Immoral by Nicole Dykes

Earlier in the music room,things got way too heavy. I can’t handle that shit, so I do what I do best . . . I threw a party. Gathering people to celebrate my best friend’s win.

I look around at the back patio and smile because it wasn’t hard to find people to celebrate with Ry, even if he probably didn’t think he had this many people in his corner.

He likes to pretend he’s a loner, but the truth is, people are drawn to Ryan. They just are. He’s always had this allure. He thought it was because of me. It wasn’t. People have always liked him. Girls thought he was shy, and they wanted to be the one to break him out of his shell. Guys saw him as loyal. And I imagine it’s the same now.

Even though he’s not interested in the chicks, I see they still flock to him. He’s currently bombarded by three chicks who came with one of his teammates. I think they may be his wife’s friends, but I can’t be too sure.

The party is stacked with people.

I watch with a grin as one of the chicks continues to waste her perfect rack on him, leaning in and giving him a glimpse of ample cleavage. Flipping her long blond hair and giggling at everything he says. I realize it’s totally lost on him.

I chuckle at that thought, and Waylon, who’s standing right next to me, eyes me with curiosity. “What’s so funny?”

I haven’t told him about Ryan being gay. It’s not my place, and I won’t betray his trust. “Nothing.”

“Seems like your friend is going to get lucky tonight.” He sips his fruity drink, oblivious to Ryan’s secret like everyone else here.

I turn back to look at Ry and how uncomfortable he seems with the blonde’s attention, but I think it could easily be misconstrued as him being shy. It’s unbelievable to me that he’s had to hide who he really is all these years.

I look around the party that’s mostly full of baseball players, their wives or girlfriends, and their friends. I don’t see one gay couple here. Seemingly the only two gay guys here are Waylon and Ryan, and I wonder if he was able to be himself—if he were out and proud—would the party be different?

Would he have other gay friends or people here that he might actually want to fuck?

He must sense my thoughts on him because his eyes meet mine. He offers me a small smile and shakes his head before going back to his conversation with the chick who has no chance.

He deserves that. A party where he can tell the chick to keep her stupid small hand off his shoulder and go and flirt with a dude. He deserves to take as many pictures as he wants with whoever the fuck he wants to and invite whoever he wants to his own party.

The list he gave me was all his teammates. No one else.

I think about the song I played for him this morning. The song I wrote two years ago after a drunken, lonely night. I had been at a club, dancing with an insanely hot chick, but my mind went to him.

I have no idea why, and I’ve never talked about the song’s meaning out in public. Always letting it be a mystery, but I went home alone that night. Climbed into my bed and drifted off to sleep only to wake up, gasping for air and feeling like I was drowning. My bad boy image. Letting women think they could be the one to tame me.

I’m their fantasy.

But they don’t know me.

I take a drink of the margarita Waylon forced on me and cringe. Why do people add sugary shit to alcohol? Give me straight tequila any fucking day.

"Who’s that?” My thoughts are interrupted by Waylon’s question, and I look to see who he’s talking about.

A guy walks over toward Ry and swings his lanky arm around him, and I realize I’m gripping my drink a little too tight as I watch them, nearly crushing the plastic cup. “Bennett Rochet. Pitcher.”

Waylon stares at them alongside me. “They seem chummy.”

I have no idea why the sight of them laughing and talking with that fucker’s arm still around Ry’s shoulder makes me feel uneasy, but I think my voice sounds semi-normal when I shrug and say, “They’re friends.”

“Aw,” Waylon turns to me with a smile filled with shit-eating fuckery on his face. “Does your old bestie have a new bestie?”

“Fuck off,” I growl a little too seriously and then shake my head, laughing when Waylon feigns hurt, clutching his chest.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” I know he means it in a friends sense. I know that, but something just feels fucking off about the whole damn thing, and I get defensive.

“Alright, sweetie. Why don’t you get introduced, huh? I’m sure Bennett will share.”

“Ry” nearly comes out of my mouth, and I check myself just in time. “Sure.”

We walk over, and I nod toward Ryan in a greeting that feels stiff and awkward. “You gonna introduce us to our newest guest?”

Ry laughs. “You know this is still only my house, right, fucker?”

The girls giggle, and the guy—Bennett—laughs but finally releases Ry and holds his hand out for me. “Bennett Rochet, and you’re Grady fucking Bell from Immoral.” He nudges Ry. “Bailey didn’t tell me he knew Grady Bell. My wife is going to kill him.”

Bailey. Motherfucker. That’s my nickname for him. I’m the only one that gets to call him that. I grip his hand a little too tightly and try to keep my voice neutral. “Why’s that?”

He grins as our hands disconnect and drop to our sides. “She’s a huge fan, man. Huge. And she skipped the party today. She’s going to be pissed.”

Right. He’s married. With a kid on the way. The dude is straight.

Why that matters, I have no idea. But when that fact comes back into light, I relax a little. “You want me to sign something?”

Ryan shakes his head and takes a drink from his red plastic cup. “Unbelievable.”

I eye him. “What? I can’t help that I have fans everywhere.”

Bennett just nods his head. “I’m definitely getting your autograph. It’s either that or pretend like none of this happened, and I’m pretty sure there are photographers hanging around outside.”

Waylon clears his throat next to me, getting pissy. “Are you going to introduce me or am I going to stand here like pretty little furniture all night?”

Ryan chuckles, his eyes zoning in on Waylon, and I wonder for a moment if Waylon is his type. I mean, he looks pretty damn similar to the guy Jenny was freaking out about, the one Ryan definitely did hook up with.

“Um yeah, sorry. This is my manager, Waylon.” Most of the girls have moved along, leaving only Bennett, Ryan, Waylon, and me, so I turn to Ry next. “Waylon, this is Ryan Bailey.” Then to Bennett. “And Bennett Rochet, who I just met too.”

They both wave at him, and I think Waylon might be drooling when Ryan shakes his hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you boys.” He shakes Bennett’s hand, but his eyes go right back to Ry. What the fuck? Is he interested in him? Does Waylon know Ryan’s gay?

I shake the thought away, pretty fucking sure I’m bordering on offensive right now.

“I can’t believe Grady didn’t tell me his best friend from high school is Ryan Bailey.”

“You follow baseball?” Ryan asks, not in a surprised tone. No, it’s more like getting-to-know-you fucking talk, and it irks me for some strange reason.

“No,” Waylon laughs. “Not big on sports, but I have seen you featured on some of my favorite shows and sites.” Waylon winks, actually fucking winks, and Ry, I swear to you, blushes.

Fuck.

What if they’re into each other?

My body tenses. Why the hell do I care? Waylon is a good guy. Why should I care if my friends are into each other?

Shit, I’m really losing it.

“You okay?” Ryan’s eyes are boring into me, concern dripping from his features.

I nod and try to brush it off, playing it cool. “I’m fine.” I turn to Bennett. “So, you’re the pitcher to Ry’s catcher, huh?”

Ryan, who unfortunately had just taken a drink, nearly chokes and sputters, “Did you seriously just fucking ask that?”

Bennett looks confused, his eyebrows pinching together. “What? I am a pitcher.”

Ryan clears his throat, pounding on his chest once and then catches his breath. “Yeah, I know.” He tries to play it cool as his glare moves to me. “He knows that too.”

Waylon giggles next to me, taking another drink, but I don’t think he picked up on my double entendre, which okay—it was an asshole question to ask after my talk with Ry about pitching and catching.

Bennett tosses out a question my way. “You play?”

“I did. I used to be the pitcher for Ry.” Why did I emphasize that word?

I feel Ry’s eyes on me, trying to pierce through the bullshit and let me know how pissed he is, but I just smile at Bennett, who laughs. “Holy shit, he never told me that either. We should all hang out and play sometime.”

I raise my hands and shake my head. “Oh, no way. I’m not up to playing with the big boys these days. I’m all about music now.”

He laughs, but Ryan looks like he wants to murder me and like I’ve lost my mind.

Yeah well, he’s not the only one that’s confused by my behavior tonight.

What the hell is going on with me?