Page 18 of Decked, Wrecked and Pucked
“Have you heard from your parents?” Roman asks, spearing something green and boring as hell off his plate, and I nod as he chews on whatever rabbit food he ordered.
Roman’s always been strict with his diet, but it fits him. It fits the part of him that needs to have his shit together at all times, no cracks, no slipups, just complete control.
Whereas I’ve got the biggest fucking steak on the menu sitting in front of me, bleeding just the way I like it.
“Are they okay?” Zeke asks.
“Yeah,” I say, carving off a chunk of meat. “They’re thinking of visiting for a week after the holidays and asked if they could stay at the house.”
Roman raises an eyebrow. “And you said?”
“I told them if they want to torture themselves, be my guest.”
Laughter ripples around the table because they both know damn well I’m not lasting a week without putting my hands on them. Zero chance. If that means Sandra and Hank have to hear their golden boy getting railed by these two men sitting next to me… well, that’s on them. They’ve been warned.
My parents and Zeke’s mom have always known about the three of us. It helps that my mom and dad are the kind of people who’d welcome a three-ring circus into their living room if it meant their kid was happy; open-minded doesn’t even begin to cover it.
When they saw us together, when they realized what we had and how we just fit, they looked at us and basically said, “Cool. More people to love.”
Zeke’s mom is a whole different kind of incredible. Jules is the gentlest soul you’ll ever meet, which is exactly why Zeke has a heart bigger than most people’s entire personalities. She didn’t even bat an eye when she saw the way we loved each other; shejust opened her arms like it was the most natural thing in the world and pulled me and Roman in as if we were hers too.
And Jesus Christ, Roman needed that more than he’ll ever admit. He needed someone to hold him without conditions or expectations—just arms around him to remind him that he was more than enough.
Roman’s demons are carved deep by two piss-poor parents. One’s probably strung out in a ditch somewhere, while the other is probably whoring herself through some dead-end town.
Thank God the selfish motherfuckers stay away.
Roman got chewed up and spit out by the system, and even if he swears he “had it better than most,” we know he’s spent most of his life feeling alone.
Until her.
Until us.
“Speaking of torture…” I mutter, resting my fork beside my plate.
“Don’t,” Roman snaps, his voice like a whip. “Not today.”
“Come on, we need to talk about it. I’ll call a vote if I have to.”
“This can’t just be a fucking vote, Jasper,” Roman bites back, throwing down his fork. “It’s got to be all of us agreeing, or none of us. We can’t half-ass this.” He leans back, dragging a hand down his face, like he’s already exhausted by the conversation.
“This needs to be about Coach. Not Addison,” Zeke adds.
“Chances are, we won’t see her. Obviously, we’ll see her at the ceremony, but it’s one night. One fucking night. We’re adults, and fuck me, it’s been five years.” I think I need to go. I think I need to see her, look her in the eye, and feel absolutely nothing. “Besides, she could be hideous now.”
Zeke shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “You know Mikey wouldn’t have been caught dead with someone who didn’t look like a trophy wife.”
“Unless he’s let himself go too,” I shoot back, grinning as I tear into another bite of steak. “Which, you know… I fucking hope so because we’re hot as shit.”
Zeke leans back in his chair, that beautiful smile curving his mouth as he tilts his head at me. “You think she’s going to take one look at you and realize what a colossal mistake Mikey King was?”
“You know it, baby. I’m fucking irresistible.”
The only reason we can talk about her like this and pretend we’re unaffected by the situation is because she’s the one exception—the only one there’s ever been and the only one there ever could be. If any of us even so much as thought about touching another man or woman, it wouldn’t just hurt. It would tear apart everything we’ve built. It would be over, done, crushed into dust before it even had a chance to bleed out and permanently stain what we have.
We belong to each other, and I’ve never—not even in my weakest, most loneliest moments—ever been tempted to fuck that up, and I never will.
“Fuck,” Roman mutters, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “We’re doing this, aren’t we?”
