I shrug because, honestly, that’s the last thing on my mind. I do hook up, but I don’t crave sex. It’s more like something else I’m supposed to do.
“Are you trying to pimp me out to your friends?”
“You would make me rich.”
I chuckle. I don’t know many people like Haven. I’m thankful for her, though I’m pretty sure I’ve never told her that.
A couple of hours pass. Haven and I break away from each other at some point, and I take that as a moment to pretend I’m into the art, that I understand what different brushstrokes or photographs mean or are trying to say. I hear people talk about art that way, that it’s saying something, but my brain works better in plays and football formations than it does with this type of creativity.
When I figure enough time has passed that I can leave without upsetting Haven, I pull my phone from my pocket and text her. She replies with an emoji sticking its tongue out,then tells me she’s proud of me for making it this long.
I slip my cell into my pocket and begin making my way through the gallery, managing to get all the way toward the back…when I see him. I freeze, my heart beating like crazy. Lucas Blake is standing about twenty feet away, a crowd surrounding him, but he’s not talking to any of them, the conversation going on without him as he just…stares at me.
I haven’t seen him since Ellis’s funeral. From everything Coach Blake says, he never comes home, so I’m fairly certain that’s also the last time he or Abbie have seen him.
He looks the same but older. He’s wearing a black suit like most of the men here. His white skin is pale, in stark contrast to his deep-brown eyes, and his blond hair is messy, like he hadn’t taken the time to comb it, which is how it always looks. He’s got high, sharp cheekbones, and hooded, closed-off eyes. Lucas has always looked like a model, but one who’s nonconforming, edgy…someone who doesn’t follow the rules, who’s toeing the wrong side of doing what’s right.
He’s got a chunky ring on, his nails are painted in a dark color, and his jaw is smooth, like it’s always been. He’s somehow looking both good and like he doesn’t give a fuck. And as far as I know, Lucas doesn’t give a fuck about many things besides art and photography. Certainly not his family.
I feel the intensity of his stare, not cold, just…curious. Then he tilts his head in this simple up-nod, as though I’m a random man he knows casually rather than someone who grew up with him, someone who was a part of his family, someone who loved his brother.
When he smirks, a flood of anger hits me, anger I don’t even understand, not really. Is he not allowed to smile? Have fun? Be happy? Just because it’s all an act for me doesn’t mean others aren’t allowed to grieve differently. I don’t get mad at Abbie or Coach Blake for moving on, so why is a mischievoussmirk from Lucas sending me into a tailspin?
My heart pounds against my chest, memories of our childhood overwhelming me. Watching Lucas take photos, hearing him fight with Ellis or his father; that time we both ended up in the kitchen in the middle of the night for a drink and got in an argument about football, or that time he sneaked out and came home drunk and I found him, helped him to his room so no one knew; the time when I found a photo in my mailbox—a black-and-white one of Ellis and me laughing together—and knew it was from him.
I don’t know what to think about Lucas. Never have. One minute I feel like I hate him, the next like he’s got more secrets than I do. But what’s certain is I don’t know how to look at him, not anymore. I don’t know how to look at Coach Blake or Abbie anymore either, only it feels easier with them. Like they’re not dissecting me with their eyes, looking inside me to discover my secrets the way Lucas does.
Bile burns in my throat. The room seems to be getting smaller and smaller, filled with more and more people by the second. I turn for the door, trying not to lose my shit in here, but when I do, I see the elevator doors. I go straight for them, wondering what in the hell Lucas is doing here. I’m not surprised he’s in LA, but that out of all the places he could be in the city, he’s in this gallery right now, with me.
The elevator doors don’t open, but tucked in the corner is a sign for the stairs. The thick door is unlocked, and seconds later, I’m running up the stairs, needing fresh air, needing fucking something,anything, to pull me out of this moment. The last thing I expected was to see Lucas tonight, and I’m not sure how to deal with it, how to feel about it, or why it matters at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucas
“Excuse me,” Isay to the group of people talking my ear off about the gallery and what a success it’s been.
I signal to Isla across the room, pointing toward the door so she knows I’m leaving. She works at the gallery for me, the only person I trust to run this place other than myself, and she’s closing for me tonight after the party.
I follow Hunter into the stairwell. I knew this was inevitable, that we would run into each other eventually. LA is a big city, but our paths were bound to cross. I just didn’t expect it would be at Kismet or so soon. I have no idea what I’ll say to him, but most of the time, not having a plan is my MO. I do shit and figure out the details later.
I wish I had the keys on me so I could take the elevator, but I hadn’t planned on anyone going up to the roof. I’m not a professional athlete like Hunter, so it just about kills me to make it to the top, and the second I close the thick, metal door behind me, my equilibrium is off, making me sway slightly as I catch my breath.
The sounds of the city are loud even this far up, bright lights in the distance. Hunter is standing with his back to me, hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks as he looks out at the view of LA.
“Don’t jump,” I say. “My father would hate to lose thefavorite son he has left.” As soon as I say the words, I wince. I don’t know why shit like that comes out of my mouth sometimes, but I can’t seem to stop it.
“Fuck you, Lucas,” he says without turning around.
My relationship with Hunter is complicated. I hated him on principle when he first started coming around because he was everything my father wanted me to be, everything he wanted Ellis to be, but at least Ellis wasn’t artsy. At least he didn’t get lost in the clouds and pick pretty flowers that he put in his hair. Even when it was clear Ellis liked men too, it was acceptable to be queer the way Ellis was queer, the way Hunter is queer, but less so the way I am. The guy who sometimes paints his nails.
The Blake men were supposed to play sports, not take photos and prefer to be alone or go to an art gallery instead of a game. Add to that “squandering” my natural football talent, and I was always a disappointment. That’s not Hunter’s fault, but I still hated him for it, and even more so when he was kind to me. Looking at me with those soft blue eyes when my father said something hurtful; sticking up for me with my brother.
I knew he was beautiful the first time I saw him, felt my heart race and my stomach flip, but when I started looking at him the way a guy shouldn’t look at his brother’s boyfriend—or hell, even his best friend—it gave me another reason to hate him and myself.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette. Do you want one?” I ask, pulling the pack from my pocket and lighting one.
“I don’t smoke.”
