Bea, as in Sebastian’s sister—the one he’d given up on ever finding.But then one day, a pink-haired woman with a septum piercing and arms covered in tattoos showed up in his office on the Hill, saying, “Hello, big brother. I heard you’re looking for me.”
Sebastian had extended that trip so they could get to know one another. As it turned out, the only thing they really had in common was the fact that they were both gay. Still, they’d gotten along well enough that first weekend that they'd decided to stay in each other's lives. Now, they were thick as thieves.
I unfolded the paper carefully to find a drawing of a compass with my Marauders jersey number worked into the design, beautifully rendered in Bea’s distinctive style.
Bea was a woman of many talents. She was a part-time mixologist at a popular gay bar in D.C. She played in a roller derby league. She was a gifted tattoo artist. And now she was learning how to play guitar.
Oh! That was another thing she and her brother had in common.
“It’s perfect,” I said, refolding the paper and sliding it into my back pocket.
“Of course it is,” Sebastian said, his voice laced with pride.
“Now I just have to work up the courage to actually have her do it.”
“She said she’ll give me a matching one.”
My number. On his skin.
I felt something possessive move through me that I wasn’t even remotely ashamed of. Buttoned-up Sebastian Carruthers walking around with my number inked somewhere on his body, where only I knew where it was?
Yeah, Ireallyliked that idea.
“I kind of love that,” I told him, setting my glass down.
Sebastian pushed his plate aside and leaned his elbow on the counter, his head propped in his upturned hand. The corners of his mouth were relaxed, his tired eyes steady on mine, the way they got late at night when there was nothing left competing for his attention and he got to just be.
“So do I,” he said, his voice warm.
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “Somewhere only you can see.”
“Fuck yeah,” I said, reaching out to wrap my palm around the back of his neck and tug him toward me.
He came willingly, sliding off the stool to stand between my legs as I kissed him slowly and thoroughly, tasting wine and the garlic as our tongues twisted against each other.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered against my lips.
“You read my mind.”
I slid off my stool and walked him backward toward the hallway, my mouth on his, his fingers twisted in the front of my shirt. We weren’t in any particular hurry, and that was its own kind of luxury—the knowledge that we had all night, that he didn’t have to get up before dawn to catch a flight, and I didn’t have an early skate in the morning.
Before we even reached the stairwell, though, both our phones chimed with a series of incoming text messages. There was a brief pause, and then several more followed.
I dropped my head back and groaned. “No.”
Sebastian pulled his phone out of his pocket when more chimes sounded. “It’s Bell,” he said, thumbing the screen to open the messaging app. “Holy shit. Will’s in the hospital.”
“What?” I said, grabbing the phone from him, my eyes moving quickly over the group text Bell had just sent, Sebastian reading over my shoulder. “Shit.”
“That sounds bad.”
According to his note, Will had driven his car straight into a tree, breaking a leg and his collarbone. An injury like that? His season was over. A scandal like that? He’d be lucky if the team didn’t cut him loose immediately.
The phone chimed again, and Sebastian gently eased it from my white-knuckled grip. “Ethan’s on his way to the airport now with Ryan to fly out to San Diego,” he read aloud.
“I told him to lay off the partying.”
