Page 11 of Something Unavoidable

“I’m gonna—” He cut himself off and jerked a thumb in the vague direction of his apartment. “Advil.” He needed to get away, before his flight instincts turned into fight and he lashed out at Keegan. It was one of his worst habits, but as much as he knew that rationally, he wasn’t feeling rational at the moment with adrenaline racing through his body and his cock hard and aching against his zipper.

Thank fuck Keegan just nodded and went with it. “We’re pretty much done here anyway. Go rest your leg. I’ll feed them and clean up.”

Any other time, Izzy would protest. He didn’t want to be indebted to Keegan. He didn’t want to be anything to Keegan. But he was breathing too fast, and he needed to go.

Without another word, he limped away as quickly as his leg would let him. A shower and some painkillers. That was all he needed. And maybe a stranger to fuck him into next week and drive the sensation of Keegan’s warm hands so close to where he wanted them from his stupid, fucked-up brain.

This was all sucha huge pain in his ass—and not the kind he enjoyed. Izzy collapsed on his bed, the towel around his waist coming loose, his wet hair soaking the sheets, and glared at the ceiling. What the fuck was wrong with him? He lifted his head and transferred his dirty look to his dick, which refused to behave, despite getting blasted with cold water. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Ugh. “Keegan’s a bastard and we hate him, remember?”

His dick didn’t respond. Maybe that was for the best. He’d be pretty disturbed if it started talking back.

Somewhere above him, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. He fished around until he found the cord, then dragged it closer. He had a handful of Exchange notifications, but he dismissed them. He wasn’t in the mood to sort through the people who saw his pics but didn’t read his profile. Being DMed by guys who only wanted a virtual plaything while they ignoredtheir wives was exhausting. He ignored ten for every one he considered replying to.

At this point, he was thinking of monetizing his profile. At least he’d be getting something for his time—even if that something was jerking off for money. Nothing wrong with some extra cash, just for doing something he enjoyed.

He switched over to the paid side of the app and scrolled through until he found someone interesting to look at while he took his aching cock in hand. If the guy had messy, reddish-blond hair and big, capable hands, that was no one’s business.

When he was done, he used the damp edge of the towel to clean himself up and tossed it in the direction of the laundry closet, then he flopped back with a sigh.

His phone vibrated again where he’d dropped it, startling him.

Samantha.

He cringed but unlocked it anyway. If he didn’t answer, she’d just keep texting until he did. She was a bitch like that.

Samantha

Well?

Izzy wished he didn’t know what she was talking about. Unfortunately, there was only one option. His stomach swooped unpleasantly.

Izzy

Well, what?

The typing dots appeared and disappeared several times as Izzy’s stomach got worse and his skin started to crawl. He rolled to his side and curled around the nausea.

Samantha

Did you even read it?

Izzy

No, I didn’t fucking read it. I sent it to junk where it belongs.

And he’d been trying to forget about the email ever since. He didn’t even care what the contents were. Josh’s name in the preview line was enough for him to block the sender. He had no interest in dredging up ancient history.

Samantha

They’re putting him in the hall of fame. They want us at the ceremony.

Izzy barely made it to the bathroom before losing the contents of his stomach. He pressed his forehead to cool white porcelain and fumbled for the handle, flushing as he struggled to breathe. Fuck.Fuck.

Izzy slumped to the tile floor and threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the world. His pulse pounded against the inside of his skull like the worst kind of hangover as he tried to force his lungs to do their job and get him some goddamn oxygen.

Somewhere in the bedroom, his phone vibrated again—and again—but fuck that. The poor choices of the US Eventing Organization weren’t his problem. That wasn’t his world anymore, and he refused to be dragged back into it.

What the hell washedoing here?

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