Page 17 of Gravity
Hunter
When I give my name to the front desk at the Wynn, I’m swiftly escorted to a private lobby and an elevator that takes me to the penthouse suites.
Bryce has left his door cracked. I knock, and then walk inside. Light shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows bleeds electric tangerine and neon turquoise into the corners. A bucket of beer waits in the center of the room, ice melt puddling down the sides and onto the glass of the coffee table.
I'm alone. “Bryce?”
“Un moment!” His voice comes from behind the ajar door of the bedroom.
I grab a beer and twist off the top, then head for the windows. A helicopter circles the Venetian hotel almost at eye-level before darting south. From where I stand, it looks like the helicopter is a puck I could shoot from this window, one slap shot from the edge of the glass. A shot like that could sail on a desert updraft forever, sliding into the sky and right up into the stars.
“Désolé.” Bryce appears, holding a bottle of beer in a death grip. Maybe it’s the lights playing across his face, but it seems like there’s something different about the way he’s looking at me.
I thought we might go out, but we decide not to, and I’m happy about that. Vegas is cool, but my first night out of slamming shots and playing poker has far paled in comparison to hanging out with Bryce.
One beer turns into two, and then three, and we sprawl on his sofa as the Strip glows through the windows. Golden light catches on his impossibly blue eyes. His laugh is soft, his voice warm, and after an hour, we’ve moved closer and are facing each other with our heads propped in our palms. I can see the delicate scar from a high stick he got when he was twelve above his eyebrow. When he speaks, his breath flutters across my cheek. His accent is thicker now, both playful and rumbling at once. We finish each other’s sentences as we reminisce over games, dissect plays and line matchups, and quiz each other on how to draw the best face-off.
I want him to keep talking forever.I never want this night to end, because I've clicked with Bryce in a way I rarely do with anyone.
Something about me has always been different. I was the hockey kid when everyone else played football, or I was the big guy, or the quiet guy. It takes me a while to warm up to people, and it takes others just as long to warm up to me, if they do at all.
I hope the way I make Bryce laugh and the shine in his eyes as he listens to me ramble means he feels like he clicks with me, too.
“You’re empty?” Bryce nods to my beer. I’ve been through with my third beer for about ten minutes, but I didn’t want to get up and break this spell. “I’ll get you another.” His fingers brush my hand when he takes the bottle.
When he returns, his eyes lock onto mine. He doesn’t sit. “You have blown my mind, you know that?”
“No way.” I shake my head, laughing at the preposterousness of what he’s saying. Slivers of the beer label wedge beneath my fingernails as I spin my bottle. “Besides, that’s supposed to be my line.”
“Calisse, Hunter. You…” Bryce nibbles on his bottom lip, and a wash of magenta light divides his features. Bryce is steel-hard and never nervous, but that looks like fear tickling the corners of his eyes. I frown.
His gaze lengthens like he’s searching for something. He breathes in, looking at me like I’ve just taken his pass all the way into the net for the game-winning goal.
Time stills, and shivers. Casino lights and glittering signs turn to fixed points. He rests his hand on my shoulder and guides me back, and then straddles me, one knee on either side of my thighs. He’s suddenly on my lap, both of his hands wrapping around the back of my neck. His fingers are in my hair. My hand flies to his waist, and I hang on because I don’t know what else to do.
“I’ve wanted to do this all day…” Bryce leans forward while tugging me to him, collapsing the inches that separate us.
I am putty, following his lead, my thoughts like vapor beneath his touch. All I can see are his eyes, the vivid blue of his stare as he looks inside me.
His lips close over mine. They’re soft and gentle against my chapped and dry skin. A breath sneaks out of him, a surprised little gasp escaping in the half-second when he pulls back. He freezes, and the moment hangs suspended between us.
Then he surges, his moan swallowed by the kiss. What was tentative is now hungry, almost desperate. His tongue slips out and caresses my bottom lip.
My hand squeezes his hip, and then I slide it up his body until my palm is over his racing heart. I can feel it hammering against my touch. My God, myGod.
I push gently, guiding him away until our lips are barely touching, and then—
The kiss ends.
And we are left like that, shocked in silence and stillness. I can feel his heat, as warm as when he was on the river, or as warm as when we threw our arms around each other on the ice. We are millimeters apart, and his hands are still buried in my hair. My hand is still on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. His heart is pounding, a frantic, frightened thing.
I can’t tell which of us is trembling more.
Bryce Michel kissed me. Bryce—
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. My head starts to shake. “I’m sorry. Are— Are you—”
Horror flashes in Bryce’s eyes. Terror. Anguish. Dread. “Oh,” he whispers.
