Jace
Turns out, we were both up for passing out in Lennox’s trailer and sleeping in until Graham came barreling through his front door in a sheer state of panic.
“Lennox, you in here, mate?” He steps into the bedroom and we both sit up simultaneously, both lifting our forearms against our eyes to shield us from the blinding light. I squint hard, covering my piercing eyes, my head vibrating in pain with the volume of his voice.
“What in the bloody hell?” Lennox’s voice is raspy and hoarse.
Graham stops dead in his tracks, looks between the two of us, then pinches his brow.
“I swear to god, if something comes up in the tabloids this morning—” His gaze is serious and threatening.
“Nobody saw us,” Lennox replies, putting on his sunglasses and I kind of wish I had some too.
“I’ve heard that before.”
I strip off the comforter and stand, suddenly realizing I’m just in my boxers. “Oh, shit,” I whisper, then snap a look at Lennox and he’s in just his briefs.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Graham lifts his arms in defeat and walks out of the room.
“Nothing happened, right?” I ask in a panic, as I look for my clothes. “Where are my pants?”
“I swear nothing happened.” Putting his hands out like it will calm me down.
“How do you know? I don’t remember anything after leaving the bar and where the fuck are my clothes?”
“Next time answer your bloody phone,” Graham demands as the front door of the trailer clicks shut. Lennox pulls down the blinds to see him leaving, then turns back to me.
“I just know, okay.”
“How?” I yell, frustrated that I can’t remember anything and even more pissed off that I have no idea where my clothes are.
I’m moving around the room quickly, looking behind the chair and under the loveseat, opening the closet. Nothing. My clothes are literally nowhere.
“I make the worst fucking decisions sometimes,” I scold myself, then look back over at Lennox. “You had just as many drinks as I did. How would you have any idea what happened last night?”
Lennox rips off the sheets covering his lower half and stands rigid, hovering over me.
“It would take a lot more than a few drinks to forget hooking up with my childhood crush.”
I freeze, his statement catches me completely off guard and when I open my mouth to respond nothing comes out.
He shakes his head, distancing himself, then looks back at me with what I can only describe as embarrassment.
“Fucking hell. Please…forget I said that.”
What does he mean by that?
Screw it. It doesn’t matter. I just need to get the hell out of here.
Yanking open a drawer, I pull out a pair of his skinny jeans—a type of style I would normally never actively choose to wear—and a T-shirt with a picture of a pig and a slice of bacon.
The pig is looking at the bacon and he says in a comment bubble, ‘Bacon, I am your father’.
I roll my eyes as I yank on the pants, jumping, trying to get them over my much thicker thighs. They might as well be a fucking pair of compression pants. I pull the shirt over my head and slip on my shoes, the only thing of mine I can find.
At least I know I made it to his trailer with shoes on.
As I go to leave, I grab the handle of his trailer door pausing, then glance over my shoulder at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slouched, his eyes trained to the ground.
“Thanks for inviting me out last night,” I tell him, because I’m trained to end all my encounters on a positive note to avoid potential issues—something working in this industry has taught me. It’s also the truth. I had fun last night. A rare feeling for me.
He turns his neck in my direction, but his eyes are still trained on the ground.
“Anytime, mate.” Everything about his body language and reply is defeated. I feel…I shake my head out of it. It doesn’t matter how I feel. I’m making poor choices that will backfire on me and if I don’t get my shit together the courts will think I’m unfit to make my own decisions again.
I step out of the trailer, shutting the door, feeling like a bucket of ice water was tossed over my head. He’s called me mate a couple times. At first it was fine. Now, I hate how impersonal that feels.
Like an idiot, I tip toe toward my trailer acting as if I need to sneak around before I realize I don’t need to do that. Then I hear someone clear their throat and urgently spin around with a look of guilt on my face.
“Hello, Mr. Wilder. Enjoying the morning breeze?” Pierre asks as he walks leisurely with his hands behind his back, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He eyes me from head to tow, a lopsided grin appears over his face, before he continues past me. “Have a good day, Mr. Wilder.”