Chapter 16 ~ Minho
Lines are crossed all the time in war, right?
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I am already putting my notebook down on the couch and halfway to the door when I hear the knock before Bellamy does, but his voice carries from the kitchen.
“Expecting someone?”
“Yeah.” I don’t turn around, knowing he’s already behind me, making a face, questioning who it could be.
The door swings open, and there he is, Armani, tall and tan with that effortless smirk that has probably gotten him out of a lot of trouble these days.
His brown hair is tousled in a way that tells me he’s been playing with it, and he is wearing a fitted black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the cut of his muscles.
I won’t lie, he’s always been hot, but Mani looks dangerously hotter in adulthood. “Minho.” He muses, flirtatiously pulling me into a hug, clapping me on my back like we didn’t see each other yesterday. That’s when I feel him slip something in my pocket as he whispers in my ear, “As requested.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, my voice dropping low. “Thank you, but come in before my stalker asks questions.”
He chuckles before pulling away and stepping past me into the apartment, his eyes scanning the room with the practised ease of someone who has walked into countless people's homes. Armani’s gaze lands on Bellamy, who emerges fully from the kitchen wearing that god-awful kiss-the-cook apron again.
At least he has shorts on this time.
Thank God.
And yet, the sight of Bells standing there, jaw tight, made something twist in my chest, but I ignore it as best as I can.
“And who is this?” Armani’s voice is light and teasing, but I catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes because, yeah, he knows who Bellamy is after our talk yesterday.
“Bellamy, and you are?”
I note how cold his tone is and bite my tongue from outing him for knowing exactly who my friend is, or the fact that I heard him watching some of Armani's Dreamboys videos last night.
I’m not saying I had my ear against his door to hear what he was listening to, but I am not saying that I didn’t either.
Fuck him.
He did it on purpose.
What’s weird is he came home late and didn’t bother showering. He ate a little something and then went to his room.
Where the fuck was he? Scratch that, I don’t want to know which of his puck bunnies he spent his time with.
I don’t care if he’s fucking other people.
I don’t.
“Armani.” He extends a hand, and to my surprise, Bellamy takes it. The handshake looks firm in a way as if they are competing, the kind that says they are measuring dick sizes. “Minho and I go way back.”
“Is that so?” Bell's voice is flat, but I see the way his jaw tightens even more. The jealousy is almost visible, like a heat rising from him like steam. “He’s never mentioned you.”
I guess that isn’t a lie.
But he did warn me not to kiss Armani or anyone that isn’t him or Rafe again, so we did talk about my friend in a certain capacity.
“It must have slipped my mind.” I step between them, not fully blocking them from jumping at each other, but close enough to break eye contact. “Armani’s in town for a few days, so we thought we’d catch up.”
“We?” Bell's brows lift. “I don’t remember being told any of this.”
“You weren’t,” I say, with a smile, but I feel the weight of it, the challenge I want him to meet while watching Bellamy’s face cycle through emotions he is trying too hard to hide from me.
Armani laughs, draping an arm over my shoulder. “Minho’s told me all about you, man. The sexy big shot hockey captain. The annoying older stepbrother.” He lets the last word hang between us, and I can feel Bellamy’s stare like a knife at my throat.
I am so fucked after this.
And I never uttered the word sexy to Armani in context to Bellamy. I didn’t. I did say everything else, but I never—
“I’m sure he has.” Bells turns back toward the kitchen, but not before I catch the muscle jumping in his cheek. “You staying for dinner?”
“Can’t.” Armani squeezes my shoulder, then lets go.
“I am actually leaving; I need to catch a flight to LA in three hours. Just wanted to drop by, say hi and see how my favourite troublemaker is doing.” He looks at me, and there is something softer in his eyes now, something that says he’s not leaving by choice.
“J’ai eu une conversation très intéressante avec ton père et son ami, Rafe, si je me souviens bien. ”
“What? When? Did they—”
He shakes his head. “Ne t’en fais pas, ce n’est rien que je ne puisse gérer.”
I roll my eyes. “If you're sure.”
Armani smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I am.” How he knows Bellamy doesn’t speak French is beyond me, but the next thing he says catches me off guard. “Il t’aime, Minho. Ne laisse pas le passé t’empêcher d’atteindre quelque chose que nous ne pouvons pas tous atteindre.”
“I—”
“I’ll see you during Christmas break.” He leans in, kisses my cheek, a quick brush of lips on my skin and steps back toward the door. “Bellamy. Nice to finally put a face to the name. Don’t break my precious Minho too badly tonight.”
He says the words with a mischievous wink, which gets a snort from Bells. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is scarier than any noise. I stand there, staring at the doors, feeling the ghost of Armani’s kiss on my skin, while behind me, I can feel Bellamy’s presence like a weight on my back.
“So.” His voice is careful, as if he’s unsure what to say first. “That was Armani.”
“Yeah.”
“The porn star.”
I laugh. “The very famous, very successful one himself, yes.” I turn, lean against the door, watching Bells watch me.
“What did I say about anyone else kissing you?”
I smile but ignore his question. “He was messing with you, and besides, he came over to say goodbye.”
“What was he saying?” His eyes dart to my hoodie, more precisely, the pocket of my hoodie, and it's then that I know he knows Armani slipped something there.
Is he going to ask me what it is?
I hope not.
“What did he tell you, Minho?” He takes a step towards me.
“Doesn’t matter. It's irrelevant.” I shrug, pushing off the door and walking toward the kitchen. The smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the air, and I realise I am starving. “Is pasta all you know how to make?”
“Don’t judge me; the tomato sauce is my grandmother's recipe, and boiled noodles are safer for me to do than anything else, trust me.” He turns back to the stove, stirs the sauce with an intense focus that tells me he’s buying himself time, for what?
I don't know. “You’re not going to tell me what he slipped into your pocket, are you?”
I smirk.
“Maybe someday.” I slide onto the stool at the counter, watching him cook. I hate how easy it is to get lost in the way he focuses on what he’s doing, re-reading to himself the recipe written on a faded piece of paper. “It smells good.”
The corner of his lips curves. “I would hope so. I’ve been perfecting it since moving out of our parents' place.”
Ah, I see.
The place I refuse to set foot in.
Go it.
We end up eating in the living room, plates balanced on our knees, the TV on but turned down low as background noise.
I mostly scroll through my phone, trying not to glance in his direction, but I fail a few times to find that he’s focused on what’s playing on the TV, but will peek in my direction from the corner of his eye.
Bellamy finishes his food first, setting his plate aside with a satisfied sigh. “Okay, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“You and Armani. Be honest, were the two if you ever—” He stops, gestures vaguely with his hand. “You know.”
I laugh so hard I need to set my plate aside before I drop it. “No. God, no. He’s like a brother, an annoying, yet overly confident brother who happens to make a living having sex or posing for the camera.”
“So you’ve never—”
“I’ve never been with anyone like that, Bells, you know that.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see something flicker in his eyes, surprise maybe, or guilt. I soften my voice. “Armani is just a friend.”
“You kissed him the other day.”
“To piss you off.”
“Why?”
I open my mouth, then close it, looking down at my hands. “Armani is a friend who got me through some hard times after my mom left, and when I asked him to come to the game, I didn’t plan on kissing him, but I felt you staring, so I did it.”
“To piss me off,” he surmises.
I meet his gaze. “Don’t tell me you are jealous of him.” Bells looks away from me, his eyes landing on the TV screen, watching the movie neither of us is truly interested in. “Are you?”
The question hangs between us, and his jaw tightens as he considers his answer. “Should I be?”
“No.”
“Well, I am.”
I scoff. “Good, maybe that’ll wake you up from your delusions of us ever being together.”
He blinks, eyes widening, then laughs. “You’re a piece of work, you know that, right? You're so fucking mean, I don't know why I like it so much.”
“You should see a professional about that,” I muse.
He shakes his head, stands and collects our plates. I follow him into the kitchen; the water runs as he rinses them, and I lean against the counter, watching the muscle in his back shift under his shirt.
Is it wrong that I want to kiss him even though I am carrying something in my pocket that’ll seriously fuck up his life?
I shake my head.
There will be no repeat of the locker room showers.
“Chess?”
I look up in time to find he’s drying his hands, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and I see he has fucking dimples.
God, kill me.
“Minho?”
“Yes?”
He laughs. “Chess, you wanna play?”
“I don’t know the rules.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He walks over to the bookshelf, crouches down and pulls a worn wooden box from a selection of board games before rising and setting it on the counter with a thud. “I’m asking if you, my cunning, competitive rival, want to play with me.”
I glance at the board, the pieces and then at him while he sets it all up. I take in the challenge in his eyes, the way his fingers twirl the king in his hand. “Sure, how hard could it be to beat you?”