Chapter 6
“Apink crop top, really?” Nick asks as I sink onto the couch, crossing my legs primly.
The fabric of my white shorts pulls tight across my thighs, reminding me how scantily clad I am right now.
But it doesn’t seem absurd after spending a day and a half completely naked.
I look over at the kitchen, where Nick and Kieran are pouring coffee, and shoot them both a cheeky grin.
“Figuring out who I am includes exploring self-expression. I figure I’ve limited my sexuality with assumptions and doing what’s expected, so that could be true for every part of me, right down to my fashion sense. ”
“I don’t think cargo shorts and backwards baseball caps count as fashion sense,” Kieran says.
Nick laughs, his cheeks red, adjusting his own backwards baseball cap, the one I added to the cart last minute because I knew he’d like it. “But it’s hot, right?”
“On some guys? Hot as fuck,” Kieran says. “Meanwhile, all this time Chase secretly wanted to dress like a slutty twink?”
“I don’t know! I’m just trying things. But I won’t know what’s right if I keep dressing the way I did.
So I’m exploring.” I stick out my tongue at both of them.
“Besides, don’t either of you act like you’re not enjoying my exploring.
I couldn’t even make it across the room in that thong before I had your cock inside me, Kieran. ”
“Which taught you what about your self-expression?” Nick asks.
“That I’m going to need sturdier slut clothes,” I say. With that last parting shot, I reach for my sketchbook, pick up the pencil and start shading the edge of something I started yesterday, a study of a chair on the front porch and the ocean beyond.
In the three days since Lilah stole the car, I’ve found a freedom I’ve never experienced before, and I’m not about to let it go.
It isn’t just about the sex; it’s about letting everything I’d kept buried push to the surface.
Every impulse, every irrational decision, every single thing that bucked the world’s expectations for the only son of Thurston and Avery Whitmore.
Nick pads into the living room barefoot, his basketball shorts hanging low on his hips, tank top and backwards baseball cap so completely sexy that it makes me blush.
He doesn’t look at me, just flops onto the couch beside me, his weight collapsing the cushion and sending me sliding an inch toward him.
His shoulder presses warm against mine, solid and familiar.
“What are you drawing?” he asks, peering at my sketchbook.
“Nothing serious, just experimenting.” I set the pencil down. “All of this has made me think about switching my major. To art, or design. Something I actually give a shit about.”
Nick’s head snaps toward me. “For real? You’d be so good at that. You’ve been drawing since we were kids.”
“I know, but—” My fingers trace the edge of the paper, and I bite my bottom lip. “This is a much bigger decision than deciding to wear tiny shorts. My dad really wants me to major in Business Management.”
“So? This is your life, not his.” He shrugs, the movement rippling through the muscle of his chest. “You hate it. You doodle through every lecture. Remember when you fell asleep during Accounting last semester and snored so loud the TA woke you up?”
“I remember.” The laugh comes out easy. “I just don’t know if my parents will let me.”
“Let you?” Nick frowns. “Dude, you’re twenty. You don’t need permission to live your life how you want.”
Before I can answer, Kieran walks over, carrying two mugs of coffee.
He’s wearing the gray sweatpants I bought him, the ones that outline his cock so nicely.
The sharp V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband makes it clear he’s not wearing underwear, and my mouth waters, an involuntary reflex every time he’s in the room.
His chest is bare, tattooed and gleaming in the morning light, and he moves without hurrying, without once checking whether anyone is watching.
“Coffee,” he says, handing me a mug. His fingers brush mine, deliberate, and my hand goes warm where he touched it.
He settles into the armchair across from us, stretching his legs out, one ankle crossed over the other. The mug looks small in his hand. He takes a sip, his eyes on me over the rim, and he doesn’t look away, and my stomach flips.
“Your parents will forbid an art degree?” he asks.
I wrap both hands around the mug. “Not exactly forbid. I mean, they don’t really control my education. I have a trust fund. It covers school, living expenses and the car, as long as I’m not overspending and enrolled in a program that meets the trust officer’s approval.”
Nick snorts. “Trust officer. Jesus Christ, Chase.”
“What? It’s just how it works.”
“Ask him how much the trust is.” Nick leans forward, already grinning. “Because it’s absurd.”
I groan. “I wish I’d never told you that.”
“He was so casual about it,” Nick says. “I mean, my parents are both doctors, and I thought we were rich people, but nope. There’s a whole other tier: people who are paying their college tuition off the interest of an investment portfolio.”
Kieran blinks at me. “So you have plenty of money. You’re set for life. Why do you need to go to business school and hoard more?”
“I guess I don’t,” I say, sipping my coffee. “The trust officer is mainly concerned with me not blowing it on something stupid, but she generally approves of education decisions.”
“I hacked into his email and tried emailing her and suggesting we should buy a superyacht and sail the world partying,” Nick says, “and she said no. Something about living off the interest and not touching the principal. What a jerk.”
My lips twitch. “I still can’t believe you did that.”
“Gotta shoot my shot!” Nick says.
Kieran picks up my sketchbook, flipping through, taking his time on each page the way someone who draws does. “You’re good. Show this trust officer your portfolio. Show her you’re serious, and this is a passion that can become your livelihood.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, chest tight as I watch him study my work.
Kieran makes his living with his art, and I realize his opinion matters more than I would have thought.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my shorts, thinking about dropping this many bombs on my parents at the same time.
My parents love me, and I don’t think they’d be angry to learn that I was gay, but if I choose to change my major, too?
I swipe the screen open, and it flashes with notifications, all messages from my parents.
My first thought is that they’ve found out, and everything in me goes cold. But instead, the messages are all normal things. Loving things.
Mom: Hope you’re having fun at the shore house, sweetheart! The weather looks beautiful.
Mom: I’ve been house hunting like you asked, and I found a little house near your campus and it’s just divine. Winnie approves.
Dad: Don’t forget to put sunblock on your nose. You always burn there.
Below that, there’s a picture of a house which is not little at all, with a realtor’s sign in front of it. I smile down at it, shaking my head.
Mom: I think there’s enough room for Nick to room with you again, if he wants. Tell him there’s no need to pay rent.
Dad: Your lady friend came by with the car and left us with the keys.
Dad: Did Nick bring his car or do you need me to send Hank out to pick you up?
“Damn, looks like Lilah returned the car,” I say.
Nick looks over my shoulder. “Holy shit. Your mom found a house?”
Kieran blinks. “You’re buying a house?”
“The trust officer says it’s a good use of the money and I can afford it without cutting into the principal.”
I compose a quick message, biting my bottom lip, wondering how much I should tell my parents. In the end, I chicken out and just ask if Hank can pick us up on Monday. Three more days of paradise before I have to get back to the real world, come out to my parents, change my major, and whatever else.
“You chickened out,” Nick says.
“Yeah.” I set the phone down face down, then look at Kieran. “How did you tell your parents you were going to be a tattoo artist?”
The room goes quiet. Nick shifts beside me, his shoulder pressing a little harder against mine.
Kieran sets his mug on the side table. His expression doesn’t change, but he stops looking at me and starts looking at the window. “My da’s dead,” he says. The words come out flat. “He died when I was fourteen. Right before we moved from Ireland to Philly. Car accident.”
I open my mouth and close it again. Beside me, Nick has gone still.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t—”
“It was a long time ago.” Kieran picks up his mug again, takes another sip.
His thumb traces the rim. “My mom was supportive when I got an apprenticeship at the tattoo shop. She saw I was good at it. She was thrilled that I’d found a way to make my art into a real career, and supported me following my dreams, so long as I could support myself financially. ”
Nick reaches for my knee, his hand warm and steady. “Your parents probably wouldn’t care either, Chase. They just want you to be happy.”
“Do they?” The question comes out smaller than I meant it to. “I mean, of course your parents support your career choice, Nick. There are lots of opportunities in engineering. What if you had chosen something less practical?”
Nick shrugs. “I’d like to think they care more about my happiness than the practicality of my career. They’ve always encouraged me to follow my dreams, and I was always inventing things, so they helped me look at the types of careers that were a match for that.”
“See? My parents never did that.”
“Maybe because you were always so agreeable. You went along with their plans, down to hiding your true self and your sexuality,” Nick says. “Now, you’re finally waking up to who you are, and it wouldn’t make sense to not take that all the way. To your art.”