Immoral Read online

  “No, they just fucking ignore an entire piece of you.”

  I watch his throat as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, clearly hurt by their bullshit. “Stop.” He pins me with a pleading look. “Please.”

  I nod my head regretfully. “Fine.”

  He stands up. “You can have free rein of the house. What’s mine is yours.”

  “Like that Everclear song?”

  He actually laughs at the memory, of us arguing over who was going to make it and who wasn’t, of who would buy the other one a house. I’d always belt out the Everclear song, singing “I will buy you that big house” as loud as I could, which usually resulted in him covering his ears or punching me to shut me up.

  “You’re a prick.”

  “Always.” I tip the beer in his direction.

  “Night, Grady.”

  “Night, Ryan. Thanks for letting me stay.”

  He doesn’t say anything else as I look around at the not-so-humble results of his fame.

  He made it, that’s for damn sure.

  But at what price?

  This is insanity.

  What the hell was I thinking letting him stay here?

  I sip my coffee, sitting at the bar in my kitchen, looking out the window as I go over last night. I told him fucking everything. We’ve been apart for seven years but picked up right where we left off.

  Well, minus the kissing.

  Fuck me. This is bad.

  “Ry, tell me you have coffee.” Grady bounces into my kitchen without a care in the world—or clothes.

  Motherfucker.

  Is he really standing in my kitchen wearing only a pair of tight black briefs?

  What the hell is he trying to do to me?

  I don’t look. I can’t look. I point toward the coffee pot with already brewed coffee and look out the window.

  “Hell, yeah. You have the good shit.”

  I roll my eyes but smile into my coffee mug. Same ole Grady.

  He walks over to where I am and sits down, his long lanky legs draped over the stool next to mine. I notice he has tattoos on his muscular thighs. He notices me looking, and I can feel him grinning before I even look up and see it on his ridiculously handsome face. “I went a little ink-crazy.”

  I shrug, trying hard not to give a fuck. “They aren’t bad.”

  He lifts his right arm, turning to show me his ribcage that has ink scrolled over most of his side. “Nah, most are good, but this one . . .” He points to one that’s in messy writing I can barely make out. “This one was supposed to be badass, but it got fucked up.”

  “A professional did that?”

  He chuckles. “I think so, but it wasn’t here. I was abroad somewhere. I forgot where.”

  I study his face and shake my head. “You were drunk.”

  “Totally.”

  “What’s it supposed to say?” I take the opportunity to study his side but still can’t make out the words. My eyes drift over to his smooth stomach. It’s defined but not overly so. Flat and toned with a sexy thin trail of dark hair leading south.

  I swallow hard, trying to get control of my body as I meet his eyes when he answers my question. “Lyrics. Or they were supposed to be. Really, it’s just fucking jibberish.” I raise my eyebrow, and he chuckles, “Queen. But they fucked it up. Or I told them wrong. I need to get it fixed.”

  “Still a Queen fan, huh?”

  “Who the fuck isn’t?” He grins with an adorable challenge in his eyes that I back down from. Of course, I love the band.

  I’m about to profess my love for Queen when my front door bursts open, and I hear heels clicking on my floor.

  Goddamn it. Just what I need right now.

  “What the fuck?” Grady looks at Jenny in horror as she struts inside.

  She looks at him with disgust and then spits venom my way, “What the fuck is a naked Grady Bell doing in your kitchen?”

  “I’m not naked.” He turns to me. “Who the hell is this?”

  I don’t get a chance to answer him. “Fine. A mostly naked Grady Bell. Are you trying to give me a coronary?”

  “Relax, Jenny.” I stand up and place my now-empty coffee mug in the sink, glad I pulled on sweats and a t-shirt before coming to the kitchen. Me being in my underwear too would really set her off.

  She holds up her dainty little hand and then looks a little taken aback. “Wait. Grady Bell is gay?”

  “I’m not gay.” Grady doesn’t sound defensive, just setting her straight, but it still does a number on my stupid fucking heart.

  “He’s not. He’s a friend.”

  Her perfectly manicured eyebrow lifts, studying me. “Fine. Whatever. One crisis at a time.”

  “Seriously, who the fuck are you?” Grady just can’t keep his mouth shut.

  She turns to him, not offended but definitely raging. “I’m the best goddamn sports agent in the country.”

  He turns to me. “You told your agent you’re gay?”

  I rub my temples with one hand. “If I hadn’t, you just did.”

  “Oh, fuck. Sorry.” He’s not, and it makes me laugh, which annoys me.

  “Are you actually laughing?” Jenny studies me, and I think about it. I doubt she’s ever heard that sound from me.

  “Yeah.” I look over at Grady. “And yes, she knows.”

  “I know,” she says, pointing to her chest. “But the world fucking can’t.”

  “That’s some real bullshit,” Grady grumbles, and again, I smile. How could I ever have thought he wouldn’t have my back?

  Of course, I think deep down I knew he’d be fine with me being gay—but him not returning the feelings I had for him—yeah, I couldn’t handle that shit.

  “Quiet, okay? I need to talk to my client.” Jesus, Jenny is a fucking ballbuster.

  “What’s wrong now?” I ask hoping to get the heat off Grady. He didn’t hire her. Definitely doesn’t deserve her wrath.

  “That fucking twink from the other night—he took a picture.”

  My blood runs cold for a minute as I try to go over the night. But it’s Grady’s voice I hear next, “I think that’s offensive.”

  I look over at his face, all scrunched up and annoyed and try not to laugh. Jenny ignores him.

  “There’s no way. He didn’t have his phone out. What kind of picture?”

  She digs for her phone in her purse and then holds up a pic of me and the cute guy from the other night. We’re both fully clothed, outside a bar. Standing near each other, but it’s clearly a posed photo.

  Grady moves in, examining the photo. “That’s your type, huh?”

  Not really. I glare at him and then look at Jenny. “It’s like every other fan photo I’ve ever taken. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is this guy is clearly gay. And you have your arm around him.”

  “Okay, I know that’s offensive. You can’t just assume he’s gay from a picture.” Grady is starting to get pissed, but I don’t need or want him fighting my battles for me.

  “He’s not wrong.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. You do not pay me to be politically correct or woke. You pay me to tell you the truth, and the truth is your fan base will assume he’s gay. And he is.”

  Grady moves back to his stool, and I can tell he’s stewing but staying quiet.

  I shrug, growing tired of her. “So what? It’s not like my dick was in his mouth. At least in the pic.”

  She growls, and Grady chuckles.

  She pokes my chest with her bony little finger. “You know your fucking audience. They’re about a step up from NASCAR fans. They’re God-fearing, beer-drinking, Bible-thumping, country-loving assholes, and they won’t like this.”

  I cringe and want to argue. Obviously, some of my fans are like that but nowhere close to all.

  “Oh, come the fuck on. The world is different now. He doesn’t need to hide who he is. The world of sports is changing too.”

  Her eyes narrow in Grady’s direction.
“Yeah, that’s really sweet. And in your rock and roll lifestyle, they’d applaud you for a picture like that. But sports have not changed.” She looks at me. “I don’t think it will until after you’re retired.”

  “Then maybe I’m in the wrong industry.”

  I can feel Grady’s intense stare on me, but I don’t look at him. Jenny softens but only a little and places a hand on my shoulder. “A few more months. They’re going to renegotiate that contract. You have to be good. Get the best one you can locked-in. Then you can do pretty much whatever you want.”

  My stomach actually physically aches, thinking about all this bullshit, but I remain stoic. “Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I can take it back now.”

  “Just be careful.” Her eyes glance toward Grady and then back to me. “Really careful.”

  I hear him snort behind me, but don’t care as I lead Jenny toward the front door. I let her out and feel relieved when the door closes behind her.

  “She’s a cunt.”

  I turn around to see Grady and grin like a fucking fool. “That’s offensive.”

  He laughs and then punches my shoulder. “What are you doing with an agent like that?”

  “She really is the best.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced. “I’m going to go take a shower. Try not to be too offensive while I’m gone.”

  He laughs, walking toward the kitchen. “Who am I going to offend? You don’t even have a fucking house plant.”

  I laugh but feel a pang of sadness because he’s right.

  There’s not one living thing in my house.

  Sometimes I worry I’m not even a living thing these days.

  Do not touch your dick. Don’t fucking do it.

  I stare down at my hard-on like it’s offending me because it fucking is. The water of my shower sprays my face when I lean into it, hoping to cool off.

  I shouldn’t be fucking horny right now. I should be horrified. Angry at the world that’s so fucked-up that being gay could ruin my career. And that I have a bitchy agent, no matter how good she is at her job.

  But no. I’m standing here in cold water, trying to calm my raging boner because my oldest friend—who’s straight, by the way—is in my kitchen practically naked.

  His body is a work of art. Toned and inked. Lithe and beautiful. Masculine.

  And he can just walk around at ease, flaunting it because he has no idea about the fantasies I keep locked deep inside my head.

  He thought that kiss between us all those years ago was just good, old-fashioned, drunken fun. And it was for him. Not me.

  For me, it was what I’ve measured every-fucking-thing against since.

  First kiss with another guy. Not as good as kissing Grady.

  First blow job from another guy. Not as good as kissing Grady.

  When I signed with the fucking major leagues.

  Not. As. Good. As. Kissing. Grady.

  Fuck!

  I shut the shower off, climbing out and wrapping a towel around my waist. I jump when I hear Grady’s voice booming behind me, “Hey, man. When are you going to give me a tour?”

  I turn to look at him, willing my dick to go all the way down because there is no way my fucking towel will hide an erection. “What the fuck are you doing in my bathroom?

  He rolls his eyes, walking over to the bathroom counter, lifting his body up and plopping his ass down, making himself at home. “Dude, you practically lived at my house when we were growing up. Do you know how many times I’ve seen your junk?”

  Son of a bitch.

  “It’s different now,” I growl as I turn back toward the mirror, grateful he at least found some fucking sweats. But he’s not wearing a shirt, and it’s goddamn distracting.

  “It’s really not. You wasted seven years of friendship, and I’m here to make up for it.”

  “Why now?” I grab my toothbrush and put some toothpaste on it after asking the question I can’t ignore.

  “Don’t you think it was fate that they practically forced me to sing at the World Series? For the first time. Ever. I mean, I was at the Super Bowl two years ago, but this is the first time I’ve been invited to the World Series, and it just so happens to be the game you’re in.”

  I raise my toothbrush to my open mouth and start brushing, contemplating his words. I do think it’s a crazy-ass coincidence. I spit in the sink and turn to him, grabbing a towel and wiping my mouth. “So, you just decided to come to my house and demand answers because of fate?”

  A slow easy grin spreads across his face. “I’ve wanted to hunt you down for years. But that was the final push.

  “Are you really going to stay for three weeks?”

  He chuckles, ignoring my question and hops off my countertop, shocking the holy hell out of me when he drags a finger down the line of my oblique muscles. “Can’t believe you have a V, man.”

  I think about everything nasty I can possibly think of when his nail grazes my muscle, trying to concentrate on his words and not get hard. “What?”

  He chuckles and pulls his hand away. “How many hours do you spend in the gym a day? There’s no way I could ever have that much discipline.”

  My eyes drag slowly over his torso, noting that he has a V himself pointing deliciously below the waist of his sweats, but it’s just not nearly as prominent as mine. “I’d say you’re doing just fine.”

  He winks, and it makes my stupid heart flutter.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I step away from him and go into my room. Of course, the fucker follows me. I grab a pair of boxer briefs and slip them on under the towel which makes him chuckle again as he takes a seat on my bed.

  “No, please. Make yourself at home.”

  “I will.”

  I roll my eyes and grab a pair of jeans, pulling them on and tossing the towel in the hamper. I grab a t-shirt and tug it on over my head before turning to face him. “You going to take a shower today? Or at least put on a shirt?”

  He stands up and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Always in your head, Ry. Show me around this bigass mansion.”

  “You seriously need a tour?”

  “Yup.” I grumble my way through the upstairs and main level because he’s a persistent fucker, and I know I’ll have to show him every single room before we finally get down to the basement where I spend most of my time.

  “Damn, man.” He whistles in appreciation, and I laugh at his ridiculousness. “This is fancy as shit.”

  “Right, like you don’t have a bigass, fancy house in California.”

  He grins all-knowingly. “You really have been stalking me.”

  I may have seen something on one of those gossip “news” shows a time or two about his California mansion. “Whatever.” I point to my left. “That’s the gym.”

  “Makes sense.” He eyes my body, and I try like hell not to squirm. He’s got to quit that shit.

  “Yeah, um . . .” We walk further into the basement. “This is the home theater.”

  “Nice. I have a bowling alley in mine.”

  Competitive fucker. “And how often do you bowl?”

  He laughs at that, carefree and easy. “Never.”

  I dismiss him and then stop short before we head into the next room. But, of course, he pushes past me and into the room.

  “Holy. Shit. Bailey.” I walk inside reluctantly.

  “What?”

  “A music room? You can’t carry a tune, and you have a music room?” He looks around the room in awe. It has several guitars, a piano, and various other instruments. Some signed records that were sent as gifts over the years.

  He walks over to one guitar and instantly throws the strap over his shoulder. Why?”

  “Why what?” I play dumb.

  “Why what?” He looks down at the guitar that’s never been played. “This is nicer than my collection.”

  “Bullshit.” I take a seat on the small sofa in the middle of the room. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Were you waiting
for me, Bailey?”

  I look away, and my eyes roll, trying to show indifference. But when he takes a seat next to me, his long fingers seeking out the chords of the guitar and bringing it to life, I almost stop breathing.

  It’s been so damn long since I’ve been next to him while he’s played. I recognize the song instantly and look him dead in the eye.

  “Really? Elton John?”

  “Hey ‘Your Song’ is a brilliant fucking song. It’s a classic.”

  I shake my head. He’s always loved the classics. “You know anything from this decade?”

  He laughs, but then turns serious as the notes change, and my blood runs cold because I know this song too.

  Immoral.

  His voice fills the air, and chills run up my arms.

  “I’m drowning.” He strums the guitar, his silky voice just as perfect as I remember it.

  “I’m sinking.” I can’t hear this song right now.

  “Can’t stop shivering.” My eyes lock on his as he plays, still singing his own song. A song I know he wrote.

  “They love me. I’m their fantasy.”

  Fuck.

  “But they can’t see me. They just don’t know.” His eyes remain on me, and there’s a deep sadness in them. “Even I don’t wanna be me.”

  “Goddamn it, Grady.” I stand up, and he stops playing.

  “Not a fan?”

  I turn around to face him. “Of my best friend feeling like he’s drowning? No. I’m not.”

  “It won a Grammy.”

  He’s trying to play it off, but every time I hear that song, recorded or live, I feel the pain residing in the words. “It’s fucking depressing.”

  “So is your sour-ass mood.” He lifts the strap of the guitar off his shoulders and lays the guitar down. His hand runs through his thick black hair. “It’s just a song.”

  “You wrote it though?”

  He confirms with a nod. “I was in a pissy mood.”

  Which is rare for him. Or it was before. “I’m sorry.”

  For a minute, I think he’s going to stay serious, but that’s just not Grady. Instead, he shoves my arm and then stands up, looking around. “We should throw a party.”

  “What?” I stare up at him in a daze.