24. Matthias

24

MATTHIAS

I 'd been wading in the pool long enough for my fingers and toes to begin to shrivel into raisins. For the second time that morning, I showered in the locker room, though this time I was alone the entire time, which was for the best considering I could not hide my raging hard-on.

With the hot water beating down my back, I imagined Ciaran's mouth, remembered the way his hands touched me, the way he kissed me last night, the fit of his body against mine. Even the way he cupped my shoulders as he inspected my injury was enough to send me over the edge.

Confused as my mind was about the situation, my body did not seem to care that he called me Drew. My hand automatically reached down to my aching cock to relieve my pent-up frustration. I'd barely tugged on my shaft before I was coming hard and fast.

"Fuck," I breathed out. The relief was instant and I sagged against the wall, letting the shower stream wash away the evidence.

Once dressed, I headed out of the basement and into the guesthouse, where I found my normal protein recovery smoothie in the fridge. Franky had crafted the perfect ratio between plant-based protein powder, bananas, spinach, avocados, and a mixture of other vitamins to create a shake that instantly helped me recover from hours of swim practice.

I looked around the first floor. Franky was nowhere to be seen, most likely on her usual Sunday morning errands before she split for the day. Ciaran, presumably, was upstairs in his bedroom or he'd escaped to the beach. I counted the surfboards. All were accounted for, excluding the one he'd lost yesterday. The day was shaping up to be warm and sunny, but at least Ciaran wasn't out in the ocean trying to drown.

Leaning against the counter and sipping my smoothie, I switched on my phone and it loaded all texts that had come in while I was underground in the basement.

Joan's text said that it would take a few more days to find a home for the statue. Filipe, who was apparently at the grocery store, asked what he needed to bring for the BBQ Bash (his words, not mine) on Friday night.

I wrote back, Anything but red fire oblivion , to which Filipe sent back a thumbs-up emoji.

Dad's text was merely a picture of him and Theresa in Honolulu, visiting with Dante at our offices on the main island. I didn't realize Dante was planning to visit them there, but the gesture made a lot of sense given the occasion.

The three of them were dressed in Hawaiian casual and huddled together on the balcony. The picture-perfect Hawaiian skyline with its combinations of mountaintops, coastal businesses, and turquoise waters made for a postcard-style background.

In return, Dante's text was longer in that it contained actual words. Hey bro. Theresa is awesome. Dad is like a puppy following her around but she isn't commanding or demanding or anything like that. She's sweet and kind. This may sound weird, but within five minutes of meeting her, I knew Dad didn't deserve her, and I think he is trying hard to be worthy of her. I've never seen him brought to his knees like this. Anyway, looking forward to meeting Ciaran sometime this summer, and seeing your times in the water. You shaved 1.5 seconds, or so I've heard. Great job!

Dante was an excellent swimmer in his own right. He'd been captain of the Trojan Swim Team when he attended USC but he'd never had aspirations to swim professionally.

Dante's goal in life was to be part of Dad's business and help modernize it, to include making everything environmentally friendly and sustainable. It wasn't easy, but Dante was making strides.

While it was true I had shaved time on my lap time, that was before the overuse injury, so I'd lost all ground gained. I think that was why I was pushing myself to the breaking point. I'd achieved the gains but lost it almost as quickly. I wasn't easy on myself when it felt like I was failing miserably.

I'd been doing a pretty good job of hiding the injury, especially from Dad, Dante, and to a certain extent, Coach Anderson. Coach knew I wasn't performing my best, but he'd chalked it up to lifestyle, assuming I was partying every night.

Granted, I'd been a bit out of control in high school and at the beginning of freshman year at USC, so there was some truth to Coach's perceptions. However, I'd been working hard on turning a corner, not that it helped when I'd slipped up in February of this year and did a few lines of coke.

Coach witnessed it and thought the best way to deal with the situation was to have me date his daughter, who was an aspiring actress, unless I wanted him to report my misconduct to the swim committee. Naturally that would have disqualified me from competing in any competition, including the upcoming Nationals.

I'd agreed to Coach Anderson's terms even before he'd stopped talking. Zoey wasn't the problem. She knew her end of the deal, but there'd been a few outings where I got the impression she'd maybe want to make the "relationship" real by suggesting we let paparazzi snap a few shots of us kissing.

For the moment, that was a firm no unless Coach Anderson decided to suddenly alter the terms of our agreement. Coach also suggested I "keep it in the pants" and not date anyone else. So not only was I fake-dating Zoey, I couldn't exactly date anyone for real, either.

Coach had me by the balls and not in the good way, either.

No quickies. No making out with anyone.

Well, except for Ciaran, and that didn't count because it wasn't real.

As I rinsed out the smoothie cup and placed it in the dishwasher, I laughed out loud because it just occurred to me that my life was a soap opera. Before I left the kitchen, I noticed a note in Franky's handwriting.

Scanning it, I saw that it appeared to be a list for Ciaran. There were names of places to visit, restaurants, off-the-wall overlook hiking trails frequented by locals, and then the number to someone named Claude.

I collected the list, jogged upstairs, and rapped on Ciaran's doorframe. Given that the door wide open, I knew he was inside. He was sitting at his desk and studying his laptop screen. He'd changed into athletic shorts and a T-shirt, and his hair was still slightly damp.

Ciaran's expression was blank when he looked over at me.

"Hey," I said, waving the paper, "you left this on the counter."

"Thanks," he said in a tone that did not invite further conversation. "You can leave it on the dresser by the door."

"Were you wanting to visit a certain kind of business? I know everything around here."

An expression of yearning briefly filled his eyes. "Is there a bookstore on that list?"

I reviewed the list again. Everything written down was a quick rideshare away. Ciaran wanted to find things to do during the week that would not require anyone's assistance…which would include me. That was for the best. Ciaran needed to learn his way around and I needed to stay out of his way.

"Yes. There's a bookstore near Malibu Point, which is a twenty-minute drive."

"Got it, thanks," Ciaran said without looking at me. He was tapping away at his phone. "I'll order a rideshare."

"Wait," I blurted, which got his attention. "I can drive you."

Didn't I just tell myself Ciaran needed to learn his own way around? It was becoming clear I was incapable of listening to my own mind.

"There's no need. I'm sure you have other things to do than chauffeur me about. I don't want to get in the way of your next illegal enterprise. I suspect you're two jobs away from smuggling humans into the country."

The last part was said with a tinge of sarcasm. I chuckled.

"I was hoping you wouldn't catch on, Ciaran," I said smoothly, gaining a bit of my normal nonchalant coolness. I leaned against the doorjamb. "But here's the deal. I do owe you a ride in the Ferrari."

Ciaran thought for a second before closing the lid to his laptop.

"I'll put on my sneakers."