And I realise I’ve got to face facts; I’m in love with an idiot.
“You’ve had boyfriends, ever since you came out you’ve had them, and before that you dated . . . you dated Tara Green.”
“Are you asking whether I loved Tara Green at eleven years old?” I ask.
“No.” Freddie runs a hand through his hair. “But any of them? Did you love any of them?”
My answer is no, but it’s not the one he wants to hear. If Freddie thought about it— really thought about it—he’d realise that my relationship history runs parallel to his. When he got into a relationship, I did too. I needed the distraction, and I don’t have Ryker’s energy to search for it from different sources. I pick one person, and I get with them. For the last six years, it’s been Keiron, who saw the pattern long ago.
“I was going to marry Keegan after two years.”
“We’re well aware,” I say. “We declined being your best men, remember?”
In hindsight the “remember” had been a touch too much. Of course Freddie hasn’t forgotten. The hurt still lingers in his eyes, and the word makes it spark then come alive with the fury that’s holding him hostage.
Freddie launches forward again, slapping both hands to my chest, but I’m ready for it this time and bend my legs to receive the shove. I don’t move an inch. Ryker curses and grabs Freddie from behind, pinning his arms at his sides.
Freddie pushes back into him, and they both fall, landing on the sofa with anoomph. Ryker tightens his arms around Freddie, telling him to calm down as he wriggles and hisses like a snared cat. I step up to them, press my hands down on Freddie’s thighs, and lean into his face.
Freddie stops struggling and presses himself back onto Ryker, still caught with his arms trapped at his sides but wary of me, of what I might do.
“Why?” he asks breathlessly, and I know it’s not“Why have you trapped me”or“Why am I here,”it’s“Why wouldn’t you do me the honour of being my best men?”
Ryker doesn’t have to lie, and I don’t have to use a cruel truth. Freddie can now know the real reason we couldn’t.
“This is why,” I say as I lower myself to my knees.
I stroke my hands up Freddie’s thighs, relishing his shiver and the odd sound he makes, like an interrupted hiccup.
“What . . . what are you doing?” Freddie asks.
Ryker keeps one arm snug around Freddie, keeping him pinned, but he frees his other and walks his fingertips up Freddie’s T-shirt to his face where he covers his mouth.
I feel for my brother.
He’s afraid Freddie will say “Alice” again. I knew he was more affected by what happened then he let on, but I can’t allow Freddie’s mouth to be covered, as hot as it would be to hear him moan against Ryker’s palm when it all gets too much. I need to listen for key words like “no” and “stop.” I shake my head, and although Ryker huffs and removes his hand, his shoulders are up and his jaw is tight, showing his displeasure.
I’m opening him up to be hurt again, and he’s anticipating the blow from Freddie’s lips, but Freddie is watching me intently as I rub slow circles into his thighs. He doesn’t protest and I move my attention to the top of his jeans. I can’t be certain, but I think they’re the same pair as the day before, which makes sense considering he’s only got his small rucksack of possessions. He doesn’t protest me undoing the button, and Ryker rewards him with a chaste kiss to the cheek.
Freddie whispers, “Liam . . . what are you—”
I snort. “You can see what I’m doing, but it’s what I’m about to do that really interests you . . .”
Freddie’s lashes flutter. “This shouldn’t be happening.”
It’s not a “stop,” or a “no,” and I’m not quite sure how to react, but Ryker’s there to clarify things.
“You want it, though, don’t you? Liam’s warm wet mouth on your straining dick.”
Freddie melts into Ryker’s lap.
“His tongue lapping at your balls . . .” Ryker murmurs. “Making you feel so fucking good.”
Freddie whimpers and his hips shift forward. “I hate you both,” he says.
“We know, babe,” Ryker says and he sounds in control.
I take down Freddie’s jeans, leaving his boxers at first so I can marvel at his shape through the fabric. There’s a damp patch on his cotton, and they’re tight enough to hug his tip. It looks glorious. I didn’t ask Ryker for specifics, knew it hadn’t been appropriate considering what happened, but I’m so glad Freddie hasn’t been spoiled for me.
