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I don’t stay to watch the end of the match. Instead, I make my way upstairs again. I push through the people dancing in the living room. I find the bathroom in the back of the house, take care of business, and then I splash some water on my face in a fruitless attempt to sober up a bit.
A snort of laughter bubbles up. Seriously. Was I actually trying to get some reaction from the very straight jock to my very gay self? And if he had been interested, then what? I suspect it’d been a bit like when dogs chase cars and then have no fucking clue what to do with one when they happen to catch it. In the end, I’d just cordon Ryker off in a quiet corner and make sure the Hollys of the world wouldn’t be able to play with him. Normal stuff.
Common sense has just abandoned the premises altogether, hasn’t it?
“Get a grip,” I tell my reflection. “And be more… normal,” I add as an afterthought.
Once I step out, I run straight into Kelly, who’s passing through the hallway just as I push the door open.
He takes one look at me and hands me the bottle he’s holding. I squint at the label.
“Scotch?” I take a swig. “And not even bad Scotch. Ooh la la. Aren’t we fancy tonight?”
He shrugs. “I’m a classy guy.”
I snort out a laugh.
He tries to keep a straight face, but then his lips start to twitch. “I stole it from one of the bedrooms.”
I take another drink. “Guess we won’t be coming back here.”
He gasps and presses his palm to is chest. “How will I ever cope?”
“Wasn’t coming to this party your idea?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He shrugs, unconcerned about the prospect of pissing off other people. He leans his back against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on his ass. I look at him for a moment before I sit down next to him. For a while we’re both just passing the bottle between us. Kelly has always been good at silence, and I’ve never been more appreciative of it than now.
“What’s the deal with the jock?” he asks, swiftly ruining the calm moment. “Is hanging out with him part of some mandatory community service or something?”
“I’m looking for a good home for him. He’s a really good boy. House trained. You want?”
He gives me an unimpressed look. “The fuck am I gonna do with a jock?”
I yawn and close my eyes. “Feed him protein shakes and take him outside for long runs.”
“Oh, goody,” he drawls. “Sounds like a jolly good time.”
“He’s like a fucking golden retriever puppy. Maybe he’ll thaw your ice-cold heart and turn you into a real boy.”
He turns his head to the side, eyes hooded from the Scotch and the late hour. “That sounds fucking awful.”
“Holly might disagree with you on that.”
“Who the fuck is Holly?”
I just shake my head and don’t say anything.
We pass the Scotch between us in companionable silence for another little while.
And once we run out, he quirks his eyebrow.
Destructive mood and the urge for bad decisions forces my head up and down in a single, short nod.
He throws his leg over mine and straddles me. His palms cover my cheeks and slide backward until his fingers cross at the back of my head.
I raise my brow at him.
The fuck are you waiting for?
