My head fell into my hands. I had a beautiful girl waiting for me to kiss her in the dark,wantingme to kiss her. From somewhere inside, deep and neglected, a small voice whispered,What do you want?
Before I could contemplate an answer, the door opened, and Holden Parish stepped into the closet.
Because of course he did. Goddamn this stupid game.
The light from the living room outlined his tall form, and I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. The closet went black as he shut the door, but I’d have known it was Holden if I were blind; the closet was infused with his clove-and-cologne scent, overlaid with the stringent sting of tequila. It hit my senses harder than the booze I’d drunk and was a million times more potent than Violet’s feminine scent.
“Hey, man,” I said. Casual as hell.
“Hey,man,” Holden mimicked me, and his dark shape slid down the side of the wall perpendicular to me. There was a metallic scrape, and his Zippo flared to life, illuminating his face and nothing else.
I held perfectly still, watching as the shadows cut his cheekbones into even sharper lines, contouring shadows that led to his full lips and the cleft in his chin. His green eyes glittered over the flame, then he snuffed the light.
It was too dark to see; my body sensed Holden instead. I felt his presence in the small room like a low hum. A current moved between us, but he said nothing, and I had nothing to say. I felt guilty of a crime I hadn’t committed…or had yet to commit.
“So,” Holden said after a minute of silence. “River, was it?”
“Whitmore, yeah.”
“Tell me something, River Whitmore.” Light flared as he lit his Zippo. His eyes bored into mine, seeing through me as if I were made of cellophane. “Aside from me…who else knows you’re gay?”
I froze, every molecule in my body petrifying at once. I couldn’t move or breathe, yet I fell into the clear green depths of Holden’s eyes, tinged gold and fiery in the flickering light. He watched a storm of emotions I couldn’t control play over my features, and the sharp angles of his face softened.
“You’re crazy,” I said, my voice hoarse. “And drunk. You don’t know shit about me.”
Holden leaned forward until our faces were inches apart, the flame dancing between us. His nearness was all over me; I felt it along my skin, a tingling shiver that danced up my arms, down my spine, and straight to my cock.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he whispered. Then his lips parted—I couldn’t tear my eyes from his mouth—and he inhaled slowly and blew out the flame.
The darkness washed over me, breaking me from whatever fucking voodoo this guy was working on me. I got up off the floor and pushed my way to the door, unable to keep from slamming it open and stormingout.
“Fucking asshole,” I spat and strode through the room, drawing attention. Making a scene.
Shit.
I sucked in deep breaths and tapped the keg for another cup as Chance, Donte, and some guys followed me into the kitchen.
“What was all that about?” Donte asked.
“Did the new guy try something on you?” Chance asked, chugging laughter.
“Yeah, get a little action you weren’t ready for?” another guy, Mikey Grimaldi, asked with even more glee. As if consent were a big joke.
I could’ve made up any story I wanted. Whether it was true or not, they’d kick the shit out of Holden for no other reason than I told them to.
“Nah, it’s nothing,” I said, taking a long sip of beer. “He shoots off at the mouth, and I’m not in the mood for it. It’s all good.”
The guys absorbed this, and because I was their king, they accepted it without question. But how far would that acceptance stretch?
Who else knows you’re gay?
The question was a flare sparking in a pitch-black night or a bomb dropped into a dark pit, shaking the foundation and threatening the entire edifice.
I watched the guys—my supposed friends—laugh and joke as if nothing had changed.
Because it hasn’t, I told myself fiercely.Not one damn thing.
Yet the image of green eyes watching me—seeingme—over the flicker of flame wouldn’t snuff out, no matter how much beer I tried to drown it in.
