It takes a few moments, but Thomas groans and thunks the back of his head against the wall. “Today might be one of the worst days of my life.”
Sam is immediately on the defensive. “You were the one who cancelled on me.”
“I know,” Thomas says, softly. He continues thumping his head against the wall. “Trust me, I know.”
“And you were the one who told me to race.”
“Yes.”
“So I did nothing wrong, okay?”
Thomas drags his stare over to Sam and his eyes shine with moisture. “I never said you did.”
Whoa, whoa,whoa, this isn’t acryingthing.
“Hey, hey, shh, shh…” Sam’s not sure what to do with his hands, but the doors choose that moment to open with a ping. “Hey, let’s just get to your room and we can talk about it.”
Thomas knocks his head against the wall of the elevator one final time before slumping out. He leads the way to his room, unlocking the door with a beep of his card. Once inside, he kicks off his shoes at the entrance and dumps everything from his pockets onto the counter.
Sam mimics his movements like a shadow, following him through the massive suite. The situation feels delicate, so he carefully tails the smaller man and tries to stay out of his way.
Thomas opens the bedroom door, unbuttons his shirt, and lets it drop on the floor. His trousers are next and Sam gasps when there’s nothing underneath them.
Right. He does that.
The room is messier than Thomas usually keeps it. There are button-up shirts strewn around, a couple pairs of pants, a Ferraro polo. It’s almost domestic.
Thomas changes into a soft shirt and sweatpants—the hotel uniform, apparently—before disappearing behind the door to the en suite.
Sam belatedly sheds his own clothes, stripping down to his boxers and folding his shirt and slacks.
Thomas is brushing his teeth in front of the mirror when Sam catches up. “Extra.” He points to the hotel-provided toiletries on the counter.
Sam takes the proffered toothbrush and gets to work. His mouth still tastes like tequila seasoned with dry mouth from sleeping. Toothpaste is a welcomed replacement.
He watches Thomas’s face for any sign of discomfort, but the other boy stares lifelessly across. Call him crazy, but it almost looks like his zoned-out gaze is fixated on Sam’s bare chest.
Fuck, there’s lipstick all over him.
Thomas finishes and leaves Sam to scrub at whatever smudge-proof lip shit the women at the club marked him up with.
Once his skin is redder but more presentable, Sam finds Thomas on the couch in the living room, watching the black screen of a powered-off television. He doesn’t move as Sam approaches and cautiously sits next to him.
He’s not exactly sure what’s happening, but it doesn’t seem good. Still, he waits for Thomas to say something.
“I am so stupid.”
That wasn’t what Sam expected him to say. “Well, you’re not, so let’s start there.”
“Why did I go tonight?”
“Whydidyou go tonight?” Sam’s been confused since the moment he saw him on the couch. “Clubs aren’t exactly your thing.”
“Why else? Because Rafael asked me to.”
“Oh.”
It’s not like Sam didn’t see that coming, but it still smarts. A club with Rafael beats a French restaurant with Sam. Got it.
