Chapter 7 River #2
Dutifully, I shook hands with the scouts and endured their complimentary review of the game. The three of them took turns talking up their schools, ribbing each other good-naturedly, while Dad and Coach looked on, wearing identical proud expressions.
“We think you’ve got something special, River,” the guy from Auburn said. “Must’ve gotten it from your dad, eh? Weren’t you pro, Mr. Whitmore?”
I winced.
“Almost,” Dad said with a frozen smile. “There was talk of a great draft prospect, but then an entire defensive line landed on my knee.”
“It’s a damn shame,” said Coach. “But River here is going to carry on his legacy. Isn’t that right, son?”
I nodded, feeling all eyes on me. Feeling the weight of the word—legacy—adding to the weight pressing between my shoulder blades. “I’ll do my best.”
“And then some,” Dad said. “River has more talent in his right hand than I did in my entire body.”
“Dad…”
“It’s true! They all saw it, didn’t you?”
This sent the scouts into another round of compliments that made my skin itch. Finally, the meeting broke up, and they left to chat with Coach privately.
Dad turned to me. “How about that? Pick of the litter.”
“Yeah, great. Amelia didn’t come?”
His expression tightened. “She said she wasn’t feeling up to it. I didn’t want to push her.”
Or she might break. Because we’re already falling apart.
“You and Donte are both hot commodities,” Dad said, steering us to brighter topics. “Wouldn’t it be something if you and he attended the same college? Keep that magic going?”
“He doesn’t need me to be a great receiver.”
“Of course he doesn’t. And your talent doesn’t need propping up either. I just thought that since—”
“I gotta go, Dad,” I said. “I’m already running late, and they’re going to leave for the dinner soon.”
“Oh sure, sure. I’m proud of you, River. You were…” He shook his head, glancing down for a moment. “Well, you were something special today. Everyone could see it. I wish your mom could have too.”
I swallowed a jagged lump in my throat. “Tell her all about it for me.”
“Will do.”
He patted my cheek and walked toward the parking lot. Head bowed, hands in his pockets. Alone.
***
The dinner at a local sports bar and restaurant could not end fast enough—the guys ate their weight in fries, hamburgers, and buffalo wings, talking shit and generally making asses of themselves, still high on the victory.
At home, I stopped in Mom’s room to say hi. I peeked in, but she was sleeping.
She was always sleeping these days.
I was twenty minutes late to meet Violet, but I smelled like grease and barbecue sauce. I took another quick shower in the bathroom down the hall, then wrapped a towel around my waist and hurried back to my room.
My tuxedo’s garment bag hung on a hook on the back of my door. I tore it down and tossed it on my bed, then fell back against the closet with a strangled gasp, nearly losing hold of my towel.
Holden Parish was lounging casually against my dresser. He was dressed all in black but for a long gray tweed coat.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Not quite, but I can see how you’d make that mistake.” He examined his fingernails lazily. “Actually, I take that back. He and I are nothing alike.”
“How did you get in?” I hissed with a quick glance at my bedroom door that—thank God—I remembered to shut.
“I have my ways. Also, your front door was unlocked.” His smile was maddeningly devious as his vivid green eyes brazenly scraped over my naked torso. “Get dressed. I’m all for you wearing nothing but a towel all night, but it’s probably a bit much for our first date.”
“Our first…” I shook my head. “Did I get sacked really hard? Am I hallucinating? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m rescuing you.”
I snorted a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. From?”
“From this day. Tonight is a… What would you call it in football speak? A time-out.”
“I don’t need rescuing. I’m the fucking homecoming king. I have a dance to go to, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Have you read all these?” Holden asked, perusing my bookshelf. It was short, only three shelves, but crammed to overflowing, with some books stacked on top of others and more piled on the floor.
“They’re not there for decoration.”
“Mmm. You read. You do not suck at calculus…impressive.”
“Thanks,” I said absently, my damn brains scrambled.
I couldn’t be in the same room with him dressed only in a towel for one more fucking second.
I crossed to my dresser, walking straight into his space, into the thundercloud of Holden Parish—his scent, his cologne, the bite of cloves and vodka.
I fumbled in my drawer for a pair of underwear, clutching the towel around my hips with white knuckles.
He pulled my dog-eared copy of Catch-22 off the stack and flipped it, showing me the cover. “A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”
“What’s too on the nose?” I asked as if it were totally normal to chitchat with random guys who materialized in my room while I tried to get dressed.
It is normal. It’s just like being in the locker room with the team.
Except being alone with Holden in my bedroom didn’t feel one damn bit like it did with the team.
I’d made the locker room a sterile place, devoid of any emotion or reaction on my part.
Here, the air felt charged. Thick. Heavy.
Electricity crackled around Holden, making the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up.
I went into my closet—a small walk-in—and pulled on my underwear. I’d felt the sweep of cotton against my dick a thousand times, but suddenly it provoked the sensitive skin. I clenched my teeth and willed my body to calm the hell down.
“Catch-22 is about paradoxes,” Holden was saying. “Absurdities. A catch-22 is a problem for which the only solution is denied by a circumstance inherent in the problem itself.”
“I know what it means,” I said, quickly yanking on my black dress slacks.
“Your inherent problem is that you don’t want to attend the dance with a girl. The solution is to not go. But you can’t not go because you need to be seen with a girl. Therefore, the girl is both the problem and the solution.” Holden cocked his head, brows raised. “Am I close?”
“Is this your way of apologizing for the closet?” I threw on the white button-down, my fingers tearing up the shirt, closing buttons. “Because it doesn’t sound like an apology. It sounds like the same kind of insinuation.”
Holden’s piercing gaze softened as he watched me get dressed. “You don’t have to go.”
“I kind of do. My date is waiting.”
“Your date is my best friend’s one true love. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”
“Not my problem.” I yanked my arms through a black vest.
Holden set my copy of Catch-22 back on its stack and crossed his arms. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Of what?”
“Exchanging one costume for another,” he said with a nod at my tux.
I played stupid, ignoring how close to home his words hit. “I just threw for three hundred yards, so yeah, I’m tired.”
Holden rolled his eyes. “Spare me your stats, Tom Bundy.”
“Brady.”
“Whatever. Do you even enjoy it?”
I ignored him and wrangled a cummerbund around my waist.
“Cummerbund or vest but not both,” Holden said. “Don’t overdo it.”
“Huh? Oh, the store gave me both to try out…” I gave my head a shake and hurled the cummerbund aside. “Jesus, what am I saying? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“I did.”
“Right. To rescue me.” I rolled my eyes and slipped a tie around my neck. “I don’t need rescuing. I need you to leave.”
“Come with me.”
The words sank in and spread to all parts of me, my head, heart, and cock all wanting to obey. My hands fumbled with the knot on the tie, and the two lengths of silk fell apart.
“Where?”
“Somewhere you don’t have to pretend.”
I snorted and tried the tie again. “Stop saying shit like that. You don’t know me.”
Holden cocked his head in that infuriating way of his, his gaze tearing through me as he took a step closer. “Maybe not. Maybe tonight is the night we find out.”
“Find out what?” I asked, conscious that I’ve been doing a lot of that. Asking. Begging for answers.
Why? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t…
Holden moved to stand in front of me. Up close, the devastation of his looks was almost blinding.
I had to take him in pieces, my eyes tracing the line of his perfect face, his full lips, the cleft in his chin, and the small mole high up on his left cheekbone.
His silver hair was gelled in a thick, full wave on top, cut short on the sides, exposing the long cords of his neck.
Everything about him assaulted my senses, making me stupid.
Holden drew closer, and I watched, frozen, aware of every nerve ending in my body standing at attention, my cock twitching in my pants. His hands—elegant but masculine and stained with ink—adjusted the knot in my tie.
“It’s a tad crooked.” His breath wafted over my lips—smoke and vodka, fire and ice. “Just like me.”
I swallowed, and Holden’s gaze dropped to my Adam’s apple, watching the movement. Then up to my lips, lingering there, while his own mouth parted, the tip of his tongue venturing out to touch his bottom lip.
Oh fuck…
Lust—pure, unfiltered want—ripped through me like a wildfire. But just as potent were the thousands of emotions swirling in my chest. Instead of feeling constricted, I could breathe. Maybe for the first time in months. Years, even.
Holden read all of it, a lazy, infuriating smile spreading over his lips. He lingered in that thick moment—torturing me with possibilities—then backed off, breaking the spell.
“You’re ready for the ball, Prince Charming. King, I should say.” His gaze raked me up and down in the sleek black tux and pale blue tie. “You look every bit the part.”
I’m tired of playing it.
I sucked in another breath, deep and even, while Holden leaned on my dresser again. He pulled a packet of clove cigarettes, black embossed with gold, from his coat pocket.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Of course not. Not here.” He arched a thick but perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Somewhere else?”
Inhale. Exhale.
I can breathe.
“Let’s go.”