Page 20 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Micah

Now

“I’m sorry about your wrists.” Rubbing at the near-bruising marks left behind by the scarfs, I give Zeke my most apologetic puppy dog eyes.

We’ve cleaned ourselves up as best we’re willing to tonight. The sheets are in tangled disarray, and the room smells like sex, musk, a hint of strawberry, and Zeke’s signature rich ale scent. He thinks I didn’t notice he sprayed cologne on while in the bathroom earlier to try and mask his sweat. Honestly, the effort is endearing.

“And your chest,” I add when my gaze travels up his arm to the red scratches now adorning his otherwise blemish-free skin.

Taking my fingers, Zeke kisses the tip of each and sends me a sweet smile. “They’re my battle wounds. Does that make you my pretty nurse?”

“Shut up,” I laugh and lightly smack his shoulder.

He catches my hand to twine our fingers together in a way that doesn’t feel friendly or fuck-buddy-like. It feels like more .

Our hands fit perfectly together.

I wish it could be more.

“Tell me you’ll sleep with me tonight, bunny.” His eyes are locked on me, somehow pleading and persuading at the same time.

“We shouldn’t?—”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he interrupts my protest, the crack in his voice giving him away.

Mine does, too, when I whisper, “Okay.” I should put up more of a fight. Should draw clear boundaries to avoid whatever this is. But I’m weak, and I miss the way we used to be. Just lying here with him, naked, legs wrapped around each other, hearts beating against each other—it’s like a taste of paradise. How am I supposed to resist? Trying to play off how badly I want to be here because of him, I say, “The couch is uncomfortable anyway.”

He leans away to turn out the light, and as the room slips into semi-darkness, lit only by the light spilling from the ajar bathroom door, he lies on his back, and I tuck my head against his chest, where it always rests easily. The room drops into a pleasant silence, the way things usually are between us.

I also know that he’ll be the first to break it.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he murmurs into my hair.

The question throws me off guard because— “You know everything about me.” Well, except for the fact I’m a stripper . . .

“I didn’t know you swore off guys after college.”

My feet, which had been rubbing his hairy calves, still as I mull that tidbit over. “Who told you that?”

“Gin,” he admits. “Rix told him.”

“Huh. I forgot I told him that.”

“So it’s true?”

Taking a moment in my own head, I debate whether or not to tell the truth. But I do, of course. When it comes to Zeke, I always do. “It was,” I whisper, and when I tilt my head up to look at him in the dim room, I know he can read the unspoken “before you” written in my eyes.

He sweeps a gentle thumb across my cheekbone. “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

My cheek heats beneath his touch. “Flirt.”

“No. That’s my something you didn’t know about me.”

I’m pulled into the intense, honest depth of his eyes, and I blame them when, swallowing hard, I confess, “When you kiss me, it feels special. Like it’s just for me. No one else, no matter how many you kiss, gets the kind of kiss I do.”

“That’s true,” Zeke agrees, then looks a little sheepish as I make a your turn gesture to him. “This next one . . . Well, don’t judge me too harshly.”

“Never.” How could I? I’m lying to him about dancing naked for money. It’s him who I would need not to be judgmental—not that I’ve ever seen him be that way.

“I, uh,” he chuckles nervously. “I still talk to your dad. Text, actually. We chat about football and how badly our local weathermen fuck up the forecast. We’ll send screenshots of their broadcasts, then pictures of the outdoors not matching. He’ll be like, ‘One hundred percent chance of rain? Where?’ with a selfie of him outside with his hand in the air. It’s great.”

Pushing against his chest, I prop myself up to gape at him. He’d met my parents once over a video chat during Christmas the year they were too sick to even let me come home for the holiday. I’d stayed with Zeke and his family at a resort, only video chatting with my parents long enough to say Merry Christmas. “You text my dad?”

He winces. “It’s not that weird.”

“No, no,” I say quickly, backtracking. “It isn’t. I mean, your mom and I have a shared Pinterest board.”

“You what?”

“We share?—”

“No, I heard you. I just . . . I had no idea. Mom always asks about you. I didn’t realize you two stayed in touch.”

“Like you with my dad?”

“Touché.”

“Your turn.”

Thinking hard, he contemplates what he has left to confess, then finally says, “I’m gay. Have I ever told you?”

I feel my eyebrows pinch in confusion. After what we just did, I think that fact is pretty obvious. Plus, he’s out to the public. “Hate to break it to you, but that cat is out of the bag.”

Zeke shakes his head, sitting up to lean against the headboard like he can’t think while lying down. “No, everyone knows I was outed in an alley behind a bar, and they know I kiss whoever whenever. They assume I’m bi or pan. I’ve never confirmed, not even with my teammates, but I’m gay. One hundred percent. Boobs and vaginas don’t do it for me.”

“But,” I sputter, blinking rapidly, not fully comprehending, “why keep it a secret?”

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Don’t know. Part of the brand, I guess. Everyone thought they had me figured out, and my life was on display so much already. I just didn’t want to disrupt it further. Or maybe women wouldn’t kiss me if they didn’t think I liked them. It’s just become the norm for me to not acknowledge it, but you and I tell each other everything, so . . .” He shrugs again.

Leaning forward, I kiss him tenderly to let him know I’m glad he trusts me enough to tell me.

All the while, my gut is heavy with the weight of my secret and the knowledge I can never tell him.

Because losing him entirely would be monumentally worse than pushing him away. I can accept breaking my own heart, but I won’t fathom giving him the power to be the one to break it himself.

Having him halfway is better than losing him forever.

? ? ?

Two days and nights in Cabo pass in a blur. It’s all vibrant blue water and pale, soft sand. Noisy nights under bright stars. There’s lots of alcohol involved. And dancing. Jet Skis. Parasailing. Huge macaws that can be aggressive if you get too close.

More alcohol. More dancing.

Zeke being bitten by a macaw because he got too close . . .

It’s nice to let loose and forget about everything going on back home in LA. I don’t think about David once, don’t think about quitting my day job, even though it was my night job that I was supposed to leave over a year ago. I don’t think about what is going to happen when Zeke and I are no longer on a couples cruise together or how our constant contact has crossed the line I’ve been trying so hard to keep in place. At least, until Cabo.

While in Cabo, Zeke and I are inseparable. We spend all day together, albeit with Tahegin and Hendrix, exploring the beach and the thrills it has to offer. Of course, Zeke refuses to partake in the parasailing, but he watches from the boat and cheers on the rest of us. The Jet Skis are right up his alley, so much so that he keeps wanting to go back. Even Gin and Rix get tired of them eventually, so we start only renting one to share, me acting as Zeke’s backpack as we race over the ocean waves. The resort bar keeps us hydrated with yard-long plastic cups full of Long Island iced teas and frozen mixed drinks. When night falls, the live bands come out, and the sandy beaches become a massive dancing area where I hold nothing back.

I’ve always loved dancing, even before taking the classes that inevitably led to my employment at Mischief. Dancing with Zeke is nothing new. We’ve gotten along naturally since the first time we met, and that connection has only grown with time. We’ve danced at his house parties—which he hosts a lot of—and at Gemini, the club where most of the team go to have a good time. Sometimes, Zeke would step back and just watch me dance with Frankie or even other guys who happen to come up to me, and I never knew that he enjoyed the exchange. His revelation the other night was a shock and had my brain going on the fritz. There’s a small, naively hopeful part of me that is convinced his confession about liking to watch me dance with other people means he might not be as against my career at Mischief as I’d previously thought.

The larger, more reasonable part of me is unconvinced. The stigma around dancers at strip clubs is colloquially not a good one. My experience has been different, but then again, Mischief is a different breed of club in and of itself. The owner holds a monopoly of clubs throughout LA, with influence and power and fame putting him right up there beside famous movie directors and runway models. Everyone knows who he is and how he treats his clubs with more love than most parents give a child. Still, I’ve heard the whispers. The mentions of a VIP room booked without a dancer and filled with intimidating men meeting with various business partners of the club’s owner. The other dancers discussing extra deals they’ve worked out in the private rooms. It’s all few and far between, though. Plus, I make enough from stage dances and lounge lap dances that I never take anyone to the back. That’s not why I dance. I dance because I enjoy it, and it just so happens that what I enjoy also pays the bills.

So, no, I won’t be confessing my nightly activities to Zeke anytime soon. Not to mention, why would it even matter? It’s not like me telling him my deep, dark secret that kept me from fully committing to our relationship previously will magically get us back together. There’s still whatever kept him from committing, too. It just . . . No. That rift was too detrimental to our relationship. If we tried and failed again, I’m sure I’d lose him for good this time.

I refuse to do that.

He’s too important. Too much of a solid pillar in my life now. He is where I feel most comfortable being myself, in more ways than I could ever show Hendrix. Being with Zeke feels like walking down the beach hand in hand and dancing at Mischief all at the same time. My identity at Mischief is something I’ve kept secret from everyone, though I did eventually confide a little in Hendrix after a few months of working there. At the club, I feel . . . excited. I’m stripped bare and ogled, but no one truly knows anything about me, not even my real name. Outside of the club, I’m Micah, but no one knows who I am. I’m a dancer with a passion for graphic design. Or . . . am I a graphic designer with a passion for dancing? Either way, the clash of the two is something that no one truly knows.

Well, Frankie and I hang out outside of the club, but he hasn’t seen me nerding out when my artwork comes out perfectly. I don’t tell him about my family or other friends or day job. He’s like that party friend who sometimes stays for breakfast before going home. I love him, but he doesn’t take anything seriously—other than glam. He definitely takes that seriously.

These last few days in Cabo, I’ve begun to feel like me again. Like I haven’t had to hide any part of myself. That will change, of course, once we return to LA, but for now, I’m fooling myself and enjoying the time with Zeke.

Which we have certainly been taking full advantage of. A lot. Everywhere. Like, too much and too often and too scandalous that I’m not sure what I’m more concerned about—the physical health of our bodies or being caught and locked up in another country for public indecency.

And as we stumble drunkenly into our room on the last night in Cabo, I know both of us are thinking of our first time together, drunk, in ridiculous costumes, and laughing as we fumble through the worst hookup of ours to date but the best night I’ve ever had. Tonight, we might be even more sloppy and intoxicated, and the rocking of the cruise ship isn’t helping our sweaty bodies find purchase on each other. Despite all the accidental trips and near misses of the night, I think this will be going down as my second favorite hookup of ours yet.

The main reason being, it’s just him and me, Zeke and Micah. No LA. No clubs. No secrets. Just drunkenness and fumbling and giggling.

And in love. Still so fucking in love with this man.

Damn it. I think I’m starting to hate Cabo.