Page 32

Chapter Thirty-One

Austen

My alarm goes off at six on the dot, and I swat around to find it to turn it off, except I can’t seem to grasp it. Opening my eyes, I realize why that is, and sit up straight when I realize I’m not in my hotel room. My alarm keeps gaining in volume as something shifts beside my foot, and I look up to see the reason.

Cam grumbles in his sleep, tugging on his blanket, and the alarm on my phone is like some kind of alarm going off everywhere in my head, my heart, and most certainly my cock.

I don’t want to move, but I know I need to.

I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t have spent the night, but—

My hands grab onto my phone and I silence the buzzing alarm. Cam doesn’t seem to move, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I swear, that man can sleep through the apocalypse. A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I steal a glance at him.

I’d had every intention of leaving after the first movie. But then Cam put another one on, and I was too comfortable on the couch, too comfortable with him, to want to go anywhere, and I guess I just fell asleep.

A perfect end to a perfect day. Serendipity indeed.

But now that morning is here, I’m feeling the panic. Too many memories of the last time we woke up together… My cock jumps in my pants, reminding me of what I do every morning, and I grunt dejectedly as I adjust myself.

“Change of plans this morning,” I whisper to myself, my anxiety starting to swell.

Every morning, it’s the same routine. I’ve been doing it for years, but this morning… I can’t.

I can’t just waltz down Cam’s hallway, undress myself, and rub one out in his fucking shower.

That’s the way every damn porno starts, and just because we have found some sort of even ground—at least, I think we have found even ground, considering he didn’t kick me out of his swanky apartment at three in the morning—doesn’t mean I can just start parading around his place like I live here.

My cock once again jolts, and the need to piss is prevalent. I can do that, at least.

So I make my way down the hall to look for the bathroom. I find it easily.

Like the rest of this place, it’s spacious and elegant; all clean lines and bright, shiny white and gold in color scheme. After I’m done doing my business, I wash my hands, catching sight of myself in his large mirror. My hair is a wreck, my shirt wrinkled from my sleeping position, and the bright lights illuminate my skin and my five o'clock shadow.

Fuck, I’ll have to stop back at the hotel and make sure I change and trim up a bit.

I finish up in the bathroom, my stomach growling.

Okay, and I’m definitely going to need to eat something. One glance at my phone, and I know I should probably just see myself out, but I don’t want to leave without at least saying goodbye.

My stomach rumbles again, joined in chorus by the buzzing of the refrigerator, and I get an idea.

A slow smile spreads across my face, and I open the fridge, frowning when I see how unorganized and unstocked his fridge is.

There’s like four eggs—not enough to make two omelets, half a container of coconut milk, and a full container of strawberries, blueberries, and two apples. A half-open stick of butter stares at me from the middle shelf.

The rest of the stuff in his fridge is all take out containers, and there’s something in the back that looks like a science experiment. Though, the shelves on the door are stocked full of drinks. Water, seltzer water, juice, beer, wine seltzers, wine bottles, vodka seltzers, you name it. It makes me a little concerned, but I’m not staging an intervention or anything. I’m sure if you opened my fridge you’d see the same, except I rarely get take out. Savannah does, sure.

But I’d rather cook a five star meal in my kitchen most nights than go out to eat in Ashbourne. Plus, aside from Luigi’s, there’s not much variety unless I head into the city.

I make a mental note to send a grocery delivery over here. I know he can buy his own, but I also know sometimes people get busy. Or they just get tired and opt for take out instead.

It’s not a gift, I tell myself. It’s just helping a friend. Friends do that sort of thing, right?

I pull out the butter, eggs and coconut milk, shut the fridge, and quietly grab the flour, sugar, and salt from the counter. I open and shut a few cabinets until I locate baking soda and vegetable oil, careful not to wake him up. I grab a bowl from the clean side of the dishrack over his sink. Thankfully, the pots and pans are displayed hanging over the center island, so it doesn’t take much for me to grab what I need and get to work.

At least I can do one part of my routine, and I can thank Cam in the process for dinner, and for letting me crash on his couch, and then I can leave and head back to my hotel. I don’t have to meet the realtor until nine-thirty, which is still tight, but I’ll make it.

Cooking in someone else’s kitchen is always weird, but I find as I move about in Cam’s kitchen, it doesn’t feel all that weird.

In fact, it feels like home, in a strange way.

I’m just flipping the pancakes when I hear an incoherent mumble and I turn to look at a sleepy-eyed Cam, his hair a mess and sticking up. The urge to reach out and mess with it, run my fingers through it, is prevalent, but I resist. I don’t want the pancakes to burn.

“What is this?” he grumbles, running his hand through his hair. I try not to look at the way his forearm flexes as he does so, but I fail.

He’s still in the same clothes he wore last night, like me, but he looks good. I look like I most definitely spent the night on my best friend’s couch, but he looks like a damn magazine spread at six-thirty in the fucking morning.

I clear my throat, turning my attention to the pancakes.

“Breakfast,” I say with a shrug. “Hope you still like pancakes.”

Cam’s gaze settles on me as he leans against the counter.

“I haven’t had pancakes in years, actually.” He crosses his arms, his gaze flashing to the stove.

“I don’t think I’ve ever cooked anything in this kitchen before. Nice to see the stove works.”

God, is that a travesty. This kitchen is beautiful. Spacious, perfect for cooking, baking, entertaining…

“How have you survived?” I ask, but my tone isn’t judgmental. It’s humorous, friendly even.

Cam grabs two individual bottles of orange juice from the fridge.

I turn the burner to low and grab a plate from the island and tray it up with four pancakes and stick two sliced strawberries on the side and fan them out. A trick I learned from Mack. He always garnishes his famous strawberry margaritas with sliced strawberries.

I slide the plate in front of Cam, watching his expression soften. I drop the last bit of batter onto the skillet pan, shifting my weight as I turn the burner back up.

He doesn’t answer me, but he doesn’t need to, not really. I can’t help but smile as I flip my pancakes, listening to the sound of his moans and groans.

“Fuck, these are really good,” he says and I cast him a smirk as I turn off the burner, toss the pancakes on my plate and dive in.

“It’s the least I could do,” I say as I stab the fluffy cake with a fork. We eat in companionable silence, and I can’t help but enjoy it.

I’m used to eating alone, so this… it’s nice.

Not awkward.

When I’m done, I move to collect his plate, but he shoots me a glare, but I grab his plate anyway. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me as I collect the dishes, wash them, and set them in the strainer over the sink.

When I look at my watch—the one I wear every day— I notice it’s nearing eight a.m. Shit!

“I gotta go, but, uh—thanks… for everything,” I say as I head over to the couch and grab my shoes. I can feel him staring at me—again.

I slip my shoes on, brush out the wrinkles in my shirt, and head for the door. Cam stands beside it, his hands in his pockets. His gaze flashes to my mouth, then my eyes.

For a minute I’m frozen, wondering if this is it.

If this is where he kisses me, like in some romantic movie.

But life isn’t a movie, and my life is certainly not a romantic movie. Unless it were titled Romance Is Dead: The Austen Brewer Story. Which sounds more like a documentary made after my mangled body is found at the bottom of a cliff.

“Good luck,” he says, his voice a bit low, a bit gravelly. My cock sings its praises, but I do my best to ignore it.

“Thanks,” I say. “Text you later?”

My hand rests on the door handle, and my heart sinks a little, knowing I have to leave.

Knowing I have to leave him.

But this… this beautiful penthouse with a spectacular view and a gorgeous kitchen, this New York state of living and fancy keycards…

It’s not my life. It’s his.

For the briefest moment in time, I wonder what it would be like if it was mine, too.

Would he kiss me then? Drag me back into this place like a dragon hoarding treasure, unable to let me go?

I nod, opening the door, shoving the fantasy out of my mind.

After all, that’s all it can be. A fantasy.

Because my life isn’t going to be this. It will never be big skylines and strolls through the Met and impromptu sushi and movies until three a.m.

“Sure,” he says, his voice tinged with sadness. I offer him a smile, a genuine one.

I’ve never faked a smile for Cam, and I don’t think I ever will.

I walk through the door, into the bright lit hallway, and queue up my ride. I won’t have time to hit the hotel, I realize, and instead put in the address of the first location then shoot off a text to the realtor.

“Do you have anything with a view?” I ask, staring at the third white-washed brick wall I’ve seen today.

Margo, the realtor, taps away on her phone. “Huh?”

I purse my lips. “Do you have anything with a view? You know, like a big window overlooking the city?”

She twists her lips and sighs. “Umm… I can check my listings, but that might take a day or two to arrange some locations.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” I say.

She chews her lip again. “I thought you were only staying until tomorrow? Leaving Sunday night?”

Shit. She’s right. I totally forgot.

I’d only planned on staying for the weekend to look at properties, and to treat Savannah to her birthday surprise, and then that was it.

I’d be back on my way to Ashbourne Sunday night.

Wake up in my bed Monday morning.

But I can change my flight. I can spend a little more time here. There’s no point in going home if there are more places to see, right?

“Change of plans,” I say as I walk around the open space, taking it in. Like the other buildings, it’s nice, but it doesn’t feel right.

Maybe I’m being too picky, but if I’m going to uproot myself and Savannah, I have to make sure the place is perfect.

Especially if I have to get Savannah on board. New York won’t be a tough sell for her. After all, Sechea ’s headquarters are here and she travels here all the time for work when they need her. Being closer to the headquarters might actually help her get that promotion she’s been striving for.

But she’s also hard to please when it comes to this sort of thing. If it isn’t a brownstone on the east side where someone famous once lived, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I check my phone for the time. After this, I need to stop by the hotel, shower, and get ready to surprise Savannah.

She works until five today and our show isn’t until seven. Which gives us just enough time to head out from Sechea and get drinks at this bar I made reservations for, and dinner at this cute little cafeteria next to it between Madison Square Garden before the show. It’s got something like ten or twelve little independent food kiosks so I’m sure there will be something there we can both agree on, and if not, there’s plenty of options for us to get whatever we want. Not to mention, it’s trendy looking, so she should love it.

“Are we done here?” I ask, not trying to sound abrasive, but I’m starting to get antsy and feel a bit defeated with the lot of properties I’ve seen today.

I need a good, hot shower, a good orgasm, and some fresh clothes.

“Yes,” Margo says with a customer-service smile. I know that type of grin, the kind that is fake as shit that you put on when you really want to scream at someone.

I feel bad, realizing I’ve probably just wasted her time looking at these places that I am not going to pounce on in the least.

“I’ll put a list of properties together and email you tomorrow, if that is okay? We can look at things on Monday if you are going to stay.”

I nod. “Monday is fine.”

Savannah is supposed to fly out Sunday to go home, where she’ll be for a few days before she heads to California to help with wardrobe and makeup for some festival out there.

“Alright, I’ll be in touch,” Margo says as she leads us out of the building.

As soon as I make it through the door of my hotel, I jump in the shower. My clothes come off in record time, even for me, and the minute the hot water hits my skin, it’s a relief.

I let out a groan of satisfaction, my cock rejoicing, knowing it’s finally time to get off.

I’ve waited all day for this. Pushed off every thought and every twitch, knowing I’d get here eventually and I’d take care of myself.

I don’t bother to edge myself, because I’ve been doing it all day; waiting, telling myself just another few hours…

My mind threatens to wander and I let it because I’m too exhausted to fight the thoughts.

I’m all worked up from this morning, with Cam, from a bust of a day viewing properties, and from being off my routine.

So I let my mind fill in the blanks for once. I imagine soft, pillowy lips and a warm tongue in my mouth, a warm palm on my hip, fingernails digging into my skin. My cock throbs at the memory, knowing how it felt.

A mixture of shame and guilt plagues me like it always does when I let my guard down.

I don’t have it in me to keep the walls up right now, because I need this.

My thumb slides over my sensitive head as I squeeze it tightly, thrusting my hips forward.

The memory radiates through me, lighting up every nerve ending, making my cock throb and weep with precum.

His tongue in my mouth.

His hand on my neck, his grasp firm and warm.

His hardness sliding against my own.

My heart and my cock chase the inevitable release. It’s always like this, when I think about it. When I really think about it, because so often I fight it.

I know what I want, but I can’t have it, and that’s always been the problem, I think.

I swallow the lump in my throat as his words echo in my head.

Yes. I do.

I’d asked him if he regretted what happened, and he said yes.

But I never got to tell him that I don’t.

I don’t regret what happened between us, because I’ve never felt with anyone, what I felt with him that night.

Like it was right.

Like he was right.

What I regret is how I treated him. How I reacted to the revelation that I might have feelings for my best friend.

My gay best friend.

What I regret is walking out that door with Mack, my brother, and teammates and not staying to fight for us. Whatever us would have looked like, because I don’t know. I’ll never know.

I close my eyes as the orgasm hits, and I come hard. Relief and euphoria wash over me, but it’s short-lived. It always is, because as soon as the pleasure drops, the reality of how wrong it is to fantasize about my former best friend and our one drunk night together hits and tears open the wound again.

I shouldn’t do this to myself, and I know that. But here I am, sleeping on his couch and staring at his mouth, and making him fucking pancakes. Here I am, living in my fucking fantasies, pretending they’re real.

I shove the guilt back down in its pit, bring the gates back up and tell myself I won’t think about it again, even though I know it’s a lie.

Sometimes it’s easier to believe the lie.

The water turns cold and I wash up, get dressed, and make myself presentable. I stare at myself in the mirror, adjust my sport coat, my watch, my belt.

There’s the Austen I know. The Austen I’ve worked really hard to build.

Not a hair out of place, casual yet clean and classic. Perfect.

It’s a costume, a mask I wear. I’ve known that for awhile, but maybe if I pretend long enough, one day I’ll just slip into the disguise and forget that’s what it is.

I’m the farthest thing from perfect. I’m a fucking mess, but no one sees that. Sometimes I wish they could.

I purchase a bouquet of flowers from a cart. They don’t have lilies so I settle for pink roses because they are bright and vibrant. Red and white roses might be classic, but pink is pretty too.

When I find myself in front of Sechea , I get the strangest sense of anxiety in my gut. Like something bad is about to happen, even though I know that’s crazy. Surprising my wife isn’t a bad thing.

Showing up with flowers, dinner reservations, and a ticket to the show you’ve been going on about for months, is not a bad thing.

Maybe I’m just all messed up because of earlier. Letting those locked up thoughts out always does a number on me, when I do.

I clear my throat, jogging up the steps and open the glass doors.

The woman at the desk stares at me.

“Savannah Brewer, please,” I say. The attendant looks at me with a vapid glare.

“She’s in a meeting right now,” they say, popping their gum.

“That’s okay, just point me in her direction.” I smile.

The woman shrugs. “Fourth floor, room 403.”

“Great, thanks!” I say with practiced enthusiasm.

My heart pounds as I traverse the hallway, that sinking feeling refusing to die.

When I get to her office, the door is closed but I don’t hear any voices or anything. Maybe her meeting’s done…

I knock twice, but there is no answer, so I open the door.

“Austen, what the hell are you doing here?” she says, the shock on her face evident. A rather tall, lanky man sits in the chair across from her desk, wearing a very tailored, very expensive suit, his gaze flashing up at me with interest.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I say, stepping into the room. The tension in the air is thick, and Savannah does not look happy to see me. At all.

I hold out the flowers. “Surprise?”

She regains her composure, but her voice is anything but sweet.

“You can’t just come in here and—”

“So this is Austen, ” the man says, his voice smooth like Italian leather. His accent isn’t thick, but refined.

He must be the designer Savannah’s been working with.

He stands, walking over to me with a grin, looking down his nose at me. “Flowers? How pedestrian.” He turns to Savannah. “We will discuss the plan for California at another time.” His voice makes me feel strangely sick. When he turns back to me, he says, “Lovely to finally meet you, Austen.” With that he walks out the door, leaving me and my wife alone.

“I can not believe you,” she hisses. I set the flowers on her desk.

“Happy Birthday,” I grit out.

“You cannot just barge in here and demand my attention, I am working, I—”

“I know. You work until five.”

“You are not supposed to be here!” she bites.

Her words are bitter. She doesn’t want me here, that’s clear.

“I got us tickets to see Cirque,” I say, anger swelling in me. ”After you are done.”

“I can’t see Cirque!” she bellows. “I have to work! We’re pulling all the extra hours right now and—”

“Oh, I see,” I say bitterly. “You know what, then, fine. Work. I’ll see the show myself.”

I turn on my heel and push the door open so hard, it slams against the wall. I need to get out of here, before I say something I’ll regret.

Because I’m clearly not in my right mind today.

She says something, but I block it out.

I have to, because the storm inside my gut threatens to swallow me whole. I don’t look behind me as I make my way to the elevator, don’t slow down as I walk out of the building. She doesn’t come after me. But I guess I don’t expect her to.

My phone goes off in my pocket, and I pick it up, a part of me hoping that maybe it’s her, and she wants to apologize. That she’s changed her mind and will come to the show with me. That she wants to celebrate her birthday with me, her husband.

But it’s not.

Instead, I see three letters, like a lifeline, shining back at me.

Hey.

Somehow it’s like he just… knows.

I don’t bother texting. I call him instead.

“Hey. You have plans tonight?”