Immoral by Nicole Dykes

After my run,I snuck in the side door, hoping to avoid Grady and Waylon. I can’t seem to deal today. My mind is planted firmly on that kiss with Grady last night. What the fuck was I thinking?

And why did I stop it?

I strip out of my damp clothes and climb into my shower, trying like hell to shake that thought from my head. I know why I stopped it.

He’s. Not. Gay.

It would be so damn easy to give in to the fantasy. To kiss him and touch him, all the while pretending it wouldn’t have an expiration date. And a quick one at that. But I can’t do it.

I’m not a dumbass kid who thinks a kiss with me could change who he is. I turn the water a little cooler, hoping like hell it will tame the raging hard-on I’ve had since his lips touched mine last night.

I turn off the shower, frustrated and angry with so many things. I see my phone flashing with notifications as I get dressed, but I ignore it. I don’t want to hear about PR opportunities and obligations. I don’t want to check in with my mother about everything that doesn’t make her uncomfortable.

Everything that rides on the right side of her fantasy life.

I’m drowning.

I’m sinking.

Can’t stop sinking.

The words to Immoral’s song run over and over in my head.

They love me.

I’m their fantasy.

But they can’t see.

Even I don’t wanna be me.

“Fuck.” I stare into the mirror as I pull on a plain tee and jeans before reaching for a baseball hat and planting it on my head, pulling it low, shielding my eyes because I can’t even look at myself.

Living a lie. Every single day to appease everyone else.

I grab a pair of sunglasses and pull them on to help with that pesky reflection even more. When I make it out the front door, I see Waylon and Grady standing by the fancy sports car that was parked here when I got back.

I can’t avoid him forever. I give a quick wave, and Waylon offers a bright smile that can’t be fake. The guy is all sunshine and happiness, and it’s almost, almost contagious. “Well, hello again.”

“Hi, Waylon.” I make my way over to them, looking at Waylon even though my shades are dark, and I’m not sure anyone can tell where I’m looking, “I was just going to grab some coffee. You guys want to join me?”

Please say no.

Waylon smiles and pats my shoulder. “I’d love to, but I have a plane to catch.” He turns to Grady, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “But Grady here could use a pick-me-up.”

Grady looks tense as hell, and I’m not sure what to do with that. He’s always completely carefree. “Yeah. I’ll go.” Shit. He turns to Waylon and hugs him properly. “Be good, you little shit.”

“Aw, don’t you worry about me.” He blows him a kiss and winks at me before climbing into his car and driving away.

I turn to Grady. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” His green eyes are locked on mine with the same intensity as last night and this morning, and I turn toward the garage.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

He follows me into the garage, and we climb into my truck. He looks around the cab and then back at me. “Seriously? A pickup truck?”

I shrug. “What?”

“You really are trying to make sure they don’t see, huh?”

I roll my eyes and back out of the garage. “Gay men can drive trucks. Jesus.”

He laughs, “I’m just saying.”

I exit my gate and head toward my favorite coffee shop. “It’s a perk. It was given to me for being in a commercial. I’m a fucking sellout.”

He chuckles at that and then cocks his head to the side. “Well, fuck. I’ve never gotten a vehicle. Cash, yeah. Vodka.” I grin thinking about the top shelf vodka ads he’s been in throughout the years. “Never anything with a motor.”

“Guess you’re just going to have to try harder.”

He relaxes back into his seat, and I feel a little tension release from my shoulders as we joke around about all the ways we’ve sold out over the years, and then I finally pull into park at the coffee place.

I leave my sunglasses in the car but keep the hat on as we walk inside. I smile when I see Justin is working. He shoots me a great big smile. “I was wondering if I’d see you today. Congrats on winning the World Series!”

I grin. “Thanks. I thought you weren’t a fan.” He’s worked here for two years, and I come in often, so we have our own little routine.

“Oh, I’m not a baseball fan.” He winks, and I smile at that.

“Well, thanks for the support.” His brown eyes are almost shimmering with gold flecks. “I’ll take my usual.”

“Of course.” He looks nervously over my shoulder. “Wow. You’re Grady Bell.”

“Yeah, I’m here.” I hear Grady’s voice, but it barely sounds like him with a clipped tone, lacking all his usual charm.

“What can I get you, Mr. Bell?”

“Coffee. Black.”

Justin looks at me, a flirty smile on his handsome face. “Hmmm, plain black coffee for the rockstar.”

I smile at that as Justin begins working, and I feel Grady tense as all hell at my side. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“What does what mean?” I turn to look at him, seeing the grim look on his face.

“Plain coffee? Like I’m fucking boring or something.”

I stare at him, my right eyebrow lifted in confusion. “I don’t think he meant anything by it.” I keep my voice low, not wanting anyone to hear.

“I can switch it up too, Ry.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

He doesn’t answer me, and I count myself lucky because Justin arrives with my lowfat mocha. “I added a little more mocha this time. I think you deserve a little extra.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Plain, black coffee.” He holds out a cup to Grady who takes it, but I can tell he’s still pissy as hell.

Before Grady can say anything else, I pay, leaving a large tip and guide Grady outside toward my truck. “What the hell is your problem?”

He turns angrily toward me. “What’s my problem?” He covers his heart with his free hand. “I thought you weren’t out.”

I think about his words for a minute and look around at the parking lot that’s pretty damn full with people walking in and out of the coffee place. “I told you I fucking am. Lower your voice,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Right. You’re fucking out, but I have to keep quiet about it, and so do you. And your fucking agent.”

“What’s your point?” I hiss.

“You know what my point is? What the hell was that in there with him?” He points toward the coffee shop.

“With Justin? The barista? It was a fucking coffee order that I make almost every day.”

“Are you fucking him?”

I wince at his question and instinctively look around the parking lot, glad I don’t see anyone nearby. I grab his arm and pull him closer but keep a distance between our bodies. “Careful. You sound like a jealous fucking boyfriend right now.”

He takes another step closer to me, tipping his chin up with no shame. “Maybe I fucking am.”

“Stop,” I order, my heart racing as a group of young women walk out the door with coffees in hand, their eyes on Grady and me and their cell phones out, not at all inconspicuously taking pictures of us. I release my hold on him but look him in the eye. “Stop.”

“Ry . . .” He doesn’t get to finish whatever he was going to say because a car pulls up and then another, both parking near us with photographers rushing out and clicking photos. “Fuck.” He turns to me. “Since when does KC have paparazzi?”

I shrug. “Since my team won the world series and Grady fucking Bell is in town. Come on.” I unlock my truck and wave at the cameras, giving them one good shot, ignoring their questions about what we’re doing here together and climb into my truck.

Grady tells them he’s happy to be back home and flashes a peace sign before climbing in the passenger side. I see them rushing to get back in their cars and follow us as I drive leisurely back to my house. I have a gate that keeps everyone out and far from the front door of my house so I’m not really worried.

My house is public record. They already know where I live.

“A fucking peace sign? Really?”

He chuckles, and it’s good to hear. “Fuck off. I’m supposed to be more family-friendly these days.”

“And why is that?” I know Victoria, the woman he’s supposedly dating is on a family show, but he’s a rockstar. Does anyone really expect him to be a good boy?

He shrugs, and his expression darkens. “I do what the label tells me to do.”

I recognize that anguish, doing what you have to for everyone else. But I don’t commiserate with him out loud. There’s no point.

We both know we’re both stuck in our own hell, although he plays it off a hell of a lot better.