Page 81 of Kitty Season
Maybe Brady Rudiger Basse, too.
Definitely Brady Rudiger Basse, too.
Which even to me, sounds stupid. We’ve only been doing this for a few weeks. But when I stop and think, and let myself feel, I can see that I’ve been in love with Quinn for months, and obsessed with Skip from the minute I saw him. Every taunt Ihurled, every photo I sent, was a modern day, fucked up love letter.
I don’t care if people think what we have is wrong. I’ve never felt more right.
The weight of it is both freeing and constraining. Ridiculous and real. Sitting heavy on my shoulders, keeping me tethered to earth. I catch myself thinking this, and glare at my reflection in the window. Who the fuck even are you?
“Quinny,” Brady says thoughtfully. “Do us a favor would ya? Next time you’re thinking of doing either the bravest or stupidest thing ever in front of your old man, give us a little heads up.”
Letting my head fall against the headrest, I snort a laugh. “Or at least get us drunk beforehand and fuck usbothin the bathroom.”
“Are you nuts? No alcohol in the finals.” She winks, puts the car in reverse, and drives us home.
We winthe game against Providence, and since we missed the last celebration due to our dinner date from hell, we join the boys for drinks at O’Reilly’s, sans Quinn who’s hanging with Lotte.
From what I’ve seen, Brady rarely indulges at these things, which works great for me. Hello designated driver. I haven’t had a drink since Dan and Chris bailed me up, but after the last few days, I could do with one. Or three.
Things aren’t quite working out as I hoped, though. Brady headed straight to the bar, and has consumed one beer. One. Normally that would be no big deal, but I’m suddenly very aware of why the kid doesn’t drink.
It’s gone straight to his head. He’s giggly, touchy and really, really bad at fending off the gaggle of bunnies hopping around after him. I don’t see him check one of them out, and his polite rejections are useless against these battle-hardened veterans. Eventually, after Brady pays them no attention, they give up and move on to the rest of the team. Shane and Cory, seeming their favorite.
“Where did everyone go, Troye? Troye. Troye.” Squinting up at the ceiling, he repeats it over and over like it’s the first time he’s heard it. Each time with a different inflection. “Hey why do you have an E on the end of your name? Were you named after Troye Sivan?”
“Yes, I was named after a twink that was eight and not famous when I was born.”
Brady blinks through unfairly long lashes that shadow against his cheeks, so innocently it hurts. “Twinks, huh. You into them?”
“I’ve been known to dabble.” I confess before adding, “Prefer someone a bit thicker, and curvier these days.”
“Curvier like Quinn?”
“Like Quinn … and others.”
Smirking, he leans in, breath warm and beer-y against my ear. “Thicker like me?”Fuck I wish we were at home, my dick complains. I have to agree. Right now, there’s nothing I want more than to sneak Skip into the bathroom, unbutton his jeans and have him blow his mind in my mouth. But the whole team is here. I couldn’t give a fuck about me. They all know I’m bi. They know I’m with Quinn. But they don’t know Brady’s queer, and that we’re with Brady, and that Brady is a needy, whiny, self-declared lightweight drinker. There’s no way I could keep him quiet. Unless I gave him something to bite down on.
Hmm.
Nope. That’s a risk not worth taking.
Not at all.
Nope.
Not helping my conundrum in the slightest, Brady takes another sip of his beer then slips his hand beneath the table, running a finger up the inside of my thigh. Hard as stone, and hanging onto my control by a thread, I’m seconds from declaring-fuck it let’s go-when a hand slaps on my shoulder. “Long time no see, motherfucker.”
“Dan, dude. I already told you, me and your momma broke up. I’m not going to be your daddy no more.”
“The fuck did you say about my mom, Princess?”
To the casual observer, like Skip, this exchange may appear as unfriendly as they come. To me it’s the stuff true relationships are founded on. To tipsy Skip, not so much.
“Do we have a problem here, mate?” he grunts, rising to get in Dan’s face. The table, a slab of solid oak or some shit I genuinely thought was bolted to the floor, is shunted out of the way like it’s a Popsicle stick.
“Brades, it’s okay—” Without looking, he twists just enough to place a palm in my chest, depositing me back in my seat with embarrassing, but sexy, ease.
“Yeah nah, it’s not okay. No one talks to you like that. No one calls you names like that.”
