Chapter 7 #2
Suddenly I hear music on her end.
That creepy song.
My brain instantly recognizes it, and I start losing it before anything even happens.
Harper appears in frame.
My youngest sister is dancing dramatically behind Cricket with some flowing floral fabric draped around her shoulders like a robe, phone in her hand blaring the song.
Cricket glances over her shoulder. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harper.”
Harper lunges forward until her head is comically huge on the screen. “You wanna fuck me?” she declares in a deep voice. “I’d fuck me.”
Cricket shrieks laughing and shoves her. “Ew! What is wrong with you?!”
Harper just keeps dancing.
Cricket points behind her. “And put my tablecloth back in the hutch!”
At this point I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face. “Morons,” I wheeze. “The both of you.”
Harper finally collapses into a chair at the kitchen table beside Cricket, still giggling.
I wipe my eyes and take a second to just look at them. Cricket is the oldest. Always the responsible one. Organized. Put together. I’m the middle kid.
And Harper…
Harper is pure youngest child chaos.
Cricket is two years older than me and Harper is two years younger than my twenty-five years.
We were tight growing up. It’s how we survived an overbearing, egomaniacal, bigoted father and a socialite mother who only acknowledged she had children when it was time to parade us around at some charity gala.
“Hey big bro!” Harper chirps once she catches her breath.
“Hey, Bug.”
She beams.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask.
Cricket sighs dramatically. “Well, Harper is supposed to be helping me decide on the menu for our client’s upcoming anniversary event,” she says, “but I can already tell she’s going to be absolutely useless.”
Harper gasps. “Hey! I am very helpful, thank you very much.”
Cricket ignores her. “What decadent creation are you whipping up for yourself tonight, Mr. Gourmet? Maybe you’ll give us a good idea.”
“Ooh, yeah,” Harper says, “you know we love your food.”
“Thanks, Harp,” I chuckle. “Tonight is pork tenderloin, but I’m going to play with a chorizo and wild berry stuffing. Maybe some wasabi and goat cheese mashed potatoes.”
“Jesus,” Cricket groans. “Write that down, Harper.”
“On it like a bonnet,” Harper chirps.
Cricket rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we just wanted to say hi and see your face.”
I grin. “It is a good face.”
Both of them groan in perfect synchronization.
I laugh again.
“God, I miss you guys. I’m glad you called. Needed that laugh.”
Their expressions soften and Cricket studies me for a moment. “Okay, we need to go pick up some cake samples before the shop closes,” she says. “Just wanted to make sure you were good.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I wave them off. “Love you guys.”
“We love you too!” they say together.
The call ends just as they start bickering again about curtain colors. The screen goes dark and the condo is quiet again. I stare at my reflection faintly mirrored in the black glass of the phone. Then I lean back into the couch, gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
Am I though? Am I good?
I mean… I don’t have a lot to complain about.
I’m fortunate in more than a lot of ways.
I get to play my favorite sport for a living. Millions of kids grow up dreaming about doing exactly what I do every Sunday. I get paid an absurd amount of money to throw a football.
Materially, I don’t want for anything.
Nice home. Nice car. Enough money in the bank that I could be comfortable for the rest of my life. I’m not a flashy guy. Sure, I dropped some serious coin on my place and my ride, but that’s really it. I’ve earned those luxuries.
But I’m not throwing money around trying to impress people with trips, parties and yachts. I feel hollow enough as it is. All that vapid showboating would just make it worse.
When my schedule allows it, I get to spend time cooking for the cutest group of old people on the planet. The way their faces light up when I make something new in the community kitchen… it does something to me.
It makes the world feel normal. Simple. Good. Still, something’s missing.
I run a hand through my hair.
For starters, I’m horny as fuck. Flying under the radar gets old. Real old.
I shift on the couch as my thoughts wander down a familiar road. I’ve got a needy hole and a drawer full of toys that lost their appeal a long time ago. They work, technically, but it’s not the same.
Not even close.
Sometimes, when the pressure builds enough and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my own skin, I have my ways of getting what I need—anonymously and carefully. Quick arrangements. No names. No lingering. Just a locked door, dim lighting, and someone who understands the assignment.
Even then it’s a risk.
One wrong person, one camera phone, one loose mouth, and suddenly my career becomes a headline.
I only do it when I can’t take it anymore. When the ache gets so bad I just need to get pounded hard enough to forget my own name for a while.
The thought alone makes my body react. My dick thickens aggressively in my sweats and I shift, adjusting myself with a quiet grunt.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
My brain decides to make things worse because the next thought that surfaces isn’t about some anonymous hookup.
It’s about him.
Spence.
I groan softly and drag my hands down my face again.
I cannot get that man out of my head.
It’s ridiculous. I barely know him, but my mind keeps reminding me of every damn detail.
His face, for starters.
The guy looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine. A jaw cut from stone with that super short, dense and dark stubble only certain guys can pull off. I’ve always had a thing for it. On him? It drives me fucking wild.
And his hair.
Spencer Stark has great hair.
Like… great hair.
Ugh, and those eyes.
Cobalt.
The kind of blue that makes you do a double take because they almost don’t look real.
And don’t get me started on those thick thighs.
Fuck.
“I can’t do anything about it,” I gripe to myself. That part is obvious.
But…
I shift again on the couch. There’s no harm in being around him, right? Being friends maybe. Or whatever.
Except that’s apparently never going to happen if I can’t even get him to meet me for a damn gym sesh. The man has shot me down multiple times now.
Firmly.
God. I just need to be around him. I don’t even know why. Something about him pulls at me like gravity.
I need to get his attention.
Blowing up his phone and sending half naked selfies clearly isn’t working. I tap my phone lightly against my chest, staring at the ceiling as the grin spreads wider.
“Alright, Counselor,” I murmur.
My pulse picks up with a spark of excitement.
“Time to run a different play.”