2

-Malcolm-

I STOPinside the hallway and listen. Over the thudding in my head, I can just make out some noises coming from the kitchen—someone moving around, the clink of crockery. Well, at least he hasn't discovered my little addition to the house. Believe it or not, my father didn't buy this property with the session room already installed. And I doubt he'd approve of his money being used in such a way. He doesn't like anything that flies outside the lines, and I'm pretty certain a fuck room specifically for kinky and depraved sex acts with other guys is way outside the lines.

Thank fuck my card bills are private or he'd have a lot to say.

Moving like a zombie, I follow the noises.

My father is standing with his back to me at the kitchen counter on the far side of the room, using the coffee machine I bought with his money. He shifts, pushes a button, and sets the steamer off with a sharp hiss that makes steam billow around his shoulders. The back of his suit jacket is smooth and neatly creased in all the right places; tastefully expensive.

I hesitate, stuck in limbo between getting his attention and escaping back into the hallway, then out the front door. Running as hard as my feet want me to. Do I say something, or just wait for him to turn and see me?

Before I can decide, his back straightens, his head rising like he's sensed my presence.

He turns.

He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, years ago. Grey eyes, and a clean-shaven, wide jaw. Dark hair, now greying at the edges, neatly clipped into a conservative cut.

He's not quite my height, but he's a big guy, and he makes up for it in width. I didn't get my strong build from my mom. His pristine Italian suit hugs the stretch of his shoulders and neatly conceals the softness around his middle that increases every time I see him.

He looks me up and down, then says, "You look like shit."

Guess he has noticed my bedraggled appearance.I try to remember how to breathe.

He takes a sip of his coffee and I see he's using North's mug. It has a happy cartoon sandwich on it above the letters LGBLT. North thought it was hilarious when we saw it at the mall, so I bought it for him. My fingers twitch at my side with the need to take it from him.

He leans back casually on the worktop and puts the mug down beside him. "So? Where have you been?" He raises his eyebrows. "I got here this morning to an empty house, no car in the driveway, no sign of you."

My throat is almost too dry to speak. His hand rests an inch from a chip in the countertop, where North and I got carried away one evening. My eyes lock onto it. All I can think is, if he knew. If he knew.

"I'm waiting," he says, and my eyes snap back up to him.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He frowns. "What, I can't visit my son?" he says.

"You haven't visited me the entire time I've been here," I say.

His face darkens suddenly. "And whose fault is that? How am I supposed to visit when you move all the way to the other side of the fucking country?" he snaps, his voice full of venom. Then he shrugs, completely calm again, and takes another sip of coffee. His emotions can whiplash like that, calm to angry and back again in a split second. It made growing up with him a fucking rollercoaster—me, always trying to second-guess what his reaction would be to every tiny thing, avoiding anything I thought might set him off, and him, throwing me off and reacting to the most innocuous thing anyway. There was no amount of damage control that could give me an easy life, and he saw a reason to be angry in everything.

If I was doing well at school, I wasn't pulling my weight at home.

If I was doing well in sports, I wasn't working hard enough at school.

If I just stayed out of his way, I was an ungrateful brat who didn't appreciate everything he'd given me.

It was like trying to tiptoe, blindfolded, through a minefield.

And right now he's watching me with that hair-trigger look. "I'm in town on business, thought I'd drop by to make sure I'm not wasting my money on you coming here. It looks like you've been partying instead of studying."

It's just my luck that the one night I go out, he shows up the next day.

"I went out with the football team," I say. "It was a one-off."

He narrows his eyes. "You're on the football team?"

There is the smallest hint of approval in his voice. Apparently that wins me a point in his favor. It shouldn't be a surprise to him though, I've been playing since I was a child. Football is one thing we have in common. That, and anger-management issues.

"Yeah."

He smirks. "Any hot cheerleaders?"

Apparently, knowing I'm gay isn't enough, he has to test it every couple of years just to make sure. Like if he drops enough hints or talks about girls enough I'll suddenly realize I actually do prefer tits. He wants a "normal" son, which is kinda funny considering how much effort he put into fucking me up.

"I wouldn't know," I say.

Ok that was the wrong thing to say. Moment of bonding over.He frowns, sets North's mug down again, and straightens away from the counter. I brace myself for the incoming storm.

"You think you're funny?" he snaps. "I've come all this way to see you, and off you go being a little shit the second I walk through the door. Do you know how much I'm paying for you to attend this college on the other side of the country?"

I stare straight ahead and don't reply, because he doesn't actually want me to. He isn't asking a question, he's demonstrating his control.

"Of course you don't know, because you don't work for your money. I do. You've had an easy ride your whole fucking life. I want to see results for the investment I'm putting in here. I'm not paying for you to have an extended holiday, so if you think I'm gonna let you spend all of my hard-earned money fucking around with—"

There's a slam from the hallway as the front door bangs open, cutting him off mid-rant, and we both turn toward the noise.

North—panting, red faced, and wind swept—appears in the kitchen doorway. His forehead is shiny with sweat, and there's a glint in his wild blue eyes that tells me he's ready to fight.

My heart stops. I told him to stay put, I told him to stay put. And now North is here, and so is my father. Together. In the same room. The two halves of my life that I never wanted to meet.

Horror and relief war inside me. Just seeing North makes it easier to breathe again. But I want to shout at him, scream at him, to get the fuck out of here.

Our eyes meet. I open my mouth, say nothing, and then spin back to my father, waiting for his reaction.

There's a split second of surprise on his face. He gives North a once-over, takes in his all-American good looks, handsome face, and fit body, weighs in his effortless air of confidence, and decides this is someone he wants to impress. North has that effect on people.

The change is instant, the storm clouds vanish and he transforms before my eyes; one moment he's about to tear me a new one, and the next he becomes the charming and hardworking businessman everyone knows and loves. Patrick Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood Estates, and proud father. Slightly confused at this sweaty young man that's just burst into his kitchen, but turning his business smile up to full wattage nonetheless.

I'm turning between them on either side of me like I'm watching a horrifying tennis match. If I didn't sweat through my top on the ride here, I definitely have now.

"Hi there," my father says. Charming, friendly.

North just stares back at him, his shoulders rising and falling with each panting breath.

I try to catch his eye and give him a pleading look, shaking my head minutely.

Don't say anything, I attempt to send him telepathically. Don't do anything. Please.

"Are you going to introduce us, Malcolm?" my father asks.

North finally meets my eye. He takes my look in, and his shoulders sag slightly.

"Malcolm?" my father prompts.

I take a deep breath. "Uh, North," I say, trying to sound normal, "this is . . . my father. Patrick Blackwood." I break eye contact, hoping and praying that North got the message, and turn back to my father. "Father, this is North Nolan. We're . . . on the football team together."

Without warning my father strides forward and brings his hand up. I flinch instinctively at the movement before I realize he's going to shake hands with North. I pray North didn't notice.

"I was under the impression my son didn't know how to make friends," my father says, coming to a stop in front of him with his hand out. North just stands there with his own hands at his sides. He looks furious. He looks like he's ready to fight, right here, right now, on the kitchen floor.

A beat passes, then North glances at me. I stare back, giving a tiny shake of my head again.

Just play it cool.

My father has made it clear in the past what he thinks of anything that flies outside of his lines, and me fucking my teammate in his house is definitely outside the lines.

North seems to understand my message. He looks back at my father, and slowly, as if it's laden with weights and a physical effort, raises his hand. Then he takes my father's and pumps it once, knuckles white. I can see a line standing out on the side of his neck, and his nostrils are flared.

"So, you're Malcolm's football buddy?" my father asks, completely oblivious.

"Yeah," North growls.

I've never heard North growl before. It's obvious he's doing his best to keep calm, but he's still radiating anger like a heat lamp. Somehow my father isn't picking up on it, or he just doesn't care enough to notice. And for once I'm really fucking grateful.

My father drops North's hand and turns back to me,

"So, Malcolm's been holding out on me. Has he got a girlfriend yet?" he asks North while looking at me. His tone is jovial. It makes my stomach turn.

"I don't want a girlfriend," I say.

He laughs like I told a joke.

"You know what," he says to North. "Malcolm here has never had a girlfriend. I don't think he has the people skills required." He laughs again. "Maybe you can help him out, hey?" He looks back at me. "Maybe North here can help you out. I'm sure he has no problem with the ladies." He slaps North on the shoulder, and North twitches, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Am I right?"

I'm certain North's about to pop him in the face, but at that moment my father's phone goes off and he takes his hand off North's shoulder and checks the screen.

"I need to go. I'm staying at the Four Seasons while I'm in town, but I'll be back later." He shoots me a look that says "we're not done," then smiles widely at North. "Pleasure to meet you, North."

Then he's shouting into the phone as he marches out of the kitchen, and the front door slams hard enough to rattle the hinges.

There's a moment of silence as we both stare out of the door, then I slump into one of the chairs at the breakfast bar and take a deep breath. I feel like my strings have been cut. I drop my face into my hands and close my eyes, trying to dispel the cloud of dread clinging to my skin. I don't want North to see.

"What the fuck was that?" North says.

"That was my father," I say into my hands.

"Are you all right?"

I keep my eyes closed. That could have gone so fucking wrong.

"I told you to wait at your dorm," I say.

There's a warm pressure on my back, and the smell of North surrounds me. Despite the riot of emotions trying to claw their way out of me, the familiar smell of him instantly helps calm me down, and I take an even deeper breath to get as much of it as I can.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I couldn't. You're my boyfriend now. Officially. And my boyfriend doesn't face shit like this on his own."

Right. I'm his boyfriend. He's my boyfriend. The first I've ever had. God I hate how warm that makes me feel, and the way my throat tightens at his words. I wish I could react like a normal person and just be happy.

I open my eyes and sit up, and North shifts, still keeping contact. I want to talk it all over with him, but I'm already exhausted.

"He doesn't know about us and what we do," I say, "and I have no idea what he'd do if he found out. So we just have to play it cool until he leaves again. Okay?"

"How long is he staying in town?"

I shake my head. "I don't know."

"All right. I can do that," North says, swiveling my stool around to face him. "Although I'd love to knock him the fuck out."

My mouth twitches up at that. Oh how I'd love to see it.

"Are you ok?" he asks again.

"Yeah, it's just a shock. He's . . . unpredictable."

He wraps his arms around me, and some of the tension melts out of my shoulders. "Ok, I'll play it cool, I promise. Although I don't like it."

"Thanks. I'm sorry he's such an asshole."

"Well, he's gone for now, so let's just relax. And no hanky-panky until he leaves. I'm assuming he has a key?"

"Yeah, this is his house. And who says hanky-panky? What are you, my fucking grandmother?"

"What's wrong with hanky-panky? You'd rather I say ‘fucking'? ‘Raw dawgging'? ‘Pounding my ass'?"

"I'd rather you shut the fuck up," I say, fighting a small smile at his uncanny ability to make me feel light when I'm heavy.

He laughs. "You're lucky I love you, because otherwise I might take offense at being spoken to like that."

The casual way he says it—I love you—feels so alien to me that it hits me right in the chest, as heavy as the first time he said it a few hours ago. To my utter shock and horror my eyes start to well up and I have to blink quickly and turn away.

"Shit," I mutter.

"What?"

"Nothing, I'm just . . . not used to hearing that."

He frowns. "Hearing what? That I love you?"

Another punch to the gut, and my eyes water more, threatening to spill over. It's like he's found the switch inside me to turn on the sprinklers. "Fuck. Stop saying that."

"You want me to stop telling you that I, North Nolan, love you, Malcolm Blackwood?"

"Shut up," I say wetly, trying to shove him.

He jumps away from me, dancing out of reach and cackling like an old woman. "No! I love you!"

"For fuck's sake." That does it. There's no stopping them now. I cover my face with my arm and storm off to the bathroom to find some tissues, grinning that stupid fucking dopey grin that he keeps making me do, while North's laugh echoes from the kitchen.

***

We play it cool all weekend, but my father doesn't reappear. He's like a black cloud hanging over me, promising a storm that refuses to break. Even with North and his apparent superpower to make me feel good, I'm constantly on edge.

On Saturday night North stays at his dorm, and by Sunday morning I'm wound so tight I feel like I'm going to explode. I give in and he stays over Sunday night, but we don't get up to any "hanky-panky," and when Monday rolls around North is wound just as tight as me. The new week brings stability with routine though, and we fall back into our normal pattern—up early, breakfast, run, drills, college.

We have practice after classes and I'm looking forward to burning some tension off, although there's something else that would be a lot more effective at that. Something I will not think about because I'll drive myself crazy. Still, football will help.

Seeing North trotting out in front of me with those tight pants and shoulder pads is torture. He looks so fucking good—long and lean and so, so fuckable. Images of everything I'm going to do to him when we're in the clear dance through my mind, sending blood rushing to unhelpful places.

Shit, I really need this football practice.

I stretch out and loosen up, trying to shake three days of oppressive tension of waiting for my father to reappear. Maybe he isn't going to come back. Maybe he's gone home and just didn't bother to tell me.

It's a tiny spark of hope, but I mean, it's something he'd do. Just fuck off without saying anything. Maybe he's gone, and we can get back to our lives—

I come out of the stretch, look up, and freeze.

Because there—leaning casually against a railing in the stands like he belongs there, despite sticking out like a sore thumb in his smart suit—is my father. He has his phone to his ear, but his eyes are already set on me, just waiting for me to see him.

My heart stutters, and he raises an eyebrow that communicates his message as loudly as if he'd shouted it:

Go on, impress me.