by Roni Loren
Tonight, when Keats had first walked in on them, he’d been knocked over with the desire to go over there and be a part of something that erotic and intense. Georgia had looked goddamned beautiful stretched out and sighing into the fantasy. And Colby’s words, the pictures he’d painted . . . Keats’s blood had rushed straight south, those images of bondage and roughness making him flushed and instantly hard. He’d closed his eyes to see it all. And for a few seconds, his mind had fooled him into thinking that maybe he belonged there with them. Like the moment was a shared one. But, of course, it’d been a ridiculous thought. If he’d learned anything in his life so far, it was that he’d always be the outsider. That conclusion had been confirmed when Colby and Georgia had kicked him out and had gone on to have sex while he was there in the kitchen. He’d been a prop at best, an intruder at worst.
No, he didn’t belong here. This wasn’t his life.
“I’ll try to come by. But I have to get back tonight or they’re going to toss my stuff out. I need to give them the rent.”
“You don’t need to give them anything. You don’t have to stay there at all. I told you there’s a room here you can use.”
“And I told you I don’t want a handout.”
“This isn’t charity. It’s a friend helping a friend.”
Keats scoffed and pushed back from the table to stand. “Friends? Come on, Colby, that’s not what we are. You see me as some debt that needs to be paid off to erase a mark on your conscience. A mistake to fix.”
Colby closed his eyes and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. Keats had seen him do that so many times in the classroom, especially when Keats kept screwing up his chords sophomore year, but that seemed like a lifetime ago now. Two different people. “Keats.”
“Look, man.” He stepped in front of him, but Colby didn’t open his eyes. “Stop putting that shit on yourself. You were the best teacher I had and the only person who gave a damn about me back then. When I left that note for my dad and stole his gun from him that night, I fully planned on ending things.” Colby looked up at that, flinching. “But I couldn’t help going to you first. And there you were, the shining example of what I could never seem to measure up to—the ‘real man,’ the kind every woman wanted and no dude would challenge in a fight. It was what my dad always wished I would be.”
Colby made a disgusted sound, making his opinion of Keats’s father quite clear.
“But when you admitted you were bi, it was like giving the ultimate finger to my father and all the people who thought like him. You didn’t fit in the mold. You played music. You were creative. And you didn’t give a shit if people knew you fucked guys.”
“Yes, that was exceptionally appropriate to admit to one of my students,” he said darkly.
“It was what I needed to hear,” Keats replied. “And yeah, I took it too far when I tried something with you, but that’s on me. A stupid kid making a stupid mistake. So whatever guilt you’re holding on to, let it the fuck go. The reason why I didn’t put a gun to my head that night was because of you. You showed me that not everyone has to fit into a certain box. That a real man is one who lives life on his own terms. And that’s what I’ve been doing since. So stop feeling like you need to take me in like a stray pet.”
Colby’s jaw flexed. “It’s not like that.”
“Good,” Keats said with a nod. “Then you should have no problem giving me a ride to my place and letting me get back to my life. Like a friend.”
Colby eyed him like he wanted to grab him and shake him, but instead he let out a long breath as if steeling himself against the urge. “I’ll bring you home. But you’re coming back tomorrow to hear Georgia out. I won’t have her disappointed. You understand?”
The tone in his voice reminded Keats of the way he’d issued commands to Georgia in the fantasy, and it made something low in his gut twist. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling. “You got it, Teach.”
“And stop calling me that.” He pushed away from the counter and grabbed his keys off a hook by the back door. “After what you witnessed tonight, I’d rather not be reminded that I used to be your teacher.”
Keats shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to fight the grin. Looked like Mr. Responsible was surfacing again and regretting how much he’d allowed Keats to see tonight. But no way was Keats letting Colby hop behind that line in the sand again. “Yeah, you probably prefer sir, or is it master?”
Colby peered over his shoulder with a don’t-push-it expression.
“What?” Keats asked innocently.
Colby grumbled and tucked his wallet into his back pocket. “Well, now I know how long you stood in the hallway.”
Keats grabbed his bag and guitar case from the table and slung the former over his shoulder. “So do you really, you know, go there?”
“Go there?” Colby was on the move, heading toward the front of the house, obviously wanting to be done with this conversation. Keats followed him, knowing he didn’t have the right to ask the questions but too damn curious not to.
“I mean, was that just a fantasy game or is that how you are with women?”
Colby looked tired when he sank onto the couch to pull on his boots. “It’s how I am with anyone who’s in my bed.”
“Oh.” Right. With men, too. At that, unbidden images leaked into his brain. “So like a dom or whatever it’s called?”
He’d watched porn. He wasn’t completely unaware of that subculture.
Colby sniffed and stood. “Let’s go, Keats. It’s getting late. And the only people I discuss my sex life with are those who are part of it. So unless you’re making a pass at me, I suggest you stop talking and get in the damn truck.”
Keats’s jaw snapped together.
Colby smirked as he passed him on his way to the door. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Fuck. Keats ignored the flush of heat that brought to his face and followed him out the door.
Yeah, forget the questions. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Being around Colby Wilkes was a fucking hazard.
—
Colby was in a truly foul mood by the time his truck rolled to a stop in front of the Texas Star Motel—or actually the Texas tar Motel since the fluorescent S had burned out. Two overly made-up women—one with thigh-high boots and the other wearing a spandex dress three sizes too small—were smoking cigarettes under the Vacancy sign, probably taking a break in between johns. On the curb in front of the office, a homeless man was muttering to himself and plucking at his pants.
“This is where you’re staying?” Colby asked, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Keats pushed his hair behind his ears, his face more drawn than it had been a few moments before. “It’s cheap and they usually aren’t dicks if I’m a day late on paying. Other places would’ve already purged my room.”
“Fuck, Keats, you said you had a place to stay.”
His expression hardened. “I do. It’s here while I’m saving up for something more permanent.”
“You can’t—”
But Keats was already pulling the door handle and climbing out. “Thanks for everything. I’ll stop by tomorrow to talk to Georgia.”
“Kea—”
The door slammed.
Hardheaded bastard. Colby hadn’t had a door shut in his face in a long damn time. He hit the button to roll down the window. He wanted to yell at Keats and demand he get his ass back in the truck. But he stopped himself just short. He knew how that would go. Keats was an adult and had made up his mind. The only comfort was that he believed Keats would keep his word to Georgia.
He watched Keats’s retreating form until something blocked his view. One of the smoking women leaned along his open window, gave him an appraising look, and offered a sure-thing smile. “Ooh, you’re a big one, aren’t ya? Looking for a date, cowboy?”
She tilted her head then looked back over her shoulder toward where Keats had gone. She turned back and winked. “Oh, I got ya. Wish I could’ve seen that, cowboy. Yowza.”
She gave his window a little tap and strolled back to join her friend. Keats had disappeared from view. Motherfuck.
Colby leaned over the steering wheel, trying to see farther into the lot, but there was no one there. The homeless man was ambling over to Colby’s truck, obviously intent on preaching his crazy-speak to another. Colby wasn’t in the mood. With a frustrated grunt, he put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot. This wasn’t his business. Keats wasn’t his business.
This was just residual angst about feeling responsible for the kid Keats used to be. That was all this was. He’d offered to help and it wasn’t wanted. What more could he do? He pressed a button on his steering wheel, activating his phone, and called a number he’d only programmed tonight.
“Hello?” Georgia said, her voice a little sleep soft.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Looks like it.” The sound of water sloshing filled the background. “But that’s a good thing. I think I dozed off in the tub.”
“The tub? Are you trying to torture me?” he asked, with visions of what he imagined Georgia’s naked body would look like all wet and soapy filling his head. He’d only gotten a glimpse of her tonight.
“You called me,” she reminded him. “You’re trying to torture yourself.”
“Right.”
“Is everything okay?” More water sounds, and he could tell she was getting out of the tub.
“I dropped Keats off. He’s at some shithole motel on Hines that probably has more drug dealers and hookers in it than county lockup, and I’m trying to talk myself out of turning around and dragging his ass back to my house, willing or not.”
“So you’re calling me to convince you not to do that?” she guessed.
“Yes.”
“Turn around and go get him.”
“What?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be the rational one here, not repeat my own crazy ideas back to me.”
“Sorry, but he’s being stupid and bullheaded. Someone needs to talk some sense into him. Especially since he’s likely just freaked-out because—well, staying with you would probably be hard for him.”
“Hard? Why? Because I used to be his teacher?”
“No, of course not.” She made an impatient sound, like the answer was obvious. “Because he’s into you.”
Colby glanced at the screen showing Georgia’s number on it as if he could see her face and effectively give her the what-the-fuck look. “What are you talking about? He’s straight. And he was all eyes for you today.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“What do you mean?”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I probably shouldn’t say anything. But last night when I was, you know, watching you, I wasn’t the only one with a front-row seat. Keats walked in.”
“What?”
“You were already on the bed and had your eyes closed, but he walked in—an accident, I think, because he looked surprised. But then he stayed. And watched.”
“Fucking hell.” That was why Keats had been so skittish when he’d brought him a towel last night. Everything went annoyingly hot at the thought that both Georgia and Keats were there with him last night.
“I mean, I don’t know,” Georgia said, and he could tell she was choosing her words carefully, “maybe I misread it. Maybe he’s just into watching . . . or listening, like tonight.”
“That’s more likely,” he said, jerking the wheel to the right and exiting the highway again. “He’s made it clear he’s straight. But when I was talking with him tonight, I got the sense he’s kind of fascinated that I’m kinky.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled to a stoplight and tapped his head against the back of the seat. He had no idea if the vibe he’d gotten from Keats earlier was truly an untapped interest in kink or if he was projecting that onto Keats, seeing what his dirty mind wanted to see. If my torture did it for her, then I don’t mind suffering . . . The simple statement had drawn all kinds of pictures in Colby’s head. And it had made him look at the guy sitting at his table with new eyes. “Just a feeling I got.”
“Would you care?”
Colby scoffed. “If he’s kinky? Of course not. That’d actually make it easier, considering the things he may hear or see living with me.”
“And if he’s bi?” she asked gently.
He hit his turn signal with more force than necessary, almost breaking the arm off the steering column. “He’s not. But it’s not my business what he is or isn’t.”
She made some noise, but he couldn’t tell whether it was assent or judgment. “Just go get him, Colby. Make sure he’s safe. The rest will work itself out.”
Sure, it would.
Just like last time. He could almost look back over his shoulder and see the paved path of good intentions stretched out behind him. He knew where that road led.
But he was going anyway.
THIRTEEN
Keats fished out his key card as he approached the door to his room, trying not to look back to see if Colby was still in the parking lot. It’d been an asshole move to bolt on him like that, but he needed to get out before Colby went into takeover mode again. Yes, to someone like Colby, who lived in a posh suburb, this place probably seemed like a third world country. But for Keats this was just another day, another motel. Nothing to get all twisted up about.
He slid his card into the reader and the light blinked yellow instead of green. He tried again and got the same result. “Dammit.”
He glanced back toward the main office, which was on the far side of the parking lot. Aaron had probably already deactivated Keats’s card. But that had happened before and the light usually went red for that. He grabbed the door handle and gave a little push. The door gave—apparently, it hadn’t clicked fully into the lock.
That should’ve given him pause, but he was in too much of a rush to get inside. He swung the door open, set his bag and guitar case on the floor, and was greeted by a looming black mass in the dark. Keats didn’t have time to make a sound before a fist came crashing into the side of his head.
The doorknob slipped from his hand as the momentum from the unexpected punch propelled him to the floor. He rolled on the dingy carpet, trying to get to his feet, but the blow had dazed him, and he couldn’t get his bearings in the dark.
A sharp kick landed against his ribs. “Been waiting for you all night, pretty boy. Aaron said if you didn’t show up I could have your shit. But this is so much better.”
“What the fuck?” Keats groaned. He recognized the voice instantly but not the reason for Hank’s visit. “You said I had until tomorrow to get you cash.”
“It’s almost midnight, asshole. You have my money?”
“I got it,” Keats ground out. Well, some of it. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he tried to calculate how far he was from a possible weapon. The lamp would be within reach if he could get to his knees, but the motel bolted everything down, so that wouldn’t work. The phone had possibilities. But if he could get his arm under the bed . . . He got on his knees and lifted his hand in a placating gesture, trying to look like he was cooperating. “Just lay the fuck off and give me a second to get it.”
But Hank’s dirty biker boot planted against Keats’s chest and shoved him back down. The wind left Keats, and he quickly realized Hank didn’t give a shit about the mo
ney. He was high or drunk off his ass and looking to beat someone for entertainment. Super.
Anger moved through Keats. All this bullshit and he hadn’t even stolen anything from the guy. He gritted his teeth. This idiot had gotten the jump on him, but that wouldn’t happen again. He scrambled to the left before Hank could kick him again and rolled to his feet.
“Aww, look at Mr. Tough Guy run,” Hank teased. “I always told Nina you were a pussy.”
The insult echoed back to what Keats’s father used to call him, and all rational thought left his mind. He charged, leading with his fists.
He was going to kill this fucker.
—
Colby stalked into the dimly lit office of the Texas Star Motel. A man with a fraying Cowboys cap and cigarette hanging out of his mouth looked up with disinterest. “All booked up tonight.”
“I need to know what room Adam Keats is staying in.”
The man snuffed out his cigarette. “We don’t give out guest information. Company policy.”
Right. Colby suspected exactly what their policy was. He pulled out his wallet, plucked a twenty from it, and slapped it on the counter. “Room number.”
The guy’s tobacco-stained fingers snatched the bill and tucked it in his front shirt pocket. “One-thirty-two. Far left side.”
“Thanks for the hospitality,” Colby said, not hiding the sarcasm in his voice. He shoved open the glass door, the rickety handle nearly coming off in his hand, and strode through the parking lot.
A few guys were sitting around a dinged-up Oldsmobile, blasting a song with so much bass he could feel it vibrate his chest. The ringleader gave him a narrow-eyed look, probably sizing him up to see if the three of them could be enough to get his wallet off him. This was the part of town you only wanted to visit in the morning because the criminals were either sleeping it off or in jail. But Colby glared right back, daring them to try it. He could bench-press one of these assholes for fun.