Immoral

by Nicole Dykes

“A party. You just won the motherfucking World Series. You need to celebrate.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  He walks out of the room with a determined smile, and I lean my head back against the sofa.

  I guess we’re having a party.

  Earlier in the music room, things got way too heavy. I can’t handle that shit, so I do what I do best . . . I threw a party. Gathering people to celebrate my best friend’s win.

  I look around at the back patio and smile because it wasn’t hard to find people to celebrate with Ry, even if he probably didn’t think he had this many people in his corner.

  He likes to pretend he’s a loner, but the truth is, people are drawn to Ryan. They just are. He’s always had this allure. He thought it was because of me. It wasn’t. People have always liked him. Girls thought he was shy, and they wanted to be the one to break him out of his shell. Guys saw him as loyal. And I imagine it’s the same now.

  Even though he’s not interested in the chicks, I see they still flock to him. He’s currently bombarded by three chicks who came with one of his teammates. I think they may be his wife’s friends, but I can’t be too sure.

  The party is stacked with people.

  I watch with a grin as one of the chicks continues to waste her perfect rack on him, leaning in and giving him a glimpse of ample cleavage. Flipping her long blond hair and giggling at everything he says. I realize it’s totally lost on him.

  I chuckle at that thought, and Waylon, who’s standing right next to me, eyes me with curiosity. “What’s so funny?”

  I haven’t told him about Ryan being gay. It’s not my place, and I won’t betray his trust. “Nothing.”

  “Seems like your friend is going to get lucky tonight.” He sips his fruity drink, oblivious to Ryan’s secret like everyone else here.

  I turn back to look at Ry and how uncomfortable he seems with the blonde’s attention, but I think it could easily be misconstrued as him being shy. It’s unbelievable to me that he’s had to hide who he really is all these years.

  I look around the party that’s mostly full of baseball players, their wives or girlfriends, and their friends. I don’t see one gay couple here. Seemingly the only two gay guys here are Waylon and Ryan, and I wonder if he was able to be himself—if he were out and proud—would the party be different?

  Would he have other gay friends or people here that he might actually want to fuck?

  He must sense my thoughts on him because his eyes meet mine. He offers me a small smile and shakes his head before going back to his conversation with the chick who has no chance.

  He deserves that. A party where he can tell the chick to keep her stupid small hand off his shoulder and go and flirt with a dude. He deserves to take as many pictures as he wants with whoever the fuck he wants to and invite whoever he wants to his own party.

  The list he gave me was all his teammates. No one else.

  I think about the song I played for him this morning. The song I wrote two years ago after a drunken, lonely night. I had been at a club, dancing with an insanely hot chick, but my mind went to him.

  I have no idea why, and I’ve never talked about the song’s meaning out in public. Always letting it be a mystery, but I went home alone that night. Climbed into my bed and drifted off to sleep only to wake up, gasping for air and feeling like I was drowning. My bad boy image. Letting women think they could be the one to tame me.

  I’m their fantasy.

  But they don’t know me.

  I take a drink of the margarita Waylon forced on me and cringe. Why do people add sugary shit to alcohol? Give me straight tequila any fucking day.

  "Who’s that?” My thoughts are interrupted by Waylon’s question, and I look to see who he’s talking about.

  A guy walks over toward Ry and swings his lanky arm around him, and I realize I’m gripping my drink a little too tight as I watch them, nearly crushing the plastic cup. “Bennett Rochet. Pitcher.”

  Waylon stares at them alongside me. “They seem chummy.”

  I have no idea why the sight of them laughing and talking with that fucker’s arm still around Ry’s shoulder makes me feel uneasy, but I think my voice sounds semi-normal when I shrug and say, “They’re friends.”

  “Aw,” Waylon turns to me with a smile filled with shit-eating fuckery on his face. “Does your old bestie have a new bestie?”

  “Fuck off,” I growl a little too seriously and then shake my head, laughing when Waylon feigns hurt, clutching his chest.

  “Don’t be jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous.” I know he means it in a friends sense. I know that, but something just feels fucking off about the whole damn thing, and I get defensive.

  “Alright, sweetie. Why don’t you get introduced, huh? I’m sure Bennett will share.”

  “Ry” nearly comes out of my mouth, and I check myself just in time. “Sure.”

  We walk over, and I nod toward Ryan in a greeting that feels stiff and awkward. “You gonna introduce us to our newest guest?”

  Ry laughs. “You know this is still only my house, right, fucker?”

  The girls giggle, and the guy—Bennett—laughs but finally releases Ry and holds his hand out for me. “Bennett Rochet, and you’re Grady fucking Bell from Immoral.” He nudges Ry. “Bailey didn’t tell me he knew Grady Bell. My wife is going to kill him.”

  Bailey. Motherfucker. That’s my nickname for him. I’m the only one that gets to call him that. I grip his hand a little too tightly and try to keep my voice neutral. “Why’s that?”

  He grins as our hands disconnect and drop to our sides. “She’s a huge fan, man. Huge. And she skipped the party today. She’s going to be pissed.”

  Right. He’s married. With a kid on the way. The dude is straight.

  Why that matters, I have no idea. But when that fact comes back into light, I relax a little. “You want me to sign something?”

  Ryan shakes his head and takes a drink from his red plastic cup. “Unbelievable.”

  I eye him. “What? I can’t help that I have fans everywhere.”

  Bennett just nods his head. “I’m definitely getting your autograph. It’s either that or pretend like none of this happened, and I’m pretty sure there are photographers hanging around outside.”

  Waylon clears his throat next to me, getting pissy. “Are you going to introduce me or am I going to stand here like pretty little furniture all night?”

  Ryan chuckles, his eyes zoning in on Waylon, and I wonder for a moment if Waylon is his type. I mean, he looks pretty damn similar to the guy Jenny was freaking out about, the one Ryan definitely did hook up with.

  “Um yeah, sorry. This is my manager, Waylon.” Most of the girls have moved along, leaving only Bennett, Ryan, Waylon, and me, so I turn to Ry next. “Waylon, this is Ryan Bailey.” Then to Bennett. “And Bennett Rochet, who I just met too.”

  They both wave at him, and I think Waylon might be drooling when Ryan shakes his hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you boys.” He shakes Bennett’s hand, but his eyes go right back to Ry. What the fuck? Is he interested in him? Does Waylon know Ryan’s gay?

  I shake the thought away, pretty fucking sure I’m bordering on offensive right now.

  “I can’t believe Grady didn’t tell me his best friend from high school is Ryan Bailey.”

  “You follow baseball?” Ryan asks, not in a surprised tone. No, it’s more like getting-to-know-you fucking talk, and it irks me for some strange reason.

  “No,” Waylon laughs. “Not big on sports, but I have seen you featured on some of my favorite shows and sites.” Waylon winks, actually fucking winks, and Ry, I swear to you, blushes.

  Fuck.

  What if they’re into each other?

  My body tenses. Why the hell do I care? Waylon is a good guy. Why should I care if my friends are into each other?

  Shit, I’m really losing it.

  “You okay?” Ryan’s eyes are boring into me, concern dripping from
his features.

  I nod and try to brush it off, playing it cool. “I’m fine.” I turn to Bennett. “So, you’re the pitcher to Ry’s catcher, huh?”

  Ryan, who unfortunately had just taken a drink, nearly chokes and sputters, “Did you seriously just fucking ask that?”

  Bennett looks confused, his eyebrows pinching together. “What? I am a pitcher.”

  Ryan clears his throat, pounding on his chest once and then catches his breath. “Yeah, I know.” He tries to play it cool as his glare moves to me. “He knows that too.”

  Waylon giggles next to me, taking another drink, but I don’t think he picked up on my double entendre, which okay—it was an asshole question to ask after my talk with Ry about pitching and catching.

  Bennett tosses out a question my way. “You play?”

  “I did. I used to be the pitcher for Ry.” Why did I emphasize that word?

  I feel Ry’s eyes on me, trying to pierce through the bullshit and let me know how pissed he is, but I just smile at Bennett, who laughs. “Holy shit, he never told me that either. We should all hang out and play sometime.”

  I raise my hands and shake my head. “Oh, no way. I’m not up to playing with the big boys these days. I’m all about music now.”

  He laughs, but Ryan looks like he wants to murder me and like I’ve lost my mind.

  Yeah well, he’s not the only one that’s confused by my behavior tonight.

  What the hell is going on with me?

  “Okay, what the hell was all that about?”

  “What do you mean?” Grady is trying to play dumb. I can feel it as he helps me clean up the mess left by all the party guests he invited. But I’m not letting him off the hook.

  “You know what I mean, asshole. What the fuck was that?”

  He tosses a beer bottle into the trash and plops down on the outdoor sofa by the firepit. “I don’t know.”

  I move to sit next to him. “What do you mean you don’t know? The way you questioned Bennett? I mean what the fuck was that? Catcher and pitcher? Seriously?”

  I nearly choked when he asked Bennett—my very, very straight teammate—if he was the pitcher to my catcher. Bennett may not have picked up on the double meaning, but I know that’s the way Grady meant it.

  Grady, always calm, cool, and collected, looks freaked the fuck out as he runs his fingers through his thick black hair.

  “Grady, what’s up?”

  His green eyes lock on mine, and I feel a tremor through my body. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just . . .” He looks away and sighs, “I saw you and Bennett together and how close you two are . . .”

  “We’re teammates. And friends.”

  “Nothing more?” His eyes meet mine again, and I can see he’s serious.

  “No. Jesus.” I stare at him in confusion. “He’s straight.” I grow irrationally irritated with his question. “And married. With a kid on the way.”

  He drops his hand from his hair and shrugs. “It’s been known to happen before.”

  “Not with me. I don’t fuck around with straight guys.” Not after him for damn sure. “And especially married, straight guys. What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “What about Waylon?”

  I search his expression. Is he fucking with me? “What about Waylon?”

  His shoulder lifts, but he doesn’t pull off the nonchalance. Not at all. “He’s gay.”

  “So?”

  “So . . .” He’s running his fucking fingers through his hair again, and I don’t like how tense he looks. “Is he your type?” I laugh, the sound escaping and making him scowl at me. “What? He’s gay and good-looking.

  “Right. And I only have two requirements. Quit being such an asshole.” I stand up, annoyed with this conversation.

  “I’m not being an asshole.” I turn back to look at him, and he looks . . . Confused? Upset? I’m not really sure. But the need to comfort him is there. I don’t think he’s trying to be an asshole. I think he’s trying to figure something out.

  “He’s not really my type.”

  I sit down next to him again, and he turns to face me. “He’s exactly the same type as the guy you were with. The one that Jenny was all cunty about.”

  I lean back against the sofa and groan, “He was cute. And Waylon is too, but that’s not exactly my type, not usually anyway.”

  I can feel him studying me intently, and I don’t fucking like it. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. Two things I never want to be. “So, what is your type?”

  I groan, lifting my hands up to cover my face. I can’t say him. That Grady Bell is my ultimate type. I drop my hands and turn my head to look at him. “I usually like bigger guys.”

  “Like chubby? I’ve heard that’s a thing.”

  “Oh my God,” I groan again, but it turns into a laugh as I try to be patient with him. “No. Not really. Just, not a hundred pounds soaking wet. I like bigger guys. Strong muscles. Guys who can keep up and who I’m not afraid I’m going to hurt.”

  I can’t quite make out the expression on his face right now, and maybe it’s the drinks I had today, but I swear I see a flicker of fire in those eyes. Dangerous fire that has to be my mind playing tricks on me.

  “Oh.”

  His eyes slowly drag down over my chest and then back up. “So, someone like you?”

  Christ. “I don’t know. Not necessarily my size. Just . . .” Do not say his body is fucking perfect. That he’s fucking perfect. “Not small.”

  He studies me again, his eyes searching mine. “Do you ever think about that night?”

  He’s not doing this right now. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not much. It was mostly fruity drinks anyway, and they’ve worn off. Stop changing the subject and answer the question.”

  “What does it matter?” I stand up, angry that he’d do this to me. As if I haven’t been tortured enough.

  “It matters.” He stands too, and he’s close, too close. I back up toward the house because my chest is tightening, and I can’t catch my breath.

  “It doesn’t. None of it matters.” He stalks me, his lithe body quickly caging me against the side of the house and him. All fucking him.

  “It matters. Tell me.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” He raises his hands, placing them on either side of my head, surveying my face. “You’re straight.”

  “So?”

  “So?” The question sounds so fucking ridiculous. “You’re straight. I’m not. I’m a fucking guy, and you’re looking at me like . . . like . . .”

  He leans in closer, almost predatorily, and I think my lungs might actually burst from trying to take in air. “Like what?”

  My eyes involuntarily dip to his mouth, his full, pink lips. “Like you want another taste.”

  A growl erupts from his throat as his hand hooks behind my neck, and he tugs my mouth to his before I have a chance to argue or move away, not that I could if I even fucking tried. As his lips collide with my own, I’m right fucking back there.

  To that first and only time we kissed. To that feeling of being whole for the first time in my life.

  Of wanting and desire that’s both crippling and breathing the life back into me.

  His lips seal against mine as his hand grips the back of my neck, holding me there as he kisses me, exploring. When I feel his tongue run over the seam of my mouth, I open, knowing I shouldn’t let him in but unable to deny him.

  His moan hits my ears when I give him access to my mouth, and I groan when his large body presses against mine, his cock hard and grinding against my own solid length. “Grady,” I try, but he ignores me.

  His mouth is assaulting mine, and God help me, I love it. I can’t catch my breath, but I don’t want to. My hands move to his hips, and I yank him even closer to me as the kiss intensifies. Then I just lean into it, for once granting myself something I actually want.

  Something I’ve wanted for so goddamn long.

  His hand moves in m
y hair and digs in, grabbing hold and tugging my head back to look into my eyes.

  I expect shame or regret, but it’s all lust and fire. His hands drop to the hem of my shirt and lift. “This. Off.”

  We’re moving way too fast. I should stop this, but I can’t. Because I don’t want to. Instead, I lift my arms and let him remove my shirt, tossing it behind us somewhere. His eyes drift over my torso, taking his time. He’s not rushing anything. It’s slow and methodical, taking in every inch of my skin visible in the full moon and lights from the pool.

  “You’re fucking art.” His eyes meet mine, and I realize it’s genuine. Brutal, frank honesty that continues to steal my breath.

  “What’s happening here?”

  The right side of his mouth pulls up in a sexy, confident grin. “Whatever we want to.”

  “You’re . . .” He places a finger on my lips that are slightly swollen and tingling from his kiss and shakes his head.

  “Don’t.” He drops his hand to the waist of my jeans and pulls me to him as his mouth meets mine again. “I’m Bell.” He kisses me softly. “You’re Bailey.” His hands thread through my hair, and that’s it.

  No more fighting it.

  At least for right now. I know this is a stupid mistake. I know, deep down, he’s going to regret this tomorrow, or I will. Either way, it’ll be labeled as an error in judgment, but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

  Not with the way his hips are grinding his cock against mine and how his hands are trailing over my chest, making sure to hit every single dip and groove of muscle.

  I reach for his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against mine, and he doesn’t fight me, only grumbling at the loss of contact as I lift his shirt over his head, and then we reconnect. His skin is warm and damp with sweat, like my own, and it feels so goddamn good. A needy groan escapes my mouth, and he swallows it with his own.

  We’re desperate for each other. My balls ache with the need to come, and I can’t believe how close I am. I wonder if he’s feeling the same way, and with the way he clings to me, his mouth unwavering, I’d say he is.

  God, he feels good. He’s nearly my height, strong and confident as his hands roam over my body. We press together with our tongues exploring every inch of each other’s mouth.