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“I’m sorry.”
Darren shrugged it off.
Isaiah shook his head. “Nah, man. You’ve got to let me make it up to you.”
“You don’t have to.” A spark of curiosity lit in Darren’s eye. “What did you have in mind?”
“Private yoga lesson. Yoga is a great way to improve your performance . . . on the field. I’ll book an hour for just us.”
Darren
The town car made its way to where the small jet sat waiting to take them home. His home. But Isaiah was coming with him, so that counted right? The driver took the bags from the trunk, ignoring Isaiah’s protests that he could do it himself.
Before he made for the stairs, Darren slipped the driver two twenties and thanked him. He’d tried to do it surreptitiously, but Isaiah stood on the stairs watching the exchange.
The entire day had left him unnerved. He both wanted and didn’t want to go home. Isaiah traveling and staying with them should have been a buffer, but it only added to his anxiety. He was maddeningly close, yet completely unattainable. The desire to have more suffocated him. Like Saturday at the cabaret. Like three days ago in his bedroom. Like that promise of a one-on-one yoga session, damn.
He’d taken that image with him every shower he’d had since. It was like all he had to do was reach out, and yet he couldn’t.
Add to that, he was seeing his father for the first time since that day, and he wanted to curl up on his bed and be alone. Something else he couldn’t do.
The cabin attendant helped them stow their carry-ons and brought them drinks before she advised the pilot they were ready.
Darren stared out the window, and the plane taxied toward the runway. It was a short half-hour flight, followed by a twenty-minute drive to the house. Less than an hour before the show began.
Isaiah
The entire afternoon was surreal. A limo picked him up. A driver toted his bags. An attendant waited on the two of them, and he was seated in the personal opulence of the private jet of the CEO of one of the world’s most recognizable corporations. For a kid from Erie, Pennsylvania, this shit didn’t happen.
Darren kept to himself. He’d been responsive in a friendly way whenever he spoke to or answered Isaiah, but something weighed on him. Something he didn’t want to share.
“This is amazing,” Isaiah said, running his hand over the polished wood and soft leather. “Do you fly this way all the time?”
Darren laughed softly and shook his head. “No. This is the corporate jet. We get to use it because the program is corporate business. I usually fly commercial, just like everyone else.”
Bet you never fly coach like everyone else. As soon as he thought that, he chastised himself for being a tool. Whatever else he might be, Darren wasn’t smug about his family’s wealth. He’d even tried to hide the fact he’d tipped the driver for both of them.
Stop!
He couldn’t go there. Darren might be a great guy, but Isaiah was in this to win it. He didn’t need to demonize Darren, but he couldn’t get soft where he was concerned.
Darren had said he wanted to win badly, too.
No point in mixing more emotions into things when one of them would end up with their dreams crushed.
The soft leather seat enveloped him as he leaned back. He had to check himself so he didn’t fall into the “this is so nice” trap. One round trip, and done. This was Darren’s world, not his.
Across the aisle, Darren stared out the window. He wore khaki pants, a blue-and-white-checked trendy oxford, and his loafers. Isaiah equated loafers with stuck-up rich kids, but on Darren they seemed right. And he’d gotten a haircut.
Despite looking insanely good, Darren held himself stiffly.
He hadn’t relaxed since the plane taxied toward the runway. Not that it was any of Isaiah’s business, but Darren didn’t seem happy to be going home. What had he said? He didn’t go home last summer? Were things that bad at home?
That didn’t make sense. Hadn’t his mother arranged for him to meet Max? Granted, Max was a douche canoe, but obviously his mom didn’t have a problem with him being gay.
Darren scrubbed his face with the heels of his palms and looked over. He smiled when their eyes met, and then his walls slammed back into place and he sat back.
Isaiah leaned back, too.
Not my business.
It wasn’t.
But . . .
He didn’t like seeing Darren like this. It worried him.
It made him want to hold his hand and squeeze tight.
The iron gates opened, and they entered Chateau Gage.
Isaiah’s pithy name for Darren’s home notwithstanding, the property made for a handsome and commanding sight. Set on a small hill, surrounded by an immaculate lawn, it was an intimidating collection of brick and pillars.
