I must have misread that raised hand, the smile on his face. It hadn’t been a capitulation.
It had been a goodbye.
I turned and bumped straight into Teddy, and tried to wipe the scowl off my face while I allowed myself an internal groan. Teddy was thelastperson I wanted to see right then. But he grabbed me tight by the arm, painfully tight, and I couldn’t get away unless I physically threw him off.
“Was thatJohnny Jacopo?” he demanded breathlessly.
At that, Ididyank my arm away. “How doyouknow him?” I asked. A strange feeling was bubbling inside me, something I hadn’t felt for a long, long time, andneverover a man.
Jealousy.
Teddy gave me a wide-eyed stare. “Don’t you know what he is?” he asked in a hushed voice.
His phrasing gave me pause.Whathe is? Notwhohe is? I grabbed Teddy’s arm just as hard as he’d grabbed mine.
“Tell me.”
CHAPTER13
JACK
I didn’t sleepwell that night. Memories of my fuckups—a long, painful list—haunted me, capped off by Miller’s luminous eyes staring into my soul as he sucked me off. Eventually I gave in and took some off-brand sleep aid that Freddy from the crew had recommended to me a while back, and it knocked me out, but it didn’t keep the dreams away.
Dreams of Miller Beaumont disappearing just like his sister, so that when I woke up groggy and dull the next morning, I found myself anxiously scanning the news stories.
I had to remind myself more than once: I was looking for adifferentBeaumont. I wrenched my attention to the job after my second cup of strong black coffee. I’d spent some time yesterday calling contacts and putting out feelers, and I’d given a cursory glance at Anaïs Beaumont’s public social media accounts as well. There hadn’t been anything of interest.
My eye fell on a scribbled note I’d left myself yesterday when I was trying to come up with ideas:Beaumont—private socials?
“Dumbass.” I clenched a fist and banged it lightly on the table, unwilling to gotoohard on it lest it collapsed under the force. But I was mad at myself. I’d had the opportunity to ask Miller Beaumont about any private social media accounts of his sister and all her celebrity friends, but I’d been too busy watching him swallow my dick.
I’d let the job get away from me already.
I couldn’taffordto make mistakes, not if I wanted to get back into the Boss’s inner circle. And—maybe just as importantly—if I wanted a chance to make things up to Sandro Castellani, the Boss’s son.
As always, when I thought about Sandro and our broken friendship, I couldn’t sit still. I kicked my chair back from the table a little harder than necessary and wandered around my apartment.
I missed that asshole more than I’d ever expected. We’d understood each other, he and I, in a way that even my Vegas crew hadn’t. His unabashed, in-people’s-faces queerness, the way he lived his life on no one else’s terms—he’d given me the courage to live my own truths as well. His protection, his friendship, had granted me the kind of status I’d never had in Vegas. When we went out looking for trouble, our enemies scattered. We’d felt like conquering kings together. And I’d admired his tenacity, the messy way he lived his life and conducted his business. I liked his refusal to be what his father wanted him to be. In fact, I’d liked him for all the reasons his father despaired of him, right up until…
Right up until I’d fucked up.
My litany of errors was only getting longer, and now I could add a newfound obsession with Miller Beaumont to the end of it. I’dknownhe was trouble the second I saw him.
I slumped down in my chair, my head aching. But I couldn’t stop my wandering mind from summoning up an image of Miller smiling at me, his hazel eyes sparkling…
Sparkling with secrets and joys that I would never know.
“Forget it, Jack,” I sighed aloud. “It’s West Hollywood.” I set to work with my phone, letting software on my laptop transcribe the interview I’d had with Miller yesterday. I had a shower while I let it run, so I wouldn’t have to hear his voice again and start thinking stupid thoughts. By the time I got out I’d forgotten about it altogether.
Until I heard a long, breathy moan coming out of my phone. I froze, transfixed, as sloppy sucking noises started to echo through my one-room apartment.
Well, fuck. I’d left the phone running all through our…
I hesitated, my hand at my waist where I’d tucked the towel.
And then I sat down on the couch, opened the towel, and gave myself the relief I’d been aching for since I’d woken up that morning. I pictured Miller from last night, vivid memories as the recording of the act played out, and I teased and stroked myself until I came in tandem with my doppelgänger. It was a strange feeling to be jealous of myself, to want so badly to be inhisshoes, that lucky motherfucker.
And I wanted even more to get a do-over for how I’d reacted afterward—because that was recorded, too, as I wiped my hands off on the towel, and heard myself snap and snarl like an asshole. I jumped up and stopped the replay, checked that the transcript of my earlier questioning was reasonably accurate, and then—with only a little hesitation—I deleted the recording.
