He was always fine.
Until he wasn’t.
But he hadn’t known how to ask for help. Not back then. Still didn’t, if he was being honest with himself. But the way Sandro offered it to Eli so willingly and the way Eli accepted it so beautifully . . .
It made a lump form in his throat, though he couldn’t explain why.
“This is way above and beyond your role as my mentor,” Eli was saying now, bouncing in place.
“I’m not giving this to you as your mentor,” Sandro corrected gently. “I’m giving it to you as your friend. Because you need it.” He held the keys out. “Want to take her for a spin?”
Eli snatched the keys out of his hand.
Once he’d peeled away from the curb, a grin stretched across his boyish face and a jaunty wave thrown out the open window, Sandro joined Bennett on the porch.
“How do you feel?” Bennett asked, pulling Sandro close. “I know you were reluctant to part with her.”
“You know, I’m surprisingly okay. She’s going to a good home. Besides, my new car has an app.”
Laughing, Bennett kissed him, then led him inside.
chapter eighteen
The call came way too early in the morning on New Year’s Eve.
“Some of the footage was leaked.”
His mind still trying to wake up, Bennett lifted himself onto his elbows in Sandro’s hotel bed in Los Angeles and managed a drowsy, “Huh?”
“Some of the footage was leaked,” Fowler repeated.
Footage? What was he on about?
“Gimme a sec,” Bennett said hoarsely. He was still stuck in a weird dream where he was flying through his high school hallways wearing Superman’s cape—brains were weird. As if he’d ever want to go back to high school, even if only in his dreams. He dropped the phone on the bed and scrubbed both hands over his face.
“What’s going on?”
He looked over and found Sandro sitting on the other side of the bed, tying his shoelaces. He wore running gear and his phone was tucked into an armband strapped snugly around his bicep.
Damn, he was sexy all bedheady and wearing those tight shorts.
Ignoring Sandro’s question, Bennett lifted himself onto his knees, the blankets pooling around him, then fell onto his ass. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.” Sandro nodded at Bennett’s phone. “Who’s calling so early?”
“Fowler. He said—” Shit. Footage. As in footage from the series. His fucking footage. He snatched the phone off the bed, suddenly finding himself wide awake. “Fowler? What’s going on?”
“You haven’t seen the link I sent you?” was Fowler’s terse response. “What have you been doing all morning?”
“Sleeping. Give me a second, I’ll look at it now.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fowler said. “There’s a meeting being organized in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. You’re needed there.”
Bennett tossed the covers off. “What time does it start?”
“Now, basically.”
“Damn it. Text me the location.”
