“Well, that was the shortest relationship in history,” I deadpan, glancing at my watch, hating the pain pressing down on my chest at the thought things are over before they’ve even begun. “Fifty-three minutes. That’s got to be some kind of world record.”
His large palms come to rest on my shoulders, and he puts his face all up in mine, forcing me to look at him. “You would end this just so you don’t have to tell me?” His nostrils flare. “You would seriously do that over Brock fucking Jonas?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” I step back, unable to think clearly with his hands on me.
“I wasn’t thinking that, but now I am.” His hands ball into fists at his side. “Are you fucking him?” he yells.
“No! Do you honestly think I’d do what we did if I was screwing someone else?”
Air expels from his mouth, and his chest heaves as he stares at me, inspecting me like a scientist might study a lab rat. His voice is level again when he speaks. “No, but the Keaton I know is honest to a fault, and this side of you is unexpected and unwelcome.”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment already.” I push past him, needing to get away because I’m a hot mess and I need to clear my head before I do something pathetic, like cry.
“Keats. Stop.” Austen grabs hold of my elbow, stalling my forward trajectory. “Just talk to me.” His eyes plead with me. “Please.”
Pain slices into me, cutting me into itty bitty pieces until it feels like I’m barely holding all the splintered parts of myself together. “I want to,” I whisper, hating the confusion and hurt I see written all over his face. “But I can’t.”
He lets me go, and tension bleeds into the air. “I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, his expression oozing disappointment and sorrow. “And I can’t, won’t, be with someone who keeps things from me.” He walks past me, heading in the direction of the bedrooms, and I’m frozen in place, watching his retreating back with pain ripping me apart on all sides.
I can’t lose Austen just as we’ve admitted our feelings, especially because of that blackmailing bastard, but I can’t fess up either.
I can’t tell him what happened because I’m too ashamed, and I know he’ll only think less of me after.
Austen reappears in the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing a hoodie, sweatpants, and unlaced sneakers on his feet. His duffel bag is thrown over his shoulder as he bends down, grabbing his book bag from the floor where he dumped it earlier.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, blood slowly draining from my face.
He pins me with a frosty look. “Leaving.”
“Don’t go!” I plead. Panic jumps up and slaps me in the face.
He spins around, facing me. “Ready to tell me the truth?”
Tension splits the air between us, and I hang my head.
His bitter laugh is like a punch in the gut. “Thought not.” His feet squelch on the floor as he approaches, pausing directly in front of me. He tilts my chin up with his finger. “I’ll give you some space to think about this, but when I return, I want answers, Keaton.” His somber eyes bore holes in my skull. “It’s either that or I permanently move out, because I won’t share living space with someone who hides shit when I’m only trying to help. It doesn’t matter what label we put on our relationship. I cannot handle that.”
His shoulders drop, and his voice lowers a few decibels.
“We don’t need any more reasons to lie, Keats. Aren’t we keeping enough secrets as it is? There should only be honesty between us; otherwise, what’s the point?”
I agree. I know he’s right, and it’s no way to start a relationship, but I’m afraid if I confess he’ll want nothing to do with me anyway.
He grabs the strap of his duffel bag. “I’ll be at the football house for a couple nights. If you’re ready to talk, message me.” He doesn’t wait for my reply, walking out the door without looking back, and I’m praying it’s not prophetic.
***
I lie in bed, staring at the pristine white ceiling, with my brain tossing my dilemma in a loop through my head, over and over again, until I give myself a pounding headache.
I can’t lose Austen.
He’s everything I dreamed I’d never have.
Although we’ll have to hide our relationship from the outside world, it still means everything to me. Which is why I should tell him, even if I’m terrified he’ll judge me. I know that’s not who he is, and he said he’s trying to help, so why is this so hard to do?
Admitting to yourself you’re scared isn’t easy, but as this spins through my head, I know that’s what’s really driving my behavior.
This would be so much easier if I could call my computer-genius FBI-agent brother and have him deal with the problem. But I can’t expect others to ride to the rescue all the time, and God knows my brother has bailed so many of us out in the past he deserves a break from family drama. Of course, the big issue is the fact I’d have to come clean to my family about my sexuality and the stupid mistake I made last summer, and I hate how disappointed they’ll be in me.
I’m not ready to disappoint them again.
I’ll find a way of dealing with that snake Brock, and maybe I do need Austen’s help.
***
“Wow, someone got up on the wrong side of bed,” Mol says the following day, at lunch, when I slap my tray down on the table in the dining hall and flop into the seat beside her.
“Rough night,” I admit, rubbing my tired, red-rimmed eyes.
“Trouble in paradise?” Kate asks, arching a brow. Her words instantly raise my hackles, but I’m probably overreacting. Lack of sleep and a hefty dose of self-pity can do that to a guy.
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Anything we can help with?” Seb asks, stealing a fry from my plate.
“No. It’s—” I cut off mid-sentence as half the football team enters the noisy room, amid a collective intake of breath.
Austen is at the rear, talking with Colton, laughing at something he’s saying, looking like he hasn’t a care in the world. Guess he didn’t suffer a sleepless night over our first argument, only minutes after we became official.
His head lifts in this direction, as if I called him, and our gazes lock for a few seconds before he looks away. Bile crawls up my throat at his obvious dismissal, but I plaster a fake smile on my face when I refocus on my friends.
“You and Austen have a fight or something?” Kate asks, her warm brown eyes carrying a hint of curiosity.
“Just some roomie teething problems,” I lie, because, wow, I’m becoming an expert. “Nothing we can’t fix.”
“The more important question is what vampire has been eating you?” Mol asks, smirking as she jabs her finger at the bruised, circular discoloration on Kate’s neck. I shoot Mol a grateful look for the purposeful subject change.
“A lady never tells who’s biting her or where.” Kate winks, and Mol laughs. Seb turns an obvious shade of red, so either he’s the one doing the biting or this conversation embarrasses him.
Lucky he wasn’t in my apartment last night to hear Austen talk about wanting to drill his cock in my ass.
I sprout an instant semi as that thought lands in my mind, but damn, his straight talking and dirty mouth seriously turn me on.
What am I doing?
I sit back in my chair, pushing my plate toward Seb—he’s already devoured half my fries anyway, and I’ve no appetite—and give myself a stern talking to. The guy I’ve been dreaming about for months wants to be my boyfriend, and I’m acting like a pathetic teenager with his first crush who’s scared of opening himself up for fear of being shamed. I know Austen won’t judge me. If anything, he’ll probably be mad on my behalf.
So, what the fuck am I doing pushing him away?
My chair scrapes as I stand. “Be back in a sec.” I stride toward the two tables where the football team is sitting, heading in Austen’s direction.
“Incoming,” Colton says to Aus
ten, noticing me first.
“Hey, man.” I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my jeans as I stand to the side of Austen’s chair.
He looks up, not giving anything away. “Hey, Keats. What’s up?”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He nods, standing.
“Hey, Kennedy,” someone with a deep voice calls out from behind me.
I turn around, groaning internally when I see who it is. “Hey, Nolan.”
“Saw your mom on CNN this morning,” he shouts, and my muscles lock up tight, bracing myself for whatever shit he’s about to throw at me.
Not like it’s my first rodeo.
Kids at school loved spouting crap about my mom, especially when Dad’s affair with her psycho assistant became public knowledge. High school was zero fun those days.
“Cool,” I lie, knowing it’s anything but. I didn’t realize Mom was being interviewed this morning, but she’s often on TV. She is well known in fashion circles, she does a lot of charity work, and her interior design business is booming, so it’s not that unusual to see her on TV screens.
“She’s definitely one MILF I’d love to get my hands on.” Nolan makes a crude gesture with his hands, and I see red. “How about I come visit next time you’re heading home,” he adds. “I can show your mom a good time.” Rubbing his crotch, he waggles his brows suggestively, as if this is funny.
I’m seconds away from lunging at him, which is something, because I don’t lose my temper easily and I’m not the fighter in my family.
But this shit is not cool, and I’m mad as all hell. “How about I slam your head into the wall and see if I can’t shake some brain cells loose?” I glare at him, barely controlling my anger.
“Wow. Relax, dude. I’m only yanking your chain.” He rolls his eyes, as if I’m the one who’s out of line.
“You’re an idiot,” Austen says. “And you owe Keaton an apology.”
Nolan flips Austen the bird. “Fuck you, man. You’re not team captain. I don’t take orders from you.”
“But I am, and you will,” Colton interjects, pinning Nolan with a dark glare. “Every time you speak or act, you represent our team. Maybe you should think about that before you open your stupid mouth next time.”
Austen jerks his head forward. “C’mon, Keats. Let’s get out of here.” Wrapping up his lunch, he stuffs it inside his bag before swinging the bag over one shoulder.
I collect my stuff and say goodbye to my friends, following Austen toward the exit. We walk side by side outside, crossing the sidewalk to claim an empty bench.
“You okay?” Austen asks, depositing his bag on the seat beside him as he sits down. He leans forward on his elbows, scrutinizing my face.
“No,” I admit, dropping my bag at my feet. “I’m currently trying to think of reasons why I shouldn’t walk back in there and knock that jerk flat on his ass for disrespecting my mom.”
“He did that on purpose,” Austen says. “Don’t let him know he got to you.”
I rotate my stiff shoulders, pushing all thoughts of the jerk from my mind. I face Austen. “I’m sorry about last night, and you’re right. I need to tell you what’s going on.”
“Thank fuck.” Relief washes over his features. He slaps me on the back, giving my shoulder a discreet squeeze.
“Do you have plans after practice?” I inquire.
He shakes his head. “I’ll come straight home.”
“Don’t eat. I’ll fix dinner.”
I’m not sure what expression he sees on my face, but it’s enough for him to reassure me. “Whatever it is, it’ll be fine. You don’t have to fear the truth.”
Well, there’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one. My eyes penetrate his. “Let’s hope you still think that after I tell you everything.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Austen
The aroma of garlic and tomatoes scents the air as I step foot in the apartment, and my stomach rumbles appreciatively. When I walk into the kitchen, my eyes are glued to Keaton as he stirs something in a pot at the stove. I clear my throat so he’s aware of my presence. Looking over his shoulder, he offers me a tentative smile. “Good timing. It’s almost ready.”
Dumping my duffel bag and my book bag on the floor under the island unit, I glance at the dining table—positioned between the kitchen and living areas of the open-plan room—and my heart does a twisty jump in my chest.
Keaton has set the table, using the white linen tablecloth and napkin set his mom gave him when he moved in. A myriad of small, pale-green tealight holders are scattered across the center of the table, their flames flickering against the glass, and a bottle of red wine is open, warming to room temperature. We rarely use the formal table, choosing to eat at the island unit most times, so the fact he’s gone to this much trouble means the world to me.
Without second-guessing myself, I close the distance between us, sliding my arms around his trim waist from behind. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I murmur, pressing my lips to the side of his neck as I hold him close, his back to my chest.
“I know.” Turning off the heat under the large pot, he turns around, and my arms drop from his waist. Our chests are pressed together, our eyes almost level. “But I wanted to,” he adds. “Besides, cooking helps to distract me from puking.”
I clasp his cheek in my palm, fighting a smile. “I told you you have nothing to fear from telling me the truth. I don’t judge. I just want to help.” Leaning down slowly, so he knows my intent, I kiss him, pouring reassurance down his throat because I hate seeing him on edge.
Gripping my waist, he pulls me closer, and our kiss deepens, our mouths opening so our tongues can battle for supremacy. Keaton melts under my touch, and I could kiss him nonstop all night long, but that won’t resolve the gulf between us. Only conversation can do that. Reluctantly, I pull back, pecking his lips one final time, before my eyes move over his shoulder. “Can I help with anything?” I ask, and he laughs when my stomach emits a loud, gnarly sound.
“Pour the pinot noir,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth, “while I plate up.”
“This is delicious,” I admit after the first mouthwatering bite of his homemade chicken parmigiana. “I didn’t know you were such a good cook.” I eat a strict diet, along with most of the guys on the team, so when I moved in here, I offered to cook dinner every night, and Keaton just let me do it. I might have to reassess my strategy and relax my diet a little, if this is any indication of how skilled he is in the kitchen.
“Lana’s mom was our housekeeper, growing up, and she cooked all of our meals. She used to let me help her, and I discovered I liked cooking.”
“You should’ve said. I thought I was helping by offering to cook but we can alternate nights, if you want.”
“I don’t mind eating what you cook,” he admits, flattening a hand over his toned stomach. “I’m in the best shape of my life because I’m somewhat following your diet.”
“Something tells me it’s more to do with good genes,” I say, in between mouthfuls of the succulent chicken and noodles. His brows climb to his hairline, and I smirk. “I’ve seen tons of pics of your family online. Your parents are very good-looking, and it’s no wonder their spawn are all so freaking hot.”
“He’s crushing on my brothers,” Keats deadpans. “Awesome.”
I stretch my hand across the table, placing it on top of his. “The only Kennedy I’m crushing on is you, but I’m not blind, man. Your brothers are hot, but nowhere near as hot as you.” That seems to appease him, if the slight stain on his cheeks and soft smile is any measure.
“We can each cook on alternate nights,” he says, deliberately not responding. “I will stick to your plan, but we can vary it a little. Steak and broccoli is getting boring.”
My lips tug up. “I’m open to try new stuff as long as it’s healthy.” And it’s not like I don’t eat carbs, just usually at lunch, before practice.
We chat casually about our day while we ea
t, and I don’t force the conversation, preferring him to relax. If that’s even possible, because the dude’s wound tighter than a nun in a brothel.
After I’ve cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, I join Keaton on the couch, topping up his wine. I’ve a feeling he’ll need it for this talk. I switch to water, because I try to steer clear of alcohol during the week.
I sit beside him, close, but not too close, giving him some breathing space if he needs it. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say, taking a sip of my water. His tongue darts out, wetting his dry lips and I wish I could remove that terrified look from his face. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay, Keats.”
“You say that now, but you’re going to realize what a stupid, pathetic idiot I am and you can do better than me.”
Setting my water down on the side table, I take his hands in mine. “There is nothing you can tell me, nothing, that’ll change how I feel about you. Trust me on that.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Remember, I see you? I know who you are. I like who you are. You won’t scare me away. I’m all in, dude.” I stab him with a piercing look. “I’m going nowhere.”
Finally, his shoulders relax a smidgeon. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he begins explaining. “Last April, I met Brock at one of his band’s gigs. Mol dragged me along because she was assigned with writing a review for the paper.” He gulps again, and I squeeze his hands in encouragement. “She interviewed the band after the gig, and Brock kept staring at me funny. I didn’t think much of it, but after the interview was done, we had a drink with them at the bar, and he was flirting with me.”
My brows knit together. “I didn’t think he was into guys. He has quite the rep around campus as a ladies’ man, and the band’s orgies are infamous.”
“I don’t know whether he is or isn’t,” Keats says, pulling his hands from mine. “But he certainly led me to believe he was.”
Acid floats in my gut, and while I’ve had an inkling about what Keats had to say, I think it’s going to be ten million times worse than I imagined. “What happened?”
Adoring Keaton: A Stand-Alone Friends-to-Lovers MM Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 9) Page 9