Page 2 of Craving the Player

"Sure," he replies, voice nasally from the pressure he'sapplying to his nose. His ability to go with the flow is one of the reasons we get along so well.

"Come on, if you get blood on the floor Dad will kill me." Iroll my eyes and grab my bag, waiting for Clay to do the same before leading the way to the showers.

"Maybe I'll leave atrail then." His smirk is immediate when Igrunt in annoyance.

Working for your dad has its benefits, but dealing with his rage when you break one of his rules is not one of them. No bloodshed is the most crucial rule in this gym. It has been since before Ican remember. We Lowry men don'tfollow many rules, but the ones we do, we live by. As if by breaking asingle one would throw the entire Universe off kilter.

"If you want to go that far, Imight as well get acouple more hits in. Soak the floor in your misery," Ihalf-heartedly threaten and turn to Clay with ateasing grin.

He just scoffs, shaking his head. "I'dlike to see you try."

"Yeah? Want to bet on how long you'dlast in the ring with me?" Itilt my head and straighten my back so all six-foot-three of me tower over him.

Clay gulps but keeps his lips pressed together. "Whatever. Arrogant bastard.”

Ilaugh. "Always full of compliments, Clay. So, stuffed or regular crust?"

"Grab me abeer, would you?" Ishout as Idrop back on the couch. My words are muffled as aslice of pepperoni stuffed-crust pizza is clenched between my teeth.

"Do Ilook like your damn mother?" Clayton calls back. Ishove my hand between the couch cushions and grab hold of the TV remote. My greasy fingers fiddle with the remote before finding the power button and the familiar sound of my favourite, hot as hell sports announcer fills the room. "Pretty please can you bring me abeer?" Itry again, snickering to myself when Ihear the fridge door slam shut.

"Here."

Icatch the cold can midair when he throws it towards me like asoftball. Iturn to face him and crack it open nice and slow. Itake along swig and rest my head back against the couch. "Thanks."

“Don’tmention it,” he grumbles and sits down beside me, holding out apaper plate. He wears alook that dares me not to use it, so Itake it with ahuff and set it down on my lap. My attention drops to my phone when it vibrates, shaking the glass coffee table it'slying on. Reaching for it, Inotice the several names spread across the screen.

Ilean back and unlock the phone, grinning. Apicture of anaked body fills the screen and my eyes narrow. The girl'sathletic, toned figure lies outstretched on what looks to be abed, with asheer, white, silky robe sagging off of her narrow shoulders. Her knees are bent, legs are spread wide open, the soft pink skin of her bare pussy glistening between them. Ireach down to adjust the bulge in my pants with aneedy grunt.

"What are you smirking at?" Clay asks, only to get ashrug in response. "Holy shit. Who is that?” He groans into his fist when he moves to look for himself.

Locking my phone, Iroll my eyes. “Fuck off and go find your own.”

“Ihave my own.” He sounds less than mildly confident in that statement.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Iraise abrow, testing him before he flips me off and pushes off the couch. “Maybe if you got laid, you wouldn’tbe so damn uptight. You’re acting like atwenty-seven-year-old virgin.”

“Not everyone wants to be a‘fuck it and chuck it’ kind of guy until the day they die. We’re not all that young anymore, dude.”

Registering his words, Inearly blow chunks all over the living room. “Istopped ageing when Iturned twenty-four, remember?”

“Right,” he snorts with aheavy roll of his eyes. It’snot like Idon’tknow how close Iam to reaching my thirties. With Clay getting his shit together with most things, I’mreminded nearly every damn day of the week. The thought of becoming someone that needs to start meeting society’sstandards makes aknot form in my stomach the size of Texas and my blood run ice cold.

Ifeel proud of Clay for realizing what he wants in life goes farther than agood fuck and acold beer afterward. But his path will never be mine. The whole idea of going to ajob Ihate five days aweek before coming home to awife and three identical kids waiting on the porch of atwo-story suburban home makes me want to kneel and pray to be shipped off to another planet.

Nah, I’mhappy with staying twenty-six forever. Society can kiss my pearly white ass for demanding achange

I’ve just wrapped atowel around my waist when Clayton pushes open the bathroom door, eyes droopy and dull as he shoves past me, stopping in front of the sink. He follows the same routine as every night: wets his toothbrush with cold water, smears athick line of spearmint toothpaste onto the rough bristles before shoving it into his mouth and brushing his teeth for precisely two minutes. I’mno shrink, but Iwould diagnose Clay with asevere case of obsessive-compulsive disorder any day of the week. But Wednesday’sare his worst.

We’ve been living together for two years now, and Iwould still only be able to explain his behaviour as erratically unerratic. He becomes zombie-like—undead and empty—every Wednesday morning, seconds before dawn. It’slike he’staken abackseat and switched his brain into auto-pilot, deciding to kick back with abottle of scotch in his hand and watch his body be controlled by something other than himself. The need to be perfect in every aspect of the word.

Ishould probably sit him down someday to talk about how creepy it is having aliving, breathing robot walking around the apartment, eyes twitching with amurderous gaze whenever Iso much as leave the cap of the orange juice abit too loose. But I’mnot even sure if he realizes that he does it—that he’sdifferent on that taunting day of the week. Idon’tknow if it would do any good more than it would bad.

After exactly two minutes since he shoved the toothbrush in his mouth and started scrubbing every square inch of his mouth, Clay spits into the sink and wipes afresh towel across his lips. He doesn’ttear his concentration from the small container of dental floss pinched between his fingers as he mumbles, “Iforgot to tell you that there’ssome sort of concert tomorrow night at SP, and you need to be there.”

Iraise my brow, although he stays focused on the minty string slipping between his teeth instead of looking at me. “There’saconcert? At Sinners? Since when do they do that shit there?”

“Don’tknow. Ethan got tickets or something from one of the bouncers last week. There’sone for both of us.”

“Could be fun.” Ishrug and rub at the sting in my eyes, exhaustion stepping on me with its dirty shoe. Idon’tgive the invitation much thought. Ethan is an eighteen-year-old boy stuck in the body of atwenty-six-year-old man. This isn’tthe first time that we’ve been told to go to out with him, and it won’tbe the last. Ijust nod my head and follow along. Night clubs aren’tmy venue of choice anymore, but abeer is abeer regardless of where you drink it.

Clayton gives me anod but doesn’tlook away from the mirror.

“I’mgoing to bed. Don’tforget that Ineed you ready to go to the gym at eight,” Iremind him before leaving the bathroom. Idon’tget anything more than abrief grunt in response, and Ichuckle.

Our two-bedroom apartment—if you could call afull bedroom and asmall den without awindow two bedrooms—is so damn tiny that it only takes me awhole two seconds to walk down the hallway and reach my room. Iwas lucky enough to earn my right to the actual bedroom by sucking back two more shots of tequila than Clay at apub on Halloween the night before we moved into this place. I’mdamn grateful for my stomach of steel, too, since there’sno door or alick of privacy leading to the den Clayton calls the Boom Room. But boom, it does not. Where Imight seem picky about the women Ibed, Clayton damn near refuses anyone that doesn’tmeet his iron-set criteria to the absolute T. It’ssafe to say the Boom Room is filled with more tepid echo than anything else.

Idon’tbother turning on the light as Iquickly swap out the towel for apair of briefs that Ifind in arare, clean basket of laundry and crawl into bed. When Iget under the covers, Iclose my eyes and pray to God himself that I’ll pass the fuck out soon.

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