Chapter 18

Penn

I call in sick for work the next day and stay in bed. My room is dark, my shirt stinks of stale sweat, and I know I need to get up and shower and brush my teeth, but my body is a sloppy pancake and won't listen.

What the fuck have I done?

Madden is the single greatest thing that's ever happened to me, and I had to go and fuck it all up. I'd say it was just for a quick orgasm, but that moment between us was so much more than that. The way my heart is aching for him is dangerous, and I'm terrified to pick up the phone and call him because I can't stand to confirm that things have changed.

My nose itches, and I ignore it as long as I can before I give in to a half-hearted scratch.

How many people have I had sex with before? I never bothered to count, but it's been a lot. And I'm not sure if it's because Madden is a man or because it's him, but nothing has come close to comparing to that moment.

I wish I'd touched him. I wish I knew what it felt like to have his heavy cock in my hand. Having him get me off had been something else, and I wanted to give him that same feeling.

Now … shit. I don't even know if we're on speaking terms. The only thing worse than calling him and things being strained is calling and having him not answer.

Madden can be as freaked-out as he likes, but I'm borderline pissed with him too. He's my best friend. He knew that was my first time with a man, considering I've always thought I was straight, and he hadn't even bothered to stick around.

He'd gotten off and bailed so fast I'm surprised there's no Madden-shaped hole in my front door. I groan and pull the covers up over my face, wondering if there'll ever be a time I can get my ass out of bed.

I'm hurt.

I'm angry.

I'm frustrated.

And I'm also low-key horny every time I remember the way he looked at me.

I refuse to give in to the urge to touch myself, and that's making me even more annoyed.

Is it possible to feel betrayed after a bestie orgasm? Because I do.

Maybe I'm being too hard on Madden and expecting him to be there to talk through all these thoughts. He helped me out with the physical side of things; it's not up to him to be my queer tour guide.

Madden's always known he's gay. He never exactly had a coming-out crisis because his parents didn't care all that much, and I don't mean about his sexuality. I mean about him. He came out to them, me sitting beside him, and all they'd said was to keep it quiet while he was playing ball.

He injured himself the next season.

I'm still unsure if that was completely by accident or if Madden had self-sabotaged.

Ever since then, he's been out and gay, so maybe he doesn't understand where I'm coming from. Is he freaking out that his straight friend hit on him? Is that what this is?

If that's the case, it's a very easy conversation to get out of the way. Hey, Mads, pretty confident I'm not straight, and if you're on board, I'd like to try kissing you this time, thanks. Or touching him in general.

I really fucked that chance up.

It gets stifling under the covers, so I push them down again and let the cool air in my room rush over my face. My cheeks are sticky with old tears. My bones feel heavy.

And when I reach for my phone, hoping to find something there, I'm sorely disappointed. Madden hasn't reached out.

I open our messages, thumbs typing out and deleting a variety of messages, from "Are you okay?" to "Please talk to me" to "I can't believe you left like that." None of those is the vibe I'm looking for, but there aren't many ways to say "I'm hurt and confused by the way you ditched me, and it's ruined my potential coming out moment." If that's even what's happening here.

That's a lot to put on him.

This whole thing is.

Lana would be at work by now too, so I can't call her, and here I am back to square one. No friends. No one to talk to. Head, heart, and gut all being pulled in different directions.

I switch my phone to airplane mode and back again, but it doesn't miraculously make messages appear. I've disappeared for almost an entire day, and there's no single person who's noticed. No one to check in on me, no one who cares .

That's a dark thing to realize.

Madden's all I have.

And I ruined it.

I crawl into the shower and let myself cry.

I'm craving company, so I go out. It would have been easy to see if Lana wanted to catch up, but I don't need her judgment over making a move on Madden only to have it blow up in my face. She won't have nice things to say about him, and I refuse to hear it.

Instead of going to my usual club, I do something I've never done before.

I google the nearest gay bar and head there instead.

I'm breaking out in a cold sweat while I wait in line, sure someone is going to call me out. Make it clear I don't belong here.

The thing is though, I'm not sure that I do. I got off with my best friend one time. If the rumors are true, straight guys do that sort of thing all the time in college. I didn't, but I did kiss a guy friend in high school as a dare, and I'd avoided him for the rest of the year.

I'd avoided him because I liked it.

The shame and embarrassment from that kiss comes back, and all these feelings I'm having for Madden are making it all make sense. I'm connecting the dots in a way I never have before: the dry mouth, the sweaty palms, how I'd spot him down the end of the corridor, and every time, it felt like I was being hit by a sickening punch to the gut. Not shame like I thought. Fear. I'd been attracted to him. Not uncomfortable. Too comfortable.

I want to figure myself out.

I hand over my ID and am waved inside without incident. As soon as I make it into the hall, the heavy thump of the music surrounds me, and I force myself to keep moving. It would be too easy to turn and run away, but I'm fucking doing this.

If Madden can't be here for me, I'll be here for my fucking self.

Before I step out into the club area, I fill my lungs with a long inhale, then give myself over to whatever happens.

It's bright and loud, just as I expected, but the main difference to where I usually go is that the majority of the people on the dance floor are men. There are a mix of people sitting around drinking and two women making out by the bar that I'm walking toward. I find an empty stool and order a drink, then watch the scene behind me in the mirror above the line of alcohol bottles.

People dancing, people making out, laughing, arguing, talking. A whole eclectic bunch. I watch for so long the bartender offers me another drink, and I take it. There are three guys on the side of the dance floor closest to me. Two of them have taken off their shirts, and the guy in the middle looks blissed-out. I have no idea where any of their hands are, but one guy is sucking on the middle one's neck while he shares the filthiest kiss I've ever seen with the third.

They're in their own little bubble, and I'm not entirely unaffected by the sight.

It feels nothing like it felt with Madden, but that isn't stopping me from having a reaction.

"Fuck," I mutter into my glass.

"You okay?" the bartender asks. "You've gone bright red."

"My first time in one of … in somewhere like … in here." I hate that I stutter over my answer, but he only laughs.

"It's a good vibe."

"It is. "

His golden eyes roam over me. "Let me guess … you're either newly out or closeted, right?"

The fact he can tell I'm either of those things is beyond me. "Kind of both?"

"How can you be both?"

"I'm not … I'm …" I wave my hand over the dancers, but my dick is still hard, and my heart's still heavy with Madden. "No. I know I'm … something."

"You're questioning?"

"Umm … I guess?"

"Hey, it's okay. Most of us start that way."

"You—we—do?"

He nods. His floppy black curls are pulled up on the back of his head, and I give myself a moment to check him out. He's hot. It's so fucking weird I find him hot. Even acknowledging that though, I don't want to sleep with him. I don't want to sleep with any of them.

I want my Madden.

"I talk to a lot of people who come in here, and the look you were wearing is one I see a lot. It's common for people to question in their twenties and thirties. Especially men. We're told we have to be a certain way, and we grow up believing it." He shrugs. "I was twenty-four when I figured myself out. Spoke to a woman a few weeks ago who was forty. You're allowed to have your own journey, and that's beautiful."

It sort of is. I smile and finish my drink, which he quickly replaces with another.

"That one's on me. I hope you find what you're looking for here."

He heads off to serve some other people, and I throw the third drink back as well. I really fucking hope I find it too, but after our conversation, I think I already have.

What I'm going through, it's okay .

A lot of people have to face who they think they are and all the ways that changes regularly. This is just my turn.

Once my glass is empty, I make my way out onto the dance floor, feeling like an idiot. A determined idiot. I'm not fun or spontaneous like Madden, so this is a totally new experience for me. I'm full of them this week, apparently.

It's awkward dancing by myself at first, but it doesn't take long to be approached. A smallish guy with blond hair similar to Madden's makes his way in front of me. We're surrounded from all sides, so when he puts his back to my front and twists his hands back behind my neck, it feels natural to wrap my arms around him.

To hold a guy who isn't Madden.

To rest my hands on his flat stomach. To feel his firm chest. To have him grind his ass into me in a way that gets my dick hard.

I'm not sure if it's the heat or the revelation that's making me light-headed, but I have my answer.

Men turn me on.

Men.

And not only when they're naked and in my living room and it's convenient for my neglected dick.

Madden made sure my dick wasn't neglected last night, and here it is, rising to the occasion.

"Want to take this somewhere else?" the cute guy asks.

My heart sets off so rapidly I almost feel sick.

I could do it. I could go and hook up with this man, just like I've hooked up with so many women in the past. At this stage, I think I'd like it too.

But instead, I choke out, "I'm taken."

"Pity," he says but thankfully doesn't question me on it.

We dance for a while more before another guy moves our way, with apparently more promise than me.

As soon as I'm deserted, I make my way off the dance floor and out of the club. Stepping out into the dark, busy street is a harsh jolt back to reality, where everything feels so different.

Because I feel different.

So far, I haven't wrapped my head around it all, and there's still a bunch I want to dissect, but now that I've figured out the attraction is there, now that I've let myself be open to it, my sexuality doesn't seem like such a big, earth-shattering thing.

Only Madden does.

If it had been him pressed up against me tonight, I don't know that there are any limits I wouldn't have pushed.

My cock is hard the whole way home. I'm drunk off the thought of all those men, but once I fall back on my bed, once I wrap my hand around my dick, Madden's the only one on my mind. I jerk myself off to the memory of last night, shamelessly playing his body, his cock through my mind. I feed myself a barrage of images that are all Madden, and when I come, everything about it feels right.

I wait for the guilt that never comes.

Instead, warmth spreads slowly across my chest.

Whatever the hell spooked him last night, I need to fix it. I need to make things better.

I need Madden.