by Eden Finley
Now I wait for the real questions. How does it work? Who does who? Who’s the girl in the relationship?
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
“Is his father a real douche? Like, isn’t he supposedly the next president or whatever?”
I’m too young to have a heart attack, but Bell’s determined to keep me on my toes.
I glance around the table wondering if this is actually happening and realize all eyes are on me. They’re all waiting for me to answer.
I clear my throat. “Noah Huntington the Second is a very compassionate man who I respect and admire. He’s going to make a great president.”
No one reacts, and I guess they can all see through my bullshit.
“Day-um,” Bell says. “They got you trained good.”
I crack a smile. “Oh, and he’s also the biggest douche I’ve ever met.”
“I knew it,” Bell says and slaps the table, while everyone laughs.
I hope that comment doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass, but more than that, I wish it didn’t remind me of Noah’s and my goodbye.
Apparently since I left, Jet hasn’t seen much of him. He’s either in his room or out. Whatever that means. It’s not like I get a say in where he goes or what … or who he does.
God, he better not be sleeping with anyone. I’d like to say it’s because publicity-wise, he’s still supposed to be with me, but I know that’s bullshit. I couldn’t care less what the press says about us anymore. I don’t want him to fuck anyone else because he’s mine.
Gah! He’s not mine. Not anymore. He never was.
Miller leans in close to me. “You okay? You spaced out for a second.”
I lift my beer. “I’m going to need something stronger.”
“In that case, I’ll be right back.”
The club starts to get busy, the dim lights turn completely off, and then harsh neon lights come on, basking the club in a seedy ambiance that I’m more used to.
Miller waits in a long line at the bar, so I take the opportunity to hit the head while I wait for my next drink. It’s probably paranoia, but when I stand, I swear half the guys at the table watch me as I leave.
Tonight is going better than expected, but something still doesn’t sit right with me. Sometimes paranoia is warranted.
Especially when I finish at the urinal and turn to find Jenkins standing by the door.
I try to remain stoic as I wash my hands and not give away that my heart pounds in my chest. “You know, following the gay guy into the bathroom isn’t going to do wonders for your rep.”
Deep breaths. If it comes down to it, let him swing first. Defend yourself but don’t fight.
I let out a grunt of frustration. I haven’t had to think like this since I started going to gay bars scoping for a hookup. I had to be prepared in case someone recognized me or if I came across those horror stories where closet cases fuck you and then fuck you up because of their own issues. Luckily, I was never in any of those situations, but I was prepared all the same.
Jenkins shifts from one foot to the other. “I just wanted to say … I mean … I’m giving you a friendly warning.”
Friendly warning. Pfft. Right.
“Aw shit, that came out way less than friendly.” His hands rise in surrender. “I’m cool. My cousin is gay, and we went to high school together. I’m not the one with an issue, but I’ve seen a lot of ugly shit happen, and I don’t want that for you. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
“If you’re trying to reassure me any, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”
“Sorry.”
“So, there are guys on the team with an issue. Got it. It’s expected.” It sucks, but I’m not surprised. “And let me guess—they’re all the ones who eyed me as I left the table to come in here.”
“They’re not going to do anything. We all got a phone call about you when they were trying to recruit you. We were told if you signed, and we did anything, it’d be our asses on the line, not yours. But I thought you’d like a heads-up on who to avoid.”
“Fuck, that’s probably the worst thing management could do. Now it looks like I get special treatment because of my orientation. That’s going to piss the phobes off more.”
“I dunno. It rang out pretty clear that there’ll be a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to you. I think that’s better than sitting back and hoping for the best.”
“Maybe I should’ve retired,” I mumble and head for the exit.
Jenkins follows me. “No way, man. You, Talon, Miller, and Carter are taking us to the Super Bowl.”
“Carter …” He was one of the ones at the table.
“One of the guys to look out for, yes. We’ll make sure to put him on the other side of the field to you.”
Being a wide receiver, Carter’s going to be fighting it out with me for ball time. Football players are competitive by nature. We all want to cross that end zone, and some people are bigger fame whores than others. Add Carter’s issues with me being gay, and I might have my first problem.
“We’re going to be unstoppable,” Jenkins says.
“At least one of us has faith.”
The team’s getting stronger and stronger every year. If stupid shit like my sexual orientation doesn’t get in the way, we have the talent to go the whole way, but right now I’m skeptical we’ll even make it through training together.
Back in the main bar area of the club, we run into Talon and Miller who’ve separated from the rest of the group. Miller’s juggling two drinks and a handsy woman at the same time. Now that’s talented. Talon has his hands occupied by the round ass of a tall redheaded woman.
“Either they move fast or we were in the bathroom a hell of a lot longer than I thought,” I say to Jenkins.
“Come on, you know what it’s like with these women.” He laughs when I raise a brow at him. “Then again, I guess not, but you can’t tell me you’ve never been cornered by a jersey chaser.”
True. Right before I generally made an exit from wherever the hell we were.
“Yo, Jackson,” Miller yells. “Drinks.” He hands them both to me.
“Both?”
“You said you needed something stronger.” Now Miller’s hands are free to roam over the blonde glued to his side.
Meanwhile, Talon’s trying to find the ginger’s tonsils. I throw back the drinks. The usual burn is multiplied, and I wonder if they’re doubles. At least the numbness should kick in soon.
Talon rips his mouth away long enough to say, “We’re out. Miller, you and … uh … your gorgeous date coming? After-party at my place.”
“I’m out too,” I say. After Jenkins cornered me in the bathroom, I don’t have any desire to go back to the table and try to decipher which of my teammates have put me on their shit list already.
Jenkins does the man-hug back slap thing. “See you guys at camp.”
Where I’m sure it’ll be just like high school all over again.
Football is my dream, I remind myself, because it’s easy to forget with all the bullshit.
The five of us stumble our way out of the club, right into a group of paparazzi.
Damn it.
Talon practically tosses me his date, and she falls into my arms as the lights from the cameras go off in Talon’s face.
Miller, the girls, and I are able to avoid the frenzy and escape up the street.
“I know I should feel bad, but thank fuck, Talon’s bigger than I am here,” I say.
“Yeah, I do not want to go through what you guys do,” Miller says.
The redhead’s arms wrap around my waist. “Are you going to come back with us to Marcus Talon’s house too?”
I can’t help laughing, and by the look of it, Miller’s trying to hold in his own laugh.
“Barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he says.
“I thought … well, you know,” she says in an obvious tone—like her innuendo should be obvious. “The more, the merrier. That’s what Marcus Talon sai
d, right?”
My eyebrows soar high, and shit gets awkward super fast. Not only because she keeps saying Talon’s name in full but because Miller can’t look at me.
I laugh my surprise off, but I don’t know if I sell it. “Your math is out, honey. Two guys, I get. Three guys, I get. Four guys … you get the picture. If I were to join you, that’d break dude law, and neither Talon or Miller would go for that.”
Not to mention even if they did, it’d be a dumb idea to hook up with a teammate.
Plus Noah.
Damn it. Can’t I go five minutes without thinking about him?
“Dude law?” the blonde asks while simultaneously being draped over Miller.
“Thou shalt not touch during a devil’s three-way,” Miller says with a smirk.
“I’m gay and even knew that was a thing,” I say.
The blonde appears confused as she pouts her lip. “But there’s four of us. Is it still a devil’s four-way?”
“On that note,” I say, “I’m going to catch a cab home.” I turn to Miller and hand over the redhead so he has one girl on each side. “Have fun with that.”
I almost get to the end of the block, but Miller calls out.
“Wait, Jackson.” He’s ditched the girls and is already halfway to me. When he reaches me, he casts his eyes down. “Look, this … thing. With Talon and me. It’s just something we used to do in college. It’s not like we touch or anything. We’re—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t think you’re queer because you have a four-way. It’s none of my business. It doesn’t involve anyone but you guys … well, and those jersey chasers over there. Just don’t let the press catch wind of what you’re doing. You think the past few months have been fun for me? Wait until an orgy gets leaked.”
He runs his hands through his hair. “Shit, you’re right. We’re not in college anymore. We shouldn’t—”
“Ready to go?” Talon yells from where he’s caught up to the girls.
Something happens to Miller’s face when he sees Talon. All reservation is gone as he says goodbye to me and follows them. I tell myself to pretend I didn’t see or hear anything, because it’s not my business and I’d rather stay oblivious.
I make my escape while I can and grab a taxi at the end of the block, glad to be outta the stupid wind. Fuck this city.
The night wears on me, the alcohol finally kicks into my system, and I’m no longer in the company of distractions. Friends don’t let friends drink and text. That should go for taxi drivers too. They should make it part of their service. Because now that I’m alone, I do the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t. I click on Noah’s name and type out three words he doesn’t want to read.
I miss you.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Noah
“Get up,” a voice says and tries to shake me awake. I’m on my stomach, there’s drool on my pillow, and I have absolutely no idea what time it is.
I crack an eye open. “What the fuck, Jet?”
“It’s seven p.m. Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to talk to your landlord like that.”
“You’re not my landlord if I don’t pay you. You’re more like an adoptive older brother. Which means I get to annoy you.”
I roll onto my back. “Why do I need to get up? I was awake for like thirty-something hours getting stuff done on the Rainbow Beds project. I want to sleeeeeeep.”
“I have a gig tonight, and you’re coming.”
“Why?”
“Because all you’ve done since Matt left is work and sulk.”
“Noah Huntington doesn’t sulk. Over anyone.”
Jet steals my comforter off me. “Does Noah Huntington shower? Because he needs to. Go.”
“I don’t want to.” It doesn’t escape me that the nineteen-year-old is being more mature than me right now, but I don’t care.
The real reason I was up all night was because I was staring at my stupid phone.
I miss you. What kind of shit is that? What am I supposed to do with it? Message him the words I’ve been desperate to say to him since he left?
Come back.
Don’t leave me again.
I love you.
Fucking Matt. He’s messing with my head even though there’s eight hundred miles between us.
“It’s your choice whether you shower or not, but you’re going out either way. So, you have the choice of looking like a hobo or you can shower and get all old man sexy and forget about my stupid brother.”
“Seriously, quit with the old shit. Twenty-six is not old.”
“Whatever, old man.”
Jet hovers in my room while I shower, like I need a babysitter, and still refuses to get out when I return in only my towel.
“You gonna just stand there and watch while I dress?”
“I need to make sure you don’t get back into bed.”
“You’re a brat.”
“At least I’m good at something.”
I cock my head, because now that I’m really looking at him, I realize he’s not in here for me at all. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt, and he keeps shuffling from one foot to the other as if he’s impatient, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it. “You’re nervous. About your gig.”
He folds his arms across his chest and tries to look defiant. “Fuck off. I’ve done heaps of gigs before.”
“Not in New York. Not at somewhere as important as Club Soho.”
Jet scowls and drops his arms. “Fine. Okay. I need you to freaking hold my hand like I’m a kid on my first day of school. The band booked this gig, and I still don’t know half their songs. Seeing as Matt’s not here, you’re now my surrogate big brother. Suck it up.”
I can’t help laughing, even though I shouldn’t. He’s scared about going on stage and needs my support, not mocking. “You know, if you’d have told me that from the beginning, I would’ve moved a lot faster. I thought …” I run a hand over my shaved head. “I thought you were being all pushy about Matt.”
“Well, you do need a kick up the ass about that too, but that’s not the real reason I’m in here.”
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ll go with you to your gig if you promise not to mention your brother again for an entire month.”
He narrows his eyes. “A week.”
“Two weeks.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it and then I dress so we can get our asses out the door for Jet to make it to the club in time for setup.
Club Soho is the type of club that has gone through a million transformations since its early days in the nineties. There’s been a wide scale from grunge to hipster and everything in between. It’s unfortunately still in its hipster infancy, but I assume that will change again in a few years.
With black walls, wooden tables, and bartenders with beards long enough to braid, the whole place makes me antsy, but I don’t know why. Maybe this is the new me. Ever since Matt left, I’ve found any type of socializing daunting.
Jet drags me to the bar. “Hey, Scott, this is my brother Noah. Give him whatever he wants.”
Scott’s eyes flitter between us. “Brother?”
“Yeah. My brother. What’s your point?” Jet tries to hold in his smirk.
I lift my chin to the bartender. “He’s being a dick. I’m with his brother. As in … all domesticated and shit.”
I die a little at the lie, which is weird for me. Lying comes as second nature to a politician’s son. I learned from the best. But pretending to be happy with someone who moved away and I haven’t spoken to since he left … it stings.
I order a scotch and find a table along the back wall, tucked behind a load-bearing pole. I think I’ll sit here all night and hibernate.
After a soundcheck, the club starts to fill, and Jet disappears backstage. My phone burns a hole in my pocket, but I know all I’ll do is read that damn message again, so I refrain from taking it out.
Four drinks later, the band comes out to a deafening roar of applause, but Jet doesn’t take to the stage. I bet he’s sweating bullets waiting to be introduced as the new guy. My leg bounces nervously for him.
The bassist takes to the mic. He’s got more tatts than Jet—a full two sleeves. Ear gauges, mohawk … he’s the stereotypical rocker, unlike Jet who looks arty and soulful.
“Hey, Club Soho!”
The crowd cheers once again, and they get a chant going. “Benji, Benji, Benji.”
“I know, I know,” the guy says. His Australian accent is thicker than Jet’s Southern one. Interesting mix. “It’s been a while since we’ve been back, but anyone following us on Twitter will know we’ve been abandoned by he who shall be furthermore known as Voldemort, and we’ve been searching for someone to replace him since. So, here he is, the bloke who has saved our asses. Fallout welcomes Jet Jackson!”
Pride swells in my chest as Jet makes his way front and center of the stage and gives the audience an arrogant smile. “Promise to go easy on me,” he says into the mic.
Before anyone has a chance to heckle the new guy, the band breaks out into a cover of Train’s “Drive By” and the crowd goes nuts.
Jet is … amazing. I mean, I’ve heard him singing from his room and fiddling with his guitar when he’s writing music, but with the atmospheric crowd and his incredible presence, he comes alive as he bounces across the stage with Jet-like energy.
It sucks Matt’s missing this.
Without much thought to my self-imposed talking ban, I take out my phone and FaceTime the guy I wish I could get out of my head.
He answers with a sleepy yawn, his brown hair sticking up at all angles and looks sexy as fuck. An I hate you is on the tip of my tongue, but with the loud background, he wouldn’t hear it anyway.
I hold up my finger, because I have no idea what he’s saying when his mouth moves and then flip the phone the other way so he can see the stage instead.
Jet kills the song, but maybe I’m biased. Then again, if the group of girls standing near my table are anything to go by, I’d say he’s won them over too.
Good luck, ladies.
During the second song—one of the band’s originals—my phone vibrates in my hand. I don’t know when Matt ended the call, but there’s a text message.