“Again.”
“Gay.”
“Good. Now repeat after me: Brody Miller is gay.”
“Brody Miller is gay,” he parrots.
“And I am too.”
“And I—Wait, no. I’m not.”
“Bi then?”
His shoulders fall, breath deflating. “I’m straight. It’s the only thing I can be.”
“Because of your dad?”
Beckett nods but barely, like the motion alone is too much of an admission.
“He seems like a real douche canoe,” I say.
Beckett snorts. “I’d pay good money to hear someone call him that. From behind a two-way mirror. Because I do not want to be there for the aftermath.”
“Is your dad in the mob or something?”
He laughs again. Wow, twice in one morning. At this rate, I’m going to start thinking he likes me.
“No. He’s an investment banker. But I’ve seen him tell people off so thoroughly they cowered in fear of him ruining them.”
“Sounds like an adult tantrum. Maybe he needs a nap. Or a spanking.”
Beckett goes still. Color drains from his face, then floods back thick and bright.
Interesting.
“Then again,” I add casually, “he might like that too much.”
He scoffs. “I sincerely doubt that.”
“You don’t know. He might.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s not—Anyway, who would like something like that? That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t kink-shame, Becky.” I say, pointing at him accusingly. “Different strokes. Everyone’s got a thing. Or two. Or ten. There’s nothing wrong with liking what you like.”
He turns his face away, pulls a dandelion free, and twirls it between his fingers. “Like what kinds of things?” he mumbles.
Oh, buddy.
“Like spanking, for one. Foot fetishes. Nipple play. Breeding kink. Pain.Degradation…” I cut my eyes sideways. “Being told you’re a nasty little slut who takes what he's given and thanks me for it.”
The dandelion falls from his fingers.
He swallows. Hard.
“Well, I don’t like that stuff,” he insists. “Feet are gross, and I’m a dude, so…”
“So what?” I laugh.
