leaving a private party.’”
I look at Bridge. “He did what?”
She holds her phone up and shows me a video where exactly that happens. There’s Callum in a golf cart, and then there’s Callum and the golf cart in the water after the cart rolls down a boat ramp with a giant splash.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, this is… Mostly it’s funny.”
Bridge sends me a murderous look.
“Bad,” I correct myself quickly. “We do not condone this kind of outrageous behavior.” Just in case, I shake my head with what I hope is a disapproving look on my face.
She rolls her eyes, and I hold my hands up in front of myself, the smoothie in one hand, a sandwich bag in the other.
“I wasn’t there.” I wave the sandwich bag at her.
“And before you yell at me for that, I was not supposed to be there. It was my day off. He’s an adult, for crying out loud.
What am I supposed to do? Stalk him in my free time?
I’m pretty sure there are laws against that kind of thing. ”
“I’ve been calling you all morning,” Bridget says, “and you haven’t picked up your phone once, even though it’s very much a workday today. So I wouldn’t get too comfortable about being all high and mighty about your workers’ rights.”
“I don’t have my phone because my employer stole it from me on Saturday. I only got it back when he came back from training.”
That seems to take a bit of the wind out of her sails. “Well,” she says before she shakes her head. “We’re not done discussing this.” She lets out an annoyed huff. “Why are we still standing here? I have a client I need to knock some sense into.”
I motion for her to go ahead of me, and she marches into the building, brandishing her laptop bag like a battering ram.
Dia and I follow her inside.
“So?” Dia says once we’re in the elevator. “How was your weekend?”
The question is innocent enough. The tone is not.
I shrug as casually as I manage. “Busy. You know, with the event and all.”
Dia nods. “I bet. Must have been crazy seeing as you didn’t make it home until about five this morning.” She sends me an innocent smile.
Bridge looks up from her phone with raised brows. “Really?” she asks Dia.
Dia nods, looking unbearably smug. “I don’t know where he was, but that bed hasn’t been slept in since Friday.”
I make a face and flip my middle finger up at her.
Her smile gets even smugger. “Who was it? One of Callum’s teammates? I always thought Hendrix was hot, and I don’t have any evidence, but I’m pretty sure he swings both ways.”
She raises her brows at me, clearly waiting for me to confirm her suspicions. I studiously avoid saying anything or meeting her gaze.
The elevator doors slide open, and we step out. I hurry toward the door, but Dia rushes after me, grabs my arm, and pulls me to a stop.
“Come on, Go,” she says. “Don’t leave me hanging like this. Tell me stuff.”
“I would, but there’s nothing to tell,” I lie. There is so much to tell, but I’ve never once been able to talk about Nick to anybody, and that’s never going to change.
I hate lying to her. Ever since I committed the greatest fuckup of my entire life and kept my mouth shut about the truth, I’ve been doing my absolute best to be a decent person.
Step one is not to lie. Step two is especially not to lie to Dia.
When she found out about the whole switched-at-birth thing, and that I knew and had kept it to myself for weeks, she was, of course, shocked and slightly fucked up about that new knowledge.
I lied to her just like I lied to Nick, and she was pissed and angry and there was a lot of yelling.
But she didn’t run, and eventually we got back on level ground.
She presses the tip of her index finger to the side of my neck, the fingernail digging into the skin painfully.
“Hey!” I push my shoulder up and scrunch my head to the side to get her to pull her finger away.
“The size of that hickey,” she says. “Was it a velociraptor? Did you make sweet, sweet love to Count Dracula?”
I quickly shove the smoothie cup into the crook of my elbow and slap a hand over the spot on my neck.
I feel my face heat at the film reel of highlights from last night.
I’m pretty sure Nick sucked that hickey onto my neck while he was pounding into me at the kitchen counter.
There’s also a hickey on the inside of my right thigh and bite marks on my hip and chest and thank fucking God for clothes.
“It was just some guy,” I mumble.
“Just some guy,” Dia scoffs. “Way to downplay it. Go, your neck looks like you lost a fight with the predator.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
“Was he hot?” Bridge pipes up. “He clearly has an unusual number of teeth, so that narrows it down by a lot.” She grins at Dia. “We should ask the photographer for pictures of smiling people from the event.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
They’re both still laughing when they follow me inside, but once the door shuts, Bridge is all business. “All right—” She slams her hands onto her hips. “—where is he?”
“On the couch last time I checked,” I say before we round the corner to the living area. There he is, still with his arm thrown over his eyes, snoring softly.
“Aww. How sweet,” Bridge says with a saccharine smile before she marches to the kitchen, grabs a glass from one of the cabinets, fills it with cold water, and adds some ice from the fridge. Then she walks back to the couch and dumps the whole thing over Callum’s head.
He lets out an earsplitting screech when the ice cubes rain down on his face and scrambles to get up, looking around wildly, cold water dripping down his face from his hair.
He blinks when he sees Bridget’s murderous smile.