Heard Dawson murmur, “Rook, I promise you, I’m gonna personally make sure your organs stay unharvested.”
Wes knocked on the door, and a hidden window in the door opened.
“Holy shit,” Lane exclaimed.
Nate was intrigued, in spite of himself, as they stepped into the main bar. It was like the whole room had been transformed—from the huge oval-shaped wooden bar to the couches and the walls upholstered in richly luxurious fabrics and colors.
“Holy shit,” Lane said again, hushed and reverent again, and yeah, it was pretty damn cool.
And then Nate glanced over towards the bar, and everything inside him froze.
Leaning against the bar, like a daydream and a nightmare rolled into one, was Ramsey.
Nate told himself not to react, even as his insides liquified into a nauseating combination of terror and regret.
How many times had he regretted the way that night had ended? He’d lain awake too many times over the summer,wishing that instead of making up that stupid as fuck Tim Horton’s lie he’d just told the goddamn truth. Said, “Hi, I’m Nate Bishop, and I play defensive end for the Toronto Thunder. That’s football, in case you didn’t realize.”
But he hadn’t, and Ramsey had apparently gotten freaked out about it. Because up until that point, it had been going even better than Nate had hoped. Ramsey hadn’t immediately left after sex. He’d seemed like he wanted to stay. But then they’d walked into the kitchen of Nate’s place, gotten a glimpse of those jerseys on the wall, and everything had changed.
“Oh hey, there he is,” Wes said, and it took Nate—still stupefied that Ramsey washere—a beat too long to realize that Wes was gesturing in his direction. Like they knew each other.
Ramsey pushed off the bar and sauntered towards them, looking every bit as gorgeous and untouchable as he had that night in June.
That Ramsey merged with the one Nate tried not to remember. The one who’d lain beneath him and that he’d kissed and who had squeezed his eyes closed against the something that had bloomed, unexpectedly, between them.
“This,” Wes said, waving towards Ramsey, “is Ramsey Andresen. He’s a hockey player for the Buffalo Wolves.”
If Nate had thought the way his organs curdled was bad before, it was nothing compared to how they felt now. Shrinking up into a wrinkled package. Churning away. Nate thought he might go over to the bar and puke into one of their shiny glasses.
“Hockey,” Ramsey had said, “I’m a hockey player. Up here for summer training.”
Nate hadn’t believed him. He’dlaughedat him. And the whole time, he’d been telling the truth.
He’d even called him Willy Nylander’s fuckingdog walker,for God’s sake.
It was actually fucking amazing that Ramsey had been willing to go home with him after that, honestly.
But maybe it explained some of why Ramsey had panicked at a glimpse of who Nate really was.
Maybe, anyway. He wasn’t sure how much credit he was willing to give Ramsey just yet.
“Hey,” Ramsey said. “Welcome to Vault.”
Nate was trying not to have a whole dissociative episode as the Ramsey in his mind and the Ramsey in front of him melded together into one person.
That was the way his voice had sounded, that night. It had been cocky, then surprisingly soft, and then cruel.
Now it just sounded neutral. Nate might’ve been fooled, but there was a reason Ramsey wasn’t looking at him. Was looking anywherebutat him.
“This place is so sick, isn’t it?” Wes said excitedly. He pulled Ramsey into a hug. For a split second, over Wes’ back, his gaze found Nate’s, and then it slid away, like they were the opposite ends of a magnet.
Well, Nate wasn’t about to say anything about what had happened. Wasn’t about to go over to Ramsey, pound him on the back and say, “how about that fuck we had in June? You ever think about that night?”
Nate would rather walk over hot coals than ever admit to anyone, nevermind Ramsey himself, that he remembered him.
That he was still thinking about him.
“Here,” Wes said, “let me introduce you to the team.”
