Page 70 of Played
He hums. “You want to go home?”
“No. You said food.” I grunt my response like a neanderthal.
He stares at me for a few seconds and smirks. “I know just the place.”
Mason made a call,and a cab ride later found us taking a private elevator to an exclusive restaurant in Manhattan. A maître d guides us to a private room that comfortably fits a dining table for two. Music plays softly through speakers built into the wall, and there’s a small bar off to the side, stocked with top-shelf liquor. One wall is entirely glass, the kind that allows us to see out into the main restaurant and bar area but, I’m assured, doesn’t allow anyone to see in.
We order the Kobe filet and roasted vegetables, and it’s as delicious as one would expect from a restaurant that doesn’t list prices on the menu. As is the Ballantine’s, which also doesn’t have a price attached.
While we eat, Mason and I talk about mundane shit that doesn’t really mean anything, but it feels easy. Every so often, I glance at the glass wall and fidget in my chair.
“Relax. Nobody can see us,” Mason assures me. “Not that there’s anything to see. We’re just eating dinner.”
Just eating dinner right now, but spending time in each other’s company usually only ends one way. Is that why he brought me to a place where nobody can see us? “How many guys have you brought here?” I ask.
He tilts his head to the side and studies me before answering. “Enough. And while I adore your possessive streak at times, it’s completely unnecessary. This place is discreet, so yeah, I’ve been here plenty. But if I avoided all the spots I’ve ever taken a guy, we’d have a pretty limited pool of places we could go.”
“I don’t care that you brought guys here. I care if you brought Tommy here.” There it is. The thorn that’s been jabbing me in the side all night long.
He shakes his head. “I never needed to. We were both very open about our brief relationship.”
I recall. They were splashed all over the gossip columns for the short duration of their fling. I can’t help but compare our relationships. Theirs, open and easy—ours, the exact opposite.
“Tommy is a friend, and I should have told you he was an ex before springing tonight on you, but it was eight years ago. I don’t think of him like that. And there’s nothing between us, I swear.”
I recall the way Tommy looked at him earlier. The seductive tone of his voice when he invited Mason to that party. “He’d like there to be though.”
Mason shrugs. “I don’t know about that. But even if he does, I don’t. And I’m sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.”
“It didn’t.”
He frowns, confused.
“He didn’t make me feel anything, but I hated that you introduced me as your friend.”
His frown deepens to a scowl. “But you said?—”
“I know what I said, dammit. And I didn’t want to be outed in front of an A-lister and his entourage, but…” I scrub a hand over my face. “Fuck, it still hurt. And I know that’s completely irrational and all my own doing, but I still fucking hated it.”
He simply stares at me.
It doesn’t surprise me that he’s confused, because I am too. I’m not ready to be out, but I do want everyone to know he belongs to me. What kind of twisted logic is that? “I know it’s unfair, and I’m not blaming you for calling me your friend. I’m just trying to be honest about how it made me feel.”
He takes a slow sip of his Scotch. “And I do appreciate that. I would much prefer to introduce you as my boyfriend. Just say the fucking word.”
I swallow the thick knot in my throat. “I really enjoyed tonight, Mase. I loved sitting next to you in that theater and doing stuff normal couples do. But I hate that I couldn’t bring myself to touch you. I hate how fucked up I am. I wish I could let it all go and be me, but I… I fucking can’t.” I drop my head into my hands.
He pushes his chair back and crouches at my side, his hand on the back of my neck. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. You’ll get there when you’re ready.”
“What if I never get there?” My voice cracks.
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“I want to be the kind of man you deserve. The kind of guy who doesn’t break into hives at the prospect of holding your hand in public.”
He stands, and I hear a few buttons clicking. The music changes to something with more bass. Immediately, I recognizethe opening beats of “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”—a song we used to make out to in Mason’s bedroom.
“Have you ever danced with a guy, King?” Mason’s voice is dark and dangerous and sexy as fuck.
