by Beth Bolden
The music was a drumming pulse in his blood, the rhythm seducing him into movement, his feet inching closer to Nick. Swallowing hard, Colin reached out a hesitant hand and giving Nick plenty of warning and time to back away, slid his palm against the curve of his waist.
He was shockingly real and solid, the damp cotton against his skin, and Colin wanted to feel more, touch more, but he didn’t know how much he dared.
Then he felt the hesitant brush of fingers on his own hip, exploring the tight denim of his jeans carefully, hesitantly, but even that touch exploded in Colin’s brain. Nick is touching me. This is not a drill. Nick is touching me. He wants to touch me. This is definitely not a drill.
They moved closer, dancing leading to swaying to the seductive beat, and Colin let his hand drift, feeling the taut muscles of Nick’s back, the same muscles he’d been trying to pretend he hadn’t seen that day playing dodgeball. But he had, and he hadn’t been able to forget. And it turned out that even these cautious sweeps of his palm were enough to send him into a pulse-pounding, damp-necked fever.
But even the risk of the rising heat in his blood couldn’t stop him, especially not when Nick’s eyes seemed to only encourage him on, the pupils expanding into the bluish-gray. Then Colin’s thumb swiped over the bottom edge of Nick’s t-shirt collar, the edge just barely grazing the soft, damp exposed skin of his neck. And they both shuddered.
Just the feel of Nick’s skin under his thumb had Colin weak-kneed and swamped with the need to lean down and see if his bottom lip was as delectable as it looked.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t kiss Nick for the first time on a crowded dance floor, not with both of them most of the way to drunk, with the possibility of Colin’s teammates witnessing it all.
“Are you okay?” Nick asked, and Colin wondered how he had even managed to ask the question. His own throat felt swollen and uncooperative.
He nodded, but still moved back half an inch. Just for now, he told himself. There was no way this would ever be enough. All touching Nick had done was unleash a fundamental need for more.
Colin told himself it was better like this anyway, because not even thirty seconds later, Ricky appeared at Nick’s side, drunk and happy and dancing around like he’d just scored a touchdown in the Super Bowl.
“Yo,” he yelled at both of them, clearly having no comprehension what he’d nearly almost interrupted. Nick took a half a step back as Colin shot his friend a friendly smile.
The rest of the guys meandered out to the dance floor, until Teddy was giving his own twerking demonstration. Colin laughed like he was supposed to, but deep down, he was still trying to bury how disappointed he was that Nick had stayed a good few feet away the rest of the evening, even though he’d been the one to move away first.
Later, they rode home in an exhausted, semi-drunken stupor and Colin wanted to fill the silence with explanations and entreaties, but nothing he composed made sense.
Probably the vodka talking.
Maybe that had been the vodka talking earlier, for Nick. Colin hoped not, because the man seemed to enjoy his company plenty sober. But then, he’d never touched Colin sober.
What Colin wanted more than anything else was to touch and be touched again in return, but he had no real idea of how to go about doing it. His lack of practical experience had never seemed like such a wide gap before, but now it felt insurmountable.
His head fell back against the seat, and he wished the vodka was smart enough to do his talking for him.
Nick woke up panting for the completely wrong reasons.
Normally, with his proximity to Colin O’Connor and all the flirting tossed in for good measure, he might have had some x-rated dreams that woke him in damp sheets with a hard dick he’d have to take care of himself. But after Rio, those much more pleasant dreams had been entirely supplanted by terrifying nightmares that almost always ended with a knife stuck in his body, blood dripping down the handle.
Not so unlike what had happened to him a little over a year ago.
With shaky fingers, he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his phone. Squinting at the screen, he let out an inward groan. It was only 3 am.
He wished the dreams would at least come with some sort of reliable frequency, but they were impossible to predict. With the alcohol he’d imbibed tonight, Nick had been almost certain he’d avoid the dream entirely, but instead it had come after him with vicious claws, the violence enough to curdle his blood and leave his skin damp with fear.
Throwing on a t-shirt over his bare chest, he padded down the stairs as quietly as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Colin. He didn’t want to explain the dreams or his sleeplessness in their wake. If he couldn’t be honest with his therapist about them, how could he ever tell Colin?
He shouldn’t have lied to Mary about the dreams stopping, because in the last few days, they’d come back with sharper claws than ever.
Nick grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and without turning the lights on, pulled open one of the sliding glass doors and stepped onto the terrace.
He stood for a long time staring at the inky outline of the ocean, trying to calm his breathing and his nerves, trying to convince himself he was as far removed as he could be from the Rio favela he continued to dream about.
Mary had suggested the dreams were his subconscious’ way of telling him that he hadn’t resolved his own guilt over the entire incident.
Frankly, Nick thought that was bullshit. He’d resolved his guilt; he was guilty for what had happened. No, he hadn’t shoved the knife into his own stomach, but he’d gone against every scrap of advice. When you get held up, give them whatever they want, Jemma had told him over and over again as he’d prepared to travel to the Brazilian capital. Instead, he’d stupidly argued, offering the robbers some money, but not his phone. It had been monumentally stupid to risk his life over a few interview snippets he hadn’t been able to back up to his cloud account, but he hadn’t been thinking about his own safety. He’d been gallingly arrogant, certain of his own triumph, unable to process the concept that he might be fallible.
The truth was, he might be standing in Florida, on Colin O’Connor’s private island, but a part of him was still bleeding out on that Rio street.
That was probably why he missed the obvious sound of the footsteps behind him.
“Hey, Nick, are you okay?” Colin’s voice asked softly from behind him.
Nick jumped and swore under his breath, the plastic water bottle slipping from his hands and bouncing on the concrete of the terrace.
He turned to see the outline of Colin, standing by the door, shirtless and clad only in a pair of low-hanging athletic shorts.
Nick tried to focus on the sight in front of him. Colin O’Connor was unfairly and certifiably gorgeous. Especially in the moonlight. Especially wearing practically no clothes. But the echoes of the dream still thrummed in his blood, and it would take more than the sight of Colin’s spectacular pecs to dismiss them.
Unfortunately.
He sighed. “I guess.”
It was a total cop-out answer, and Colin must have known it, because he ventured further onto the terrace, stooping down to pick up the fallen water bottle and pressing it into Nick’s hands.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s up?” Colin asked, his own gaze staying securely glued to the horizon.
Nick hesitated. Confessing the truth seemed impossible, but a lie felt worse, bitter and ugly at the back of his throat.
“Bad dream,” he finally said, because it was as much of the truth as he could share.
He half-expected Colin to call him out on it. In Colin’s place, he absolutely would have. Would have pushed for the real truth, digging and prying, using every tool at his not-inconsiderable disposal. It was what made him an excellent reporter and also an asshole.
“It’s peaceful out here. Helps me too, sometimes,” Colin said, accepting with that innate goodness he seemed to emanate Nick’s co
p-out answer and making him feel like utter shit in the bargain.
Colin settled down on a lounge chair and drew his knees up under his chin. “I come out here whenever I can’t sleep,” he continued.
The question was right on the tip of Nick’s tongue. He was dying to ask why sometimes Colin couldn’t sleep, and not just because he was here in a capacity to discover everything he could about Colin O’Connor. Nick wished it was only professional interest that was driving his curiosity now.
It was impossible not to ask a question, the habit was too ingrained in him, but at the last second, he swerved. “You didn’t really like it tonight at the club,” Nick stated.
In the dim light, he watched as Colin shrugged. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the horizon, but ever since he’d walked outside, Nick couldn’t take his off Colin. “It’s not my type of thing.”
“Why do you let Mark push you?”
Colin glanced over, the shadows obscuring the details of his face, but Nick imagined he saw frustration in the hardening curve of his jaw and in the depths of those blue eyes. “I usually don’t,” he admitted. “But sometimes it’s easier to meet people’s expectations than to constantly flout them.”
Nick pondered this, and while his sleepy brain was still trying to process Colin’s words, he continued on. “And,” he said, his voice growing wry, “I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of recluse.”
It shouldn’t have, but it heated Nick right up that Colin apparently cared what he thought of him. He was trying to work with the assumption that his feelings were still one-sided enough that nothing would happen. But that assumption was rapidly falling to shreds.
“I don’t think you’re a recluse. But we don’t have to do things you don’t want to do, either. What would you rather have done if we didn’t go to Hibiscus? I’m assuming you have places you do like to go?”
“Of course. They’re just not…” Colin trailed off and then shrugged again.
Nick walked over to where Colin was sitting on the lounger. Every molecule was screaming at him to stay away if he wanted to keep things platonic between them, but he needed to have enough self-control for this. Because somewhere along the line, someone had convinced Colin that he wasn’t the ’right’ kind of person to be who he was, and he needed to understand that was just plain bullshit.
Nick gingerly sat at the end of the lounger and when Colin lifted his eyes to look at him, his face was finally out of the shadow. Perfect. If he could only ignore the way Colin looked and sounded and even smelled. How did he smell so clean after a night of dancing and drinking? Nick was sure he smelled like a locker room full of flop sweat and too much booze.
“Listen, you don’t have to do what everyone expects. Even if it’s easier. Especially if it’s easier.” Nick inched closer and tried to ignore the desperate pounding of his heart at Colin’s nearness. If he moved half a foot closer, he’d be close enough to kiss.
Kissing was definitely not what Nick needed to be thinking about right now, especially when Colin’s expression was still skeptical.
Nick changed tactics. “Do you know what they call weird people if they’re rich? They don’t call them weird. They call them eccentric. Money and success buys you the ability to break the mold. You can do whatever you want. You’re about to change your whole life. Embrace that you’re different. Stop apologizing for it.”
It was slow, but the doubt on Colin’s face had begun to melt a little. Nick prayed a little and threw his Hail Mary. “The first time we met, you told me that your personal role model wasn’t Tom Brady. It was Nelson Mandela. That’s you, that’s not the cardboard cutout the media wants you to be. Be you. Trust me, you’re a hell of a lot more interesting than the cardboard cutout Colin O’Connor.”
“But you’ve always been easy to win over,” Colin smirked, echoing that first interview. Nick had to swallow down the lump that had grown in his throat, because Colin had insisted he hadn’t remembered that interview. But maybe some of it had come back.
“True,” Nick said. Anything else was a complete lie. He’d been easy to win over from the first moment. The easiest, probably.
Dawn was beginning to creep over the sky, and Colin looked contemplative. But instead of continuing their conversation, Colin changed the subject. “I’ve got to go to the practice facility for a workout this morning. Do you want to come?”
“Will I miss anything?”
“Me doing a hundred reps?”
Nick laughed. “I meant for the story.”
Colin looked very amused. “Then, no.”
“Okay, I’ve got some research I promised to put together for a co-worker. So, I’ll let you sweat your brains out alone this time.”
“Trying to avoid our morning jog?” Colin asked archly.
“Absolutely.”
“Then tonight,” Colin said casually, “I’ll take you out.”
Nick’s brain short-circuited before he remembered that he’d asked Colin to take him somewhere he liked. It was absolutely, definitely, not a date, no matter what it sounded like.
“Sure,” he said, trying to keep it casual and his own hopes buried somewhere in this is a very bad idea land. He got up off the lounger and started to make his way into the house.
But before he made it inside, Colin’s voice rang out across the terrace.
“You’re wrong, actually. I didn’t have a terrible time tonight.”
Nick knew he should go into the house and shut the door. He shouldn’t listen to the rest of this, because the walls between them were crumbling fast enough without Colin pulling them down. But somehow his feet rooted in place and he couldn’t move. “Oh?” he said, because he was a fool who apparently couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“I liked dancing with you.” Nick watched, words shocked out of his own mouth as Colin swaggered by into the house, smug smile plastered onto face.
Nick’s shock and awe expression stayed with Colin through the forty-five-minute drive to the Piranhas’ practice facility in Coral Springs.
He’d been so close to just leaning over and kissing him. He’d hesitated at the last second, and shot him the cockiest grin instead, but it was hard to ignore the feeling that he’d just lost a second opportunity.
Colin had literally made a career out of going after what he wanted with determination and focus. He’d played it closer to the chest with Jemma, never pushing too hard and letting her set the tone of their friendship. He wasn’t sure anything would have made her love him the way he’d wanted to be loved, but Colin had already decided that he wasn’t going to sit back and make the same mistake with Nick.
He was trying to be blatantly obvious that he liked Nick, and while he was somewhat certain the feeling was mutual, Colin was having trouble with that final step.
Inexperience was definitely a contributing factor to his hesitation.
It might have been a mistake, but he was a little desperate for advice, so as they lifted weights, he asked Teddy.
“What did you...um... . . .well…how did you convince Maria to go out with you? You know, date you?”
Teddy had been married to his college sweetheart, Maria, for almost ten years now, and they had three beautiful children. So the double take he shot Colin after he finished his reps was to be expected.
“You’re really tellin’ me you need romance advice,” Teddy said with disbelief. “You?”
Colin would have thrown up his hands but he was currently pushing through his own set of reps, the burn setting in deep in his muscles. But his hands didn’t waver on the bar. Very unlike how he’d shied away from the perfect opportunity this morning.
It had been undeniably romantic. Them sitting together on the lounger. The sun beginning to creep over the Pacific Ocean. Nick’s sleepy eyes, more gray than blue in the pre-dawn light. Nick encouraging him to go after what he wanted. The perfect move would have been to lean over and make it unequivocally clear what he wanted.
Just reliving it convinced Colin even mor
e that he did in fact need – desperately – some romance advice. “Yes,” he told Teddy seriously.
Teddy just laughed. “I promise you, it’ll be easy for you. Just say the word, and they’ll fall all over you. They usually do.”
Teddy wasn’t wrong, which had been the bitterest pill to swallow when it came to Jemma. He’d turned down women right and left, while the woman he wanted had friend-zoned him.
Colin made a frustrated noise, which had nothing to do with the sweat dripping into his eyes or the way his barbell was balanced at the very edge of his reach and his endurance.
With a smooth motion, he set it back on the rack and sat up, wiping his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “I’m serious. What did you say to Maria?”
“Sometimes it’s not about words.” Teddy’s expression grew sly.
“Fine,” Colin said. “Then what did you do.”
Teddy’s voice dropped. “This about that reporter?”
Colin shot Teddy a reprimanding look. “Does it matter who it’s about?”
Teddy threw up his hands. “I really, really don’t care, man. Man or woman or alien. As long as you’re happy, it don’t matter. But I’m not sure it’s the same.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the same,” Colin bit off.
Teddy’s dark brown eyes grew more serious, with a gleam of understanding. “Okay, okay. What did I do? I made sure she knew how I felt, not by what I said, but what I did. I sought her out. I touched her – not like groping. Like, held her hand. Put my arm around her shoulders. Any reason to give her a reassuring touch. To let her know I wasn’t going anywhere. People want to believe it’s real. So, if it’s real, show them it’s real.”
Colin was pretty certain he understood. In their line of work, you ran into a lot of people who weren’t real. It wasn’t always easy sorting out the few who were. Colin had been burned more than once. Nick, who’d spend his career with athletes, would want to make sure Colin wasn’t just playing around.