Immoral by Nicole Dykes

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.

“A party. You just won the motherfucking World Series. You need to celebrate.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He walks out of the room with a determined smile, and I lean my head back against the sofa.

I guess we’re having a party.