“Mr. Dimon hired some of the support staff to scope out your teammates. They get extra pay, and we figure out if we need professional security for the team.” Finn’s eyes are glued to his phone. “There’s no visible presence outside your parents’.”
I snort. “I guess that’s a huge advantage of them living in Brooklyn.”
Theo takes my hand and rubs his thumb in soothing circles.
“I’m fine. Are you okay?” I ask, resting my head on his shoulder. We both feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out and has a text notification from his mom.
Theo shoves it back in his pocket before I can read it, but the word embarrassment stood out.
“We can try lower-end hotels or your parents’. Where do you want to go?”
“A hotel,” I say as Theo says, “His parents’ place.”
I sit up straight and kiss his fingers. The worst thing I can do is rub in his face the difference in our parents. His mom said something horrible, and my parents will welcome us. “Let’s go to a hotel tonight, sleep, and figure out a plan for tomorrow.”
“No.” Theo tugs on my braids. “We can’t stay there for more than a night or two before someone is brave enough to cross the Brooklyn Bridge. They might have some ideas for us.”
I search his eyes and find sincerity, so I text my mom. “If you drop us off at the corner of Main and Atlantic, we can use the alley to go in the back door.”
“We’ll wait to make sure you sugar pies get in safely before we leave.” Finn dims the screen on his phone.
My mom and dad are waiting in the kitchen when we get there. Mom hugs Theo first, while my dad hugs me.
There are leftovers on the table for us as we tell them everything that happened during the day and at the podcast. They listen attentively, holding back their questions.
“We’re happy you came to us.” My dad thumps Theo on the back, and Theo hastily looks down. “Kenya isn’t sure about where you want to sleep, so she changed the sheets in your room and in the guest room. You’re adults, so you can choose, but the beds are full-sized, and it’ll be a tight fit for two of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Theo mumbles, blushing a deep red.
“We’re past the sir stage, son.” Dad thumps his back again. “Call me DeAndre or hey you, as long as you don’t call me late for dinner.” Dad chuckles at his own joke, and Theo’s mouth hangs open.
“We’re beat. We’re going upstairs,” I say, then add, “We shouldn’t need anything, but we’ll let you know if we do.” I love my parents, but I don’t want them hovering over us.
I shut us in my room and push Theo onto the bed to straddle him. “You ever heard of breath play?”
Chapter 34
Theo O
I stare up at Jamal’s shy smile and wonder if I need my hearing checked. There’s no way we’re having sex in his childhood bed with his parents two doors down.
As if he can read my mind, he says, “They always watch the eleven o’clock news before coming up to bed. We have over an hour with them downstairs.”
“It’s disrespectful,” I blurt out as if I’ve ever cared about that. Except now I do. His parents have shown me more compassion and kindness in a few hours than my mom has in my life.
The petty part of me holds a sliver of resentment toward Jamal. It’s not his fault he got better parents, but his life has been full of love, while mine’s been a void. I’ll never fit in here.
“Hey.” Jamal sits back, balancing on my thighs. “I’m gonna put it all out there, and you’re gonna listen.” His hand splays on my chest as if to hold me down without pressure. “You aren’t gonna talk back, and you’re not gonna run. Got it?”
A squeak leaks out of his mouth when my dick gets hard. It’s not my fault it’s a turn-on when he’s bossy.
“I see you, Theo P. O’Keefe. What does the P stand for?”
“Paul. It was my father’s name.” I wonder what he’d think of me. Would he be proud like Jamal’s parents or constantly disappointed like my mom? My mom always says she did what she had to do to survive. But her survival means beach houses and social status. “My mom said she loved him,” I confess. Maybelosing him broke her. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be a mom. “I was too young to remember him.”
It’s easier to look around the room than at him. I can imagine a teenage Jamal, studying at his desk and arguing with his mom about displaying all his hockey trophies. She probably put them up after he moved out.
“You’re not doing much talking for a guy who said he has something to say.” My eyes cut to his, and he smirks like he knows I’m changing the subject on purpose.
