Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Reed

How does this fit into my life?

I stand outside of Randy's, under the short awning, the pink and blue neon welling into the near dusk, my hands shoved into the pockets of my joggers and the brim of my hat low.

And I debate.

I could turn around and walk away. I probably should. I haven't known Indy for all that long, and I don't wanna be the guy who's a dick. I don't want to drag out something that's not gonna happen. She deserves more respect than that.

But fuck… I just…

I'm tired of not knowing what's going on in my own head.

Why am I standing out here, weirdly, glancing at the windows on my right, hoping to catch a glimpse, as if that will tell me everything I know. I don't see Indy or her roommates, or anyone who was filming last night. Maybe they're in the back booth where I can't see them. I don't think I'm early.

I drag my hand out of my pocket to rub at the side of my neck, my feet stuck on the concrete, and the fucking debate raging in my head.

I pull in a breath of humid air. It was a warm day today, a promise of rain hanging in the clouds, so close to tipping over that a few misty drops break through every so often. The harbor smells stronger here than back home in Allison. I don't get to this side of Boston much. I've never been to Randy's before.

I guess I don't get out of my comfort zone much.

Two years graduated, and it seems like I'd have moved out of the house I lived in while in college. But I honestly don't know where else to go. I'll never move back home with my parents, and my professional water polo career, well, it hasn't exactly?—

"Are you going in?"

The voice is directly over my shoulder, clear and steady, graveling a touch at the end. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, my hands fist in my pockets.

I'm having a reaction.

Why am I having a reaction?

I turn, steeling my shoulders, keeping my face passive, my eyes cool, but my heart is starting to flood my chest. This is fucking ridiculous. I don't understand how some guy, just by standing next to me, can infiltrate my entire body. It's a hostile takeover. It's a damn coup.

And it only gets worse when I face him. Brown eyes looking up at me, a trace of black eyeliner makes them stand out even more. He's watching me carefully, openly, not trying to hide that dagger of curiosity.

And, fuck, that bit of makeup. I've never found myself staring at a guy like this, and I've definitely never found myself staring at a guy who's wearing makeup while thinking that I need to play it cool. The tightening across my stomach and the lift of my cock is not something he can see. Only I know the truth.

"Hello, Reed," he says, making me realize that I haven't responded to him yet.

I clear my throat. "Lennox."

His name hangs in my mouth longer than I want it to, lingering while I take him in as subtlety as I can. Black hoodie, unzipped, a black shirt underneath, which looks like it has tiny, faded pink clusters of flowers on it. It hugs his stomach and his chest, showing this firmness.

Ripped jeans and a worn pair of Converse, his feet are smaller than mine. All of him is smaller than me, and I find myself thinking about that difference, my hands fisting harder in my pockets, wavering memories of last night coming to the forefront.

Goddamn fucking hostile takeover.

His lips rise just slightly. And I want to know why they rose. I want to know what he thinks. I want to know what it means when his eyes rove over my face and then down to my chest, all the way to my joggers, before trailing back up, and then narrowing as they meet my gaze again.

"I'm not sure if Indy is here yet." He tilts his head, not looking away as he talks. It makes me realize how many people look away when they are talking, like they're not really interested in your response but more interested in their own words. "Are you supposed to meet her?"

I slip my hand out of my pocket to itch at the side of my neck again. "Yes."

He nods, but he doesn't rush to go inside. A sputter of mist wets the side of my cheek, or maybe it's the wind, pulling water off the trees or the awning above our heads. It must hit Lennox too because he swipes a hand across his cheek, his fingers moving deftly, black nail polish newly reapplied.

I have to tear my eyes away from his hand, from his eyeliner. Jesus, it's not just a faint lifting in my cock anymore. I shouldn't have worn these tight joggers.

I'm fucking up.

What am I doing here?

I should go back to where my roommates were playing horseshoes with the guys from the rugby team who live down the street. Talking about nothing serious. Just vaguely making plans for a party they want to have next weekend after BU's game and arguing about the hockey team's screw up by not filling out their defensive bracket. Stuff that I know. Stuff that makes sense in my life.

But…

"I started reading the script," I find myself saying. "It starts pretty fast."

His brows rise. "What do you mean?"

"I guess that it just gets right to the hotel. There's not much that happens before."

"Jamie usually gets right into the story." He shifts back onto his heels. "Nobody wants to watch a horror movie where the characters just go around talking for thirty minutes."

"Yeah, but there's no lead up at all . I dunno. I just felt like I was tossed right in."

His lips press. "Maybe you're not understanding the vision. It's supposed to be disorienting."

"It was definitely disorienting." I roll my shoulders. "Maybe you should think about how confusing it might be to someone else. Isn't there usually a scene or two where shit gets set up?"

He frowns. "It's told in flashback."

"Why?" I know I'm not some kind of scriptwriter, but I've seen enough movies to get the basic structure. It's not unlike a water polo match. You don't go in and throw everything you've got full force at the other team in the first minute. You feel them out. You read their strategy and see how it fits against your team's pre-match planning. If you go for all power all the time, you'll be worn out by the third period, when things are getting intense. "Why would I give a shit how they got there after they're already there?"

"It's part of the larger story," he says stiffly, his gaze narrowing as he considers me. His words are slightly edged, and for some reason, that's pulling my attention to the way he's standing, feet shoulder width apart. A few white strings hanging from the tear in his jeans, a bulge under his zipper that is not drawing my focus.

Except it is.

Same with the tightness of his shirt across his stomach and the texture of the fabric with its tiny hatch marks that's different from the usual cotton. My fingers twitch where they're fisted in my pockets, like they want to feel it. Wipe away the mist that's landed on his cheek, and fix the makeup smudged under his eyes. Or maybe I want to smudge it more?

I don't fucking know . Both, I guess.

Why, when he looks at me like that, do I want to touch him?

He licks a sheen of water off his lips. "You don't have the full script. And my brother's a fucking genius."

"Why don't I have the full script?"

"Jamie's decided to hold back the ending until later. He's worried about actors telegraphing the ending."

"So he doesn't trust them?"

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I said."

Holy fuck, I just want to push him more. My stomach's rigid, and my cock's so hard that I'm not sure I can hide it. The world narrows down the way it does in the pool when every drop of water has clarity, like the sprinkles clustered along his clean-shaven cheek.

This is so fucked up.

I'm such a dick.

But it's like I can't stop. Like this soul-deep ache that's rising out of nowhere.

So I lob something else at him, not sure if it will hit. "Are you defending your brother or the script?"

He stiffens. "Both."

His response cuts, his eyes tracking over me like he's digging in deep, and then they flash down.

I tense.

I'm fucking hard. I squeeze my fists, pulling the joggers away from my dick, but I'm pretty sure it's a useless effort. I'm pretty sure he can see the full outline and the constriction of my stomach as I stop breathing. Heat simmers over the back of my neck despite the coolness of the mist.

I can't get control over my body. This six-foot-three mass that I have spent my life learning to control, to work for me in the pool, in the gym, controlling my expressions, and it's like with a look, he can shatter it.

And that he doesn't even know. That he doesn't even guess .

His eyes move up, away from my dick, and they settle on my face. If he saw, if he had a reaction, if he guesses anything , I don't see it on his face. He's as shuttered as I am.

He pushes back his hair and glances toward the door, that line of his jaw still rigid. "We should go inside. Indy's probably here."