Page 64 of Played
Chapter
Thirty-One
KING
Stop watching the fucking clock, King.Stop checking your goddamn phone. He hasn’t called or texted in the past seven seconds.
I take a slug of my beer and stare at the door of my apartment. Mason hasn’t contacted me at all since he told me to go home last night. While I appreciate that me turning up half drunk wasn’t the smoothest move, I hoped to get some response to my voicemail this morning. I woke up with a headache from Satan himself and a gut full of remorse and shame. But my remorse is all due to my actions before drinking with Nathan and Drake and nothing to do my confession. What I regret most was walking out on him in the first place.
Despite my determination not to, I glance at the clock again. He’s two minutes late. More likely, he’s not coming at all. But it’s not like seven was a definite time. Maybe he’ll still show up.
This is a repeat of the conversation I’ve been having in my head all day long. I could hardly focus on the job for longer than ten minutes without rehashing some variation of it or running through scenarios of how tonight might play out. In some, he’s going to be here, all smiles and charm telling me he loves me. Others, he’s never going to speak to me again. And everything inbetween. Predictably, my pessimistic ass leaned toward the not-showing-up end of the spectrum.
Not that it stopped me from picking up two cuts of prime rib on my way home.
It’s four minutes after seven now. Fucker’s not coming. The loud knock at my door stops me with my beer raised halfway to my lips. I put it down and wipe my mouth.
Shit! What if he sees the bottle and thinks I’m drunk again? That I need alcohol to be able to tell him how I feel? The truth is it’s a habit. I come home from work and open a cold one before dinner and that’s it. But tonight, I should have thought about it before I automatically followed my usual routine.
It might not be him though. That dude down the hall could have lost his cat again.
Another knock has me jumping up from the sofa. Fuck Mason James and whatever he’s done to me to have me acting like this. I’m not a thirteen-year-old waiting for his first date. I twist my neck from side to side and walk to the door, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.
When I open the door and see him standing there in one of his absurdly expensive suits, looking sexier than any man in the world has any right to be, I can’t help but smile. “Mase. You came.”
He nods. “You said you had something to say to me?”
Dammit, he’s not going to make this easy on me, is he? I open the door wider and invite him inside. He stands, looking a little awkward and unsure as he waits for me to close it. His eyes drift to the half-empty bottle of Bud on my coffee table. “You want a beer?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just here to listen to what you have to say.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. Where do I fucking start? I recall exactly what I said to him last night. Every singleword. But it was much easier to say to his phone than it is to say to his face. A machine can’t reject me.
His eyes narrow on my face, and I realize I have to do this. If he does reject me, at least I’ll know. I won’t live the next eighteen years of my life wishing I had told him the truth. “I’m sorry I ran out on you last night. It was a shitty thing to do, and I only did it because…” My vocal cords seize. His dark eyes are still laser focused on my face. But if I trust him enough to do what we did last night, then surely I can trust him enough to say this. “I was scared.”
He takes a step closer, and our bodies are less than an inch apart. The heat from him seeps through my shirt, warming my skin. “What are you scared of, King?”
Fear surges in my chest and lodges itself in my throat. I close my eyes and force myself to swallow past it. “Scared of how much I want you. Of how fucking good it feels when I’m with you.”
“How about you have the balls to look at me when you say that?”
I open my eyes to find his boring into me like he’s trying to read my mind. Trying to figure out if I’m telling him the truth. “I want you, Mase. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to spend every second of every day with you, and it scares the shit out of me.”
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “And?”
I blink at him. And fucking what? Have I read this all wrong? He’s a renowned playboy, hence the fucking nickname. What if this is all one-sided? What if I’m nothing more than a good fuck?
He inches closer, and our bodies are touching now. His hand slides to the back of my neck, palming it possessively. I almost melt into the carpet and I don’t even care. “And what exactly do you want to do about that?” he asks. “Why did you ask me here?”
I lick my lips. I want to fuck you into oblivion, and when I’m done, how about you do the same to me? And then eat, sleep, repeat. That’s what I want, but that’s not what I say. “I just want to see you.”
He arches an eyebrow. Cocky fuck is too goddamn sexy for his own good. “Like date me?”
Shit. I shake my head. “Not that exactly. I can’t be out. Not yet. I’m not ready. But I want…” Fuck, what exactly is it I have to offer New York’s most eligible bachelor?
He presses his forehead to mine. “Fucking tell me, King. Stop worrying about what you think I’m going to say or do and give me the truth.”
I grip his waist under his suit jacket. “I know it’s unfair to ask you to hide any part of yourself or to see me in secret, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be with you. If that’s something you can live with, I just want to be with you. Whether we’re eating or working or watching TV or fucking… I just want it to be with you.”
