26. RYAN
RYAN
I’ve been under strict confinement since Tuesday. It’s Thursday. Conference Championship Weekend starts tomorrow. Here. Hockey is about the only thing I have right now, the only thing they haven’t taken away from me.
“We have to do something,” Becks says at dinner.
“What?” I snap, a bit crazed. Griff is gone. Fucking gone. “What are we supposed to do?”
He shuts his mouth because he knows we can do fuck all. I want to go back in time. It won’t change anything with my father, but maybe I can prevent Griffon from finding out the truth. He’d still consider me his brother. I’d tell Past Me not to be such a fucking hothead.
This all started because of Beckett in the first place. He talked me into that stupid game of murder hockey. Can I blame him for everything?
What did I end up with? I’m more of a prisoner than when I started.
Tate probably likes me right here, on a doll shelf for when he wants to play.
He even said he was glad about it. I thought he was just being …
well, him. But maybe he meant it. It can’t be all that hard for him to get into North Point to tell me what the fuck’s going on. He’s done it so many times before.
When we’re released for the evening, my friends huddle around me, forming a protective barrier.
“We’re not letting them take you, too,” Beckett says. “Two of us will always be with you until this is over—and it will be fucking over, Rye.”
But when I turn off to head to the hallway that would take me to my room, they stop me and guide me to an empty classroom.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss. “This is a great way to draw the wrong kind of attention to my ass.”
“Nah, bro,” is all Kane says.
We’re ground level, and there’s an open window. An officer who looks suspiciously like Ethan, with swelling tugging one eye narrower than the other, is on the outside, waving his hand in a gesture that means, “Get your fucking ass out here, now.”
I glance at my friends.
“Just go, we’ll cover for you,” Torin says.
Ethan marches me across campus as if he’s an officer taking me to detention, but instead of heading to the far fields, we head into the woods toward old access roads.
There’s a patrol that goes through this area, but no high-level security checkpoints like where we do our tactical training.
The dense terrain itself functions as natural security.
In other words, you have to be a crazy motherfucker to head into this area, especially at this time of night when the sun is going down.
“Soooo, he’s on something,” Ethan says in a hushed voice as we walk.
“On what?”
“Don’t know. Still figuring that out. Whatever it is, it’s lasted since his conference meeting on Monday. I was the one who picked him up.”
I have so many questions. “Why would you bring him here high?” I hiss.
“Believe me, I held the man off from coming here for three days. You try to get in his way when he wants something. Especially when that something is you. See if you last as long as I did.”
Without warning, Ethan shoves, and I trip over my footing, stumbling into a clearing.
I look back to tell him off, mostly because this isn’t the best place to stay fucking hidden, but he’s gone. I hope he intends on distracting patrol with his ass because that’s about the only thing that’s going to save mine.
But the fear of being caught vanishes as soon as I set eyes on Tate for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I’m on the verge of breaking down. The way I want to run into his massive arms—it’s an indescribable ache. His steel eyes brighten like they’ve suddenly learned to reflect the sun.
“Dollface!” His smile is … that’s not his fucking smile, and is that dirt smudged over his cheek? He’s not as well put together as he usually is. Gray hoodie, gray sweats. His hair is all messy black waves atop his head, half of it falling into his eyes.
I don’t know what’s going on, but fuck it.
I run to him, colliding with his solid torso, arms circling him.
He doesn’t even flinch. That should probably ratchet the anxiety building under my ribs, but I’m ignoring it.
Instead, I burrow myself in all the feels of home that I’m not sure I’ve ever had.
He’s my home.
“Ethan tried to stop me from seeing you,” he says, his voice laced with anger and sadness.
“Is that why he has a black eye?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tate, what’s going on?”
“We’re married!” he says, way too fucking loudly.
“Shhhh.” We are so fucking cooked.
“No, you don’t get it. It’s exciting. Like this.” The man pops off into a series of cartwheels. One. Two. Three. They’re actually good, but he fumbles a bit, whatever he’s on, making his coordination wobbly. He claps for himself when he lands the last one, stumbling. “Whoa. Dizzy.”
Running, I catch him under his armpit with my shoulder, putting an arm around him. He leans into me.
“Mmmm, you smell good. Like tropical sunscreen.” He buries his face into my neck. “Gonna rip your dad’s face off. Know what? Let’s do that instead.”
He grabs my hand.
“Whoa, Tate. Wait. Wait,” I whisper-yell. He’s not in his right frame of mind. Or maybe this is him without filters. Either way, I need to distract him. He pulls his head out of my neck. “Guess what? We’re married, baby.”
A syrupy smile spreads across his handsome face.
“We are!” He takes my hand, using it to spin me, and then catches my other hand, swaying us into a dance.
I let my head fall onto his shoulder. Oh, the relief.
Tate’s big enough and strong enough to carry me and my emotional baggage when I’m at the end of my endurance.
Not forever, just until I can pick it up again.
“You’re my easiest thing to think about, dollface. ”
Pleasant heat spreads through my ribs. Maybe this drug isn’t all bad. It seems to have unlocked the door to Tate’s feelings.
“Not gonna be commissioner,” he says. “That’s done.”
I nod into his shoulder. Is that what he came to tell me?
He pulls back. “Oh! Have something to show you. Wait. Where did I put it?” He searches his pockets.
“You were doing fucking cartwheels, maybe it fell—”
There’s a zip sound from inside his pocket. Must be a hidden inner pocket.
“Aha. Here it is,” he sings. “Open your hand.”
Oh, god. Please don’t be something dead, or something that used to be part of someone. I open my hand. He places something round, glassy, and blue. I squint. “Is that a glass eye?”
Some might be creeped the fuck out, and don’t get me wrong, it’s creepy, but it’s a lot better than I thought it was going to be. I study it, holding it up to the light.
“Not just any glass eye. It’s from my doll. We’ve been reunited.”
Okay, mind changed. If he thinks of this glass eye as his doll, we’re back to abnormal levels of creepy. Sigh. But it’s special to him. What do you say when someone shows you what they consider to be the soul of their beloved childhood doll? The one their uncle made them toss into a fire.
“Um, nice.”
I hand it back to him. He’s so careful with it, rubbing his thumb over the surface before he zips it up safely again. It’s a metaphor. If he could carry me in his pocket, bet he would.
“Lay with me,” he says, tugging us to the ground.
“It’s wet.”
But he doesn’t care, lying in the wet grass, piling me on top of him. His hand finds the buttons to my cammies, pulling, sliding inside to rest over my heart.
“There,” he breathes. “That’s what I was looking for.”
Is there any point in talking to him right now? Maybe I just enjoy this. Everything’s gone to fucking shit. Everything we worked for crumbled to ash. Is he even able to pull me out? I don’t know the full story, but if he ended up like this, it’s got to be even worse than I’m imagining.
Not gonna think about that right now. This week was hell on earth. Being with him takes all of that away.
Thick fingers comb through my hair, and I forget where we are, closing my eyes, pretending we’re far, far away from North Point.
Tate cinches my hair with one hand, uncharacteristically gentle, and paws at my pants with the other.
“I need you. I fucking need you, Ryan. It hurts.” His voice breaks as if he’s really so turned on that he’s in pain.
His hips thrust mindlessly upward, seeking friction.
“I’ve been obnoxiously horny for days. Ethan wouldn’t let me see you. ”
He pouts.
I smile.
He’s been cock-achingly horny because of whatever the fuck they shot him up with, and he could have stuck his dick anywhere. I would have been pissed, but under the circumstances, I would have eventually forgiven him since he’s not in his right mind. But even high and horny, all he wants is me.
“Take your dick out, baby,” he murmurs. He’s already tugging at his own waistband, shoving his hand down there. He pulls his nuts over the elastic, and the angry purple vein up his shaft pulses. Pre-cum drenches the head, still leaking.
This is such a bad idea out here where anyone could find us, but I fucking need him too, so fuck it.
I need to feel him against me. Know he’s still real.
And mine. Jesus, fuck, seeing his cock like that, leaking just for me.
It makes me so damn hard. I get my cock out quickly, giving it a few strokes, but he thrusts and reaches with his hips at the same time, pressing the silky skin of our cocks together.
We fuck our dicks in time with our breaths, too mindless and turned on, savoring the delicious glide.
“Oh, yeah. Yes,” he breathes. “I’m so sensitive, dollface. Could do this forever.”
Tate spits into his palm and holds it out to me. “Your turn.”
I spit onto it without hesitation. He uses our combined saliva to jack us together with that monster paw of his. He strokes slow, then fast, then slow again, keeping me on a lustful tether.