Page 16 of Go Deep

Yes, the conference room is far more professional, with lots of glass and plenty of inquiring eyes that will keep me in check. My gaze wanders to the plush cordovan sofa in the corner of my expansive office. Much more inviting. Tempting.Dangerous.

My God, I’m a fucking deviant.

“Yes, the conference room is fine,” I choke out, fisting my hair. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Okay, Vince. Get your shit together fast. And don’t forget about your girlfriend, you know, what’s-her-name.

Yeah, what the hellisher name, anyway?

I scrub a hand over my face, contemplate knocking back a shot of something harder than my thickening cock, and adjust my pants.

Maybe I want to be outed. Maybe I’m tired of the lies and the posturing. Or maybe I just want to feel something for the first time in my life. Something real. Something that proves I’m not living in a perpetual fog of “what if?”

Thank you, Eva.

I stand up, let out a deep sigh, and walk toward the conference room.

Maybe it was just the wake-up call I needed, with my dad’s health trying to convince me that it’s time to open myself up, that our time here is limited, and that we need to make the most of what we have while we can.

But I can’t just forget about my reality and the boatload of reasons for hiding. I don’t have that luxury, no matter what my sister thinks. No, I have everything…except the freedom to be.

That damn noose around my neck, otherwise known as my father’s political future, would definitely strangle me to a very excruciatingly painful death if I admitted it, no matter what Eva says about my mental and emotional well-being.

I’m fucked, one way or the other. My dad may as well enjoy his ignorance. At least it’ll keep him out of the hospital.

My hand tightens around the door handle and I push open the glass door. Gabe stands next to one of the large windows overlooking the city. His shoulders are slumped, his body deflated. His face is hidden, but his stance speaks volumes.

A pang assaults my chest, and I need to know why…why he’s so defeated and why I’m so damn affected by it.

I clear my throat, and he twists in my direction.

Broken. That’s the best way to describe the look. I know it well.

My gut wrenches at the pain etched into his chiseled features. “Hey, thanks for coming in, Gabe. It’s good to see you again.”

He smiles, but his lips don’t quite reach his eyes. My heart swells, my arms twitch, silently pleading with me to say fuck it and pull him close so I can comfort him, smell him, touch him...

Jesus, who the hell am I?

I drop the pile of papers on the table. “Everything okay? Training camp going well?”

“Yeah, camp’s fine.” He rakes a hand through his messy dark brown hair and collapses into a swivel chair. “Just a lot going on. I heard about your dad. How’s he doing?”

“Much better, thanks. Can’t keep him away from work for too long.”

Gabe nods, tracing his finger over one of the wood grains on the tabletop. “I guess he’s pretty set in his ways about…everything.”

“Yeah.” I fumble with the folders and papers for an excuse to do something with my hands. He obviously knows about my father’s platform. But where are these questions coming from? I keep my eyes trained on the black type to avoid meeting his tormented expression.

“You’d think a death sentence would make a parent more open-minded when it comes to their kid,” Gabe muses, still tracking the path of the wood.

What the fuck is he implying? And what about a death sentence?

My blood freezes in my veins. Could he be?—?

“I’m sorry.” He pushes his hair back, now out of his trance-like state. “You don’t need to listen to this crap.”

I pull out a chair and sit down, letting out a slow, shuddering breath when I realize his comment isn’t about me after all. I don’t usually care about the personal problems of my clients, as long as they don’t impact their cash flow. But the look of dejection on Gabe’s face makes me press.

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