Page 5 of Unspoken Rules

I pull away from his piercing blue eyes and glance at the hotel again, swallowing hard.

“Is this a good idea?” I question, turning back to him.

He chuckles, steps closer, and puts his hand on my hip.

“The fun shit never is.”

Chapter Three

Cole

I don’t have a damn clue what it is about Bryson that has me so crazy. Maybe it’s because I feel like someone else tonight. I don’t wear suits and go to fancy charities. Don’t pretend to be nice to people I don’t know. I definitely don’t enjoy food that looks like it was already digested. That isn’t me. But I did it for my company, and well, here I am.

Then there he was, too.

It was like a sign when I walked into the bar. Like fate. Which isn’t something I think about much. Not until tonight. Walking in and seeing him sitting at the bar, alone, with his suitcase beside him, I knew he was there for me. I know how crazy that sounds, but it’s the truth. It’s what I felt.

I’d gone to the bar to meet some guys I met at the charity event for nothing more than drinks and a few games of pool. Sure, maybe one of them would have ended up in my bed, but it wasn’t the goal. I had work on my mind all night. Even considered going home instead of waiting until the morning. Until I spotted Bryson.

The hotel door clicks shut. Bryson looks around the room, his mouth dropping open like he’s never been inside a luxury hotel room before.

The kid is in a hard way. Always has been. It’s not his fault he was born to a shitty father. A man who always was and still is too busy for him. A man with too-high expectations, and an attitude that dictates if you think differently than him, you’re wrong.

The simple answer would be to blame his ignorance on Bryson being gay, but I’m not sure his father is aware of Bryson’s sexual orientation. Last I knew, he hadn’t told him. He was too scared. I can’t blame him for not wanting to talk to his father about that. You can barely talk to the man about the weather without him jumping down your throat. Something as serious as Bryson liking men would have his father going ballistic and Bryson retreating into his shell.

I like to think things would be different for Bryson if his mother was still alive, but I don’t think that’d be the case. She couldn’t handle Bart Montgomery any more than Bryson could, she just dealt with it differently. A handful of pills mixed with a bottle of vodka, and there goes the problem with her husband. The problem that disappeared for her but got ten times worse for Bryson. Not only because Bryson didn’t have a safe place in his own home, but he had the guilt of thinking he wasn’t enough to keep his mother alive.

His whole life, Bryson did nothing right. Not in his father’s eyes. I think he’s done great for himself. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t been proud of him. Bryson always had exceptional grades, never missed school, didn’t get into trouble. He has a college degree and is trying to get his life together—which takes time. Especially when you don’t have anyone to help you or hand it over.

He shouldn’t be in my room with me, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Everything about this night came together so perfectly.

Like fate.

Bryson looks different from when I last saw him, but enough of the same that I’d recognized him. Long gone is the scrawny boy who couldn’t look you in the eye. Sure, he’s still wearing too-baggy clothing, and it’s obvious his confidence isn’t much better than it was, but he’s grown up. He’s turned into a man with a head full of thick dark hair and neat facial hair. His grey eyes have gotten darker. He’s filled out in all the right places, though he’s still too skinny.

Bryson is old enough to take care of himself, sure, but everyone needs help now and then. He may be growing into a man, but he’s still young. He’s old enough to graduate college and make his own decisions. Old enough to be in a bar. Old enough to suck my cock, too.

Which is all I could think about every time he brought a beer bottle to his lips in the bar.

I shrug out of my jacket, laying it over the arm of the couch.

“How many drinks have you had?” I ask.

He doesn’t look drunk, but I’ve never seen him drunk. If he’s had too much, this won’t happen. I’ll put him to bed and that’ll be it. That’s a line I won’t cross.

Bryson turns to me, looking like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. He seems so out of place in this hotel room, standing there in his loose t-shirt and jeans.

“Not many. Couple shots. Few beers.” He blinks a few times, holding my stare. He isn’t swaying or slurring words, which is a good sign.

I step toward him, hooking my finger under the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it along his warm, smooth stomach. His muscles tighten and he bites his bottom lip, eyes fluttering closed.

He’s reactive. I love that.

I shouldn’t, considering Bryson is much younger than me, and my son’s best friend, but something about the desperation in his eyes has me weak. Needy. Desperate.

I’m not one to compare and say I’m a better parent than anyone else, but I know I’m a good father. Not sure I’ll be able to say that after tonight. I’ve always done what I can for my son, and will continue to do so, but right now? I’m ready to do something for myself.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask.

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