Mr. Hollywood’s Secret by Adora Crooks
Eric
It’s five years ago.
I’m in Nico’s living room, my wet clothes dripping obscenely onto his very nice oriental rug. He sits on his leather chaise, towel around his shoulders, staring off into nothing.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I growl.
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s for damn sure.” I’m pacing, my earlier panic flaring into anger now.
“It’s fine.” Nico’s voice is hollow. His eyes are red-rimmed. “I’m fine.”
It’s a punch in the gut. Because I’m fine are not the words someone should use after they just nearly drowned at the bottom of their own pool.
I crouch down in front of him, my hands on his knees. I need him to look at me. “You’re not fine,” I tell him, and his eyes grow wet. “If I hadn’t been here—”
“You were here,” he interrupts. Then he lets out a noise—a frustrated, strangled half sob. “Why were you here? Of all nights, Eric…”
He’s right. I wasn’t supposed to come tonight.
Which hurts. He’d counted on being alone. He’d counted on no one being here to pull him out of the pool and save him.
“You’re soaking wet. Let’s get you out of these.”
I pull his shirt from his head and let it flop to the ground. He lets me, placidly lifting his hands like a doll. I take the towel and dab it over his neck, through his hair.
I’m putting back together the pieces of the man who’s fallen apart in front of me.
“Please,” he says suddenly, and his voice is so soft, it startles me. “I need to know. Why did you come here tonight?”
His eyes shimmer. He looks so earnest, and I know I can’t lie to him. Not now.
So I make my confession:
“I came here to do this.”
Then I kiss him, softly, on the lips.
My heart is pounding. My chest is tight.
But then Nico kisses me back. He flattens himself against the chaise and parts his legs, his body consenting. Inviting me closer.
I kiss him. And I kiss him. And I kiss him.
His fingers rake through my hair, all the way to my scalp, and when he grips, he clings so hard, it hurts—