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3
Damian
“Your schedule is pure insanity.”
Alexander hums in agreement, running his hand over a few hangers. He has a rare two days off. Which is basically a lie. He still had morning training and skate both today and tomorrow. Plus, some promotional shoot tomorrow afternoon at a local pet shelter. But he doesn’t have games and needs to take advantage of every spare second.
Apparently, that means new suits befitting an NHL player and finding a place to live that isn’t a hotel room.
“What about this one,” he asks, pointing to a navy-blue suit with thick off-white pinstripes.
“How very farm boy’s day in the big city of you,” I reply with the hint of disdain it deserves.
“Asshole,” he says, chuckling. “I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Keep the suits classic. Pair it with flashier items. Trust me.”
“I do. That’s why I brought your silver spoon ass along.”
“Then stand aside and let me pick for you, Alexander,” I say, and he steps back with raised hands. I was born with the privilege he teases me about. I have more money than I could ever know what to do with, yet not a single dollar of it was earned by me. My privilege is a circumstance of birth that I’ve done exactly nothing to deserve. The March family is what they mean when people say old money. I come from a long line of men who only procreate to carry on the tradition of passing enormous amounts of money to offspring that they only interact with for special occasion photo ops. Not because they enjoy their children, or child in my case. My father said one and done after me.
For how different Alexander and I are, in some ways, we’re quite the same. A complicated family life being one of them. Neither of us received the level of love and emotional support all children should get. My life was cold and stoic, his was more toxic turmoil. The end results were much the same, we both fiercely depend on ourselves. Which only makes navigating new relationships more difficult.
I wave to the sales associate who has been distantly attentive.
“We’ll need a fitting room,” I tell him, choosing a few clean-lined pants and jackets. “I’ll get him started with a few options and let you know when we’re ready for measurements.”
“I’ll get a room started for you,” the man says, sizing up Alexander. Not in a leering way, more just gauging his suit and shirt size. Well, perhaps in an appreciative way as well, he is quite an eyeful after all. “Let me know when you are ready for assistance.”
The shop is small and only has one associate. Luckily, we’re currently the only customers. I select a few more pieces and usher Alexander toward the fitting rooms in the back of the store.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“From here, yes. You should have let me call you a tailor.”
"I’m still making minor league money, custom suits can wait until I know I won’t be sent right back down to California.”
“Slim chance of that happening with the way you played last night,” I tell him.
“One good game doesn’t seal the deal. Or makes you an expert,” he says, playfully. He knows I’ve tried to watch games on television before; learn the sport and be supportive of my friend. It moved too fast for me to grasp it all. Something that greatly annoyed me since I like to think I’m a reasonably intelligent human. The ladies last night were a huge help to my effort of understanding rules like ‘icing’.
“You sat me in the middle of hockey savants. I’m probably an expert now.”
“It’s in their blood,” he says, opening the fitting room door. “Isla said you got on well with Willa.”
Of course, I got along with her. Willa Cole has a natural gravitational pull as strong as the moon itself. She’s fun in an easy way, it’s not forced or loud. The way she exudes confident sexiness even while being bundled up in a puffer coat was enough to endear me, if not attract me, though it did that, too. Not to mention her patience with me, or how she matched my flirting with a sweetness I rarely see. She reminds me of a friend back home in New Orleans. Delilah never knew the effect she had on those around her either.
For some, beauty is everything and their attitude about it only makes them shine less. For others, people like Willa, Delilah, and even the man standing in front of me, beauty isn’t what they strive for in life, yet seeing them is like waking up to sunshine warming your whole body.
“Impossible not to,” I tell him, raising a brow. “Now strip for me, Fane.”
His mouth, those perfect lips that have only been wrapped around my cock one time, part in awe.
“We’re in public,” he whispers.
Yes, we are. The fear of it is written all over his face. I understand it but can’t relate. Being afraid isn’t ingrained in us from birth because we never risked anything. It’s easy when you’re filthy rich. I’ve never experienced poverty, hunger, or even general survival from living in the wrong part of town or with the wrong sort of parents. Mine are horrible because of absence, even when in the same room. Not because they were abusive or neglected my basic needs. I was always given shelter, food, and care in the form of nannies and tutors. I was afforded the best of everything with all the necessary precautions to keep the March heir healthy and safe.
“Hardly,” I say. “Besides, that man likely thinks I’m your stylist, not the man you dream of fucking you every night.”
