Page 72 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Come Back to Me

Anthony

I stretch awake slowly and stare at the ceiling in the pre-dawn light. For a few minutes, I just lay there, my limbs heavy, the quiet of the room soothing.

I reflect on the weekend as Monday greets me with the sunlight slipping through the blinds.

Saturday’s call.

The threat.

Deacon taking up residence on the couch, his presence an unusually welcomed calm.

The nightmare that shook me down to my bones.

Chance straddling me, pulling me back to the surface with nothing but his voice, his strength. Getting me to talk. To finally say it all out loud.

Deacon stayed through Sunday dinner. I made pasta and homemade bread and sent him home with a container, which he tried to decline, but I insisted. The man barely speaks, but you can feel the energy off him—quiet loyalty, grounded strength. He listens. He watches. He protects.

And when he eats your food, you know exactly how he feels.

Deacon gave me this low grunt, almost a purr, and a look like no one had ever cooked for him before.

There’s this reverence in him that tells me he hasn’t had much softness in his life.

I wonder briefly if there’s anyone in his orbit.

Anyone who knows how much heart is behind all that muscle and silence.

I’ll ask him sometime.

But for now—

Work awaits. Better get moving.

I roll to my side and let my eyes feast on the man beside me.

He’s still asleep, stretched out on his stomach. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other draped lazily out to the side. His hair’s a tousled mess, mouth slack with the kind of peace I know only comes when he’s lying next to me.

My gaze drifts—

Down his broad shoulders

Over the curve of his back and to the small of it where his dove tattoo rests, curling just shy of wrapping around to his front.

Then lower.

The sheet’s slid halfway down his ass.

Jesus.

Obscenely perfect.

One leg is crooked out to the side like a figure four, the angle making the swell of his ass even more pronounced.

I reach out, unable to help myself, and run a slow finger along the dove tattoo. Chance doesn’t stir. My finger trails over the small of his back, then down a cheek. I pause to trace the little four-leaf clover. Still asleep , I think, as I let my hand drift lower. And lower—

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” I hear, voice groggy but playful.

My eyes snap up to meet his, already half-lidded with that lazy, sexy grin.

Without breaking eye contact, I curl my fingers in the sheet and pull it all the way down.

“Meet me in the shower,” I murmur, voice low, “and I’ll show you what finishing is.”

The bed is suddenly empty in a flash of movement.

Chance is a blur: bare, glorious and laughing as he scrambles toward the bathroom. I bark a laugh and flop back onto the mattress, arms outstretched.

The sound of the shower kicks on a moment later.

We’re quiet this morning—well,Chanceis quiet. At least compared to usual. His mouth had plenty to say in the shower, and fuck me, that mouth ... I shake the thought off before I bend him over this table.

I sip my coffee and watch him across the kitchen table, bare-chested in a worn pair of sweatpants, his attention locked on his phone. He’s been scrolling, typing, scrolling again for the last thirty minutes. The bowl of fruit between us is barely touched. I snag a strawberry and pop it in my mouth.

Eventually, he looks up and catches me staring. A slow, genuine smile pulls at his lips, but there’s something behind his eyes.

I set my coffee down and say, “What’s up?”

Chance runs a hand through his hair. “So, something’s come up with Murph,” he says. “I have to hop on a flight out of town.”

My stomach dips. “Okay…” I manage.

He lets out a heavy breath. “I can’t really tell you more right now, but I’ll only be gone a night. I’ll check in constantly. I promise.”

I push up from the table, feeling like someone just pulled the floor out from under me. I know this isn’t the same, butlast time—last time he vanished forthree years.

I head into the kitchen with my coffee mug, standing at the sink, hands braced on the counter, staring into nothing.

A moment later, I feel his presence behind me. He sets his plate and the fruit bowl down on the counter, then gently turns me toward him and cradles my head in both hands.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”

I study his face. His eyes are calm, honest. I want to believe him. And I do. More importantly, I trust him.

Still, anxiety creeps in. My brain is already playing out worst-case scenarios.

I take a breath and step back, poking a finger into his chest. “You better be. I want constant communication from you. And I swear on my Van Halen 1984 vinyl, if you put yourself in danger—”

He smirks. “You’re so sexy when you get like this.”

I cross my arms. “—you’re not getting this dick ever again.”

His jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”

I shrug. “Well, for a week, then.”

Chance barks a laugh and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. “It’s just a night, baby. I’ll be back, in one piece, before you know it. I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t important.”

I lean back and kiss him, deep and slow, my hands locking behind his head. When I finally pull away, I rest my forehead against his and whisper, “What about your exhibit? It’s on Saturday. Don’t you have setup and last-minute things to do?”

He nods. “I already texted Liz. Everything’s been dialed in for weeks. Her team has it handled. I’m meeting them at the venue Wednesday, so see? I have to be back.”

I grunt, not fully convinced, but let it go.

Chance rubs my arms. “And I don’t want you to worry about anything. Deacon will be—”

“Up my ass?” I snark.

“In every way except the one he knows will get him killed,” Chance growls.

“I have to go to work,” I say, heading to the entryway and grabbing my laptop bag. “Meeting with Jason.”

Chance groans.

“Jealous much?” I tease as I pack up my things.

He doesn’t answer. He just leans against the counter, watching me with a smug little grin.

“I’m serious,” I say, pointing at him. “I want updates when you take off, land, eat, drink, or take a piss.”

“I get it,” he says, holding up his hands. “I swear on 1984 .”

Satisfied, I cross the room and kiss him once more, quick but meaningful. Then I head out the door, heart already tugging in his direction.

Please come back to me.

“I think that about covers all the negotiation points for this latest sponsor contract,” I say, clicking my tablet closed and leaning back in the conference room chair. “You’ve become quite the hot commodity.”

Jason, wearing a white polo that stretches across his shoulders and a team ball cap pulled low, nods in agreement. “I know, right? I’m kind of a big deal now.”

I chuckle and shake my head at him. Jason talks a good game, but he’s one of the humblest athletes I’ve worked with.

He leans forward on the table. “Gotta say, it feels good.”

“It should. You’ve earned it,” I say, though I soften my tone. “But let’s keep our heads on straight, yeah? Over-exposure is a real thing. Too many endorsements too fast, and the market tunes out—even if you’re playing at peak performance.”

Jason gives me a respectful nod. “I’ll take your lead. I trust your judgment.”

“Good. I’ll get these revisions written up and over to the attorneys at G-Force. Congratulations—looks like you’ve got your first sneaker endorsement.”

Jason beams, full grin, practically bouncing in his chair. “Man, I can’t thank you enough for all the hard work you’ve put in.”

I wave it off. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t forget the little people when you’re sitting on ten mil and a championship series ring.”

Jason chuckles. “If they get the contract back this week, let me know—I’ll come in and sign it. I’m in town all week.”

That catches me off guard. “You are?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “Meg asked me to go to your man’s exhibit opening Saturday.”

I jolt back a bit in my chair. “Really?”

Jason nods, smiling. “Yes, really. I’m excited. Never been to an art exhibit before.”

I nod slowly, trying to keep my face neutral while my brain works through whatever Meg’s up to.

Before I can process any of that, Jason adds, “By the way, I’m really happy for you.

Chance seems like a great guy—from what I’ve heard, anyway.

Not to mention, the guy’s a walking wet dream. I can’t even pretend he’s not.”

I laugh, a real one, standing up and grabbing my tablet and phone. “Yep,” I say, popping the p at the end… hard.

Jason stands too, shakes my hand. “Alright, see you Saturday, unless those contracts come in early.”

“See you then,” I say, giving him a quick shoulder clap before heading to my office.

I’ve barely sat down when Meg pops in.

“Hey,” she says, now pacing in front of my desk, hands in the pockets of her suit pants. “Glad I caught you. I need to leave in about ten minutes.”

I rest my elbows on the desk. “What’s up?”

“First, how did it go with Jason?”

“Great, actually. Contract is straightforward. He’s not a diva like some of these guys, so his asks are nothing wild.”

Meg nods approvingly. “Excellent. Good to hear. Do me a favor—find out if they’re in a rush to sign.”

I lean back, frowning slightly. “I’m sure they’d like to get it locked in. But I can stall if you need—”

She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “No, don’t press too hard. Just feel them out on timing. If they’re not in a rush, I may ask you to get us a few weeks before they sign.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. Will do.”

“Thanks.” She turns like she’s about to head out, then pauses and pivots. “Oh—and can you pull all my client files and your client files and notate their agency renewal dates when you get a chance?”

Now I’m really confused.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, brow furrowing. “Is everything okay?”

Meg flashes a bright, practiced smile that eases some of the tension. “Absolutely. I just like to do a periodic audit to get a broad picture of whose contracts are up, and when. Helps me plan our renewal strategy.”

That’s fair. But I already set up automated reminders for every client well in advance of their contract renewal dates. Still, I nod.

“Hey,” I say, stopping her as she turns again. “Jason mentioned you invited him to Chance’s exhibit?”

She offers a megawatt smile this time. “I sure did. It’s a PR win-win.

You’re already going to have pro football’s hottest QB in attendance.

Add in pro baseball’s hottest pitcher and a roster of high-society movers and shakers?

Chance’s name and art will be in publications from coast to coast. It’s a publicity gold mine. ”

I stand in surprise. “Wait—this wasyoumaking a PR move? ForChance?”

Meg doesn’t look up from the notification she’s checking on her phone but nods. “Mmhmm.”

Then she looks up at me with a knowing gleam in her eye. “I knew you wouldn’t take the liberty. But this makes sense for everyone involved.”

For a second, I can’t find the words. I just watch as she types something else on her phone.

“Thank you, Meg. Truly,” I say finally. “This could be a breakthrough for him.”

She hums, looks up again, and gives me a much softer smile. “I hope it is.”

After Meg leaves, I sit down at my desk and blink at the door for a good ten seconds.

Was that… real?

She just casually orchestrated the kind of PR play that could catapult Chance into a whole new stratosphere of visibility—like it was just another Monday task between checking emails and booking lunch. I’m still wrapping my head around it when my phone lights up with a notification.

I pick it up and see the usual—emails, calendar reminders, Slack pings—and two text notifications fromChance.

Good boy.

I tap into our thread.

Chance: Hey babe. Just got to the airport. My Uber driver was one of those talkers. Yay me. Gotta get to my gate. Text later. Love you.

My grin widens as I open the second one.

Chance: I’m convinced traveling with a toddler is an extreme sport and these parents are doing it for some kind of adrenaline rush. Anyway, found my gate and caffeine. Text me after your meeting with Jaaaaason.

I shake my head, still smiling and fire off a reply:

Me: Have a good flight, baby. I hope there’s toddlers in the seats behind you, in front of you, and flanking you on each side.

Me: And I love you.

Four hours later, my phone buzzes again. I glance down mid-email and see that it’s a text from Chance. I pick up my phone, open the message and fumble my phone like a hot potato.

“Jesus!” I hiss under my breath as I catch it before it hits the floor.

Front and center: a photo of Chance’s dick.

Hanging out of his jeans.

At a urinal.

Followed a second later by:

Chance: Said to report back when I had to piss, so…

Me: Did you just take a dick pic at a urinal?

No reply.

Then my phone starts ringing.

I answer, already grinning. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Chance is laughing on the other end, absolutely delighted with himself. “I’m classy like that. Don’t act like you’re mad.”

Then he lowers his voice, soft and smug. “Youlikemy dick.”

I sigh. “It is a pretty dick.”

In the background I hear the chime of an intercom and then:

“Welcome to Detroit Metro Airport…”

I sit up straighter. “Wait, where are you?”

“Layover,” he says. “Detroit. Last-minute flight. Couldn’t get a non-stop.”

“Hm. A non-stop to where ?” I press.

“Uh, not Boston , if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Fine, fine. How was the flight?”

“Good,” he says. “I got upgraded to first class by Janet, the lovely woman at the counter.”

I narrow my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “Uh-huh. You flirted, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I might have. And I’m not ashamed. I never fit in those damn seats in coach.”

“Well—”

“Zip it, Pacini. You love my big ass.”

I snicker. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

He laughs softly.

“Speaking of—” I start, and he groans preemptively.

“I’m picking up your tux after work for the exhibit,” I continue sweetly. “I think the tailor had to order five extra reams of fabric just for the pants.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he grumbles.

I laugh and I can feel the grin in his silence.

“Listen, babe, I gotta catch my connection,” he says. “Just wanted to check in. Hear your voice.”

Something in my chest flips and flops like a caught fish on the bottom of a boat. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I love you, Beautiful.”

“Ditto,” I say, soft and certain.

I hang up, stare at the screen for a beat, and lean back in my chair.

Fuck, I miss him already.