Page 39 of Blackmail
Fair.
“Mike’s right. And you don’t do sleepovers,” Dean adds.
“I don’t think I like you two being friends,” I say defensively.
Dean and Michael are sort of weirdly related, but they didn’t get along so well in the past, now also known as the good old days.
“So the only conclusion I can draw—” Michael continues as if I’ve said nothing. “—is that when you brought a Porsche-driving pretty boy to Christian’s place yesterday, and you were wearing clothes made for someone taller than you when you got there…”
“And now you’re totally covered in bite marks and bruises,” Dean points to me. “I can see them through the fabric of your shirt.”
He can see them. Fuck me. I shouldn’t have worn white.
“Didn’t have all of those yesterday morning, though,” Michael helpfully repeats.
Eve leans over, lifts one side of my shirt, and blows a low whistle. I’m unsure what she’s seeing, but I can guess.
Alexis stands and grabs me on the other side. I try to bat both their hands away, but I’m not fast enough. “Are these finger bruises? Oh my God, they’re everywhere.”
“All right, that’s enough.” I raise my voice as I push to stand. Everybody quiets down. Alexis and Eve retake their seats. Thank fuck.
“Look, I had a date last night. It got a little wild. Don’t make it into a thing.”
Alexis leans forward. “Like a date or a date-date?”
I’m not entirely sure how to answer. “Brennan set it up.”
Crickets. I know they’re all looking at me, but I focus instead on putting jam on my toast.
“Uhm…how much did they pay to do that to you?” Ravi asks quietly. At least he didn’t raise his hand this time.
For a moment I wish I could go back in time. Back to yesterday morning when I was safe and warm and sleepy in Sebastian’s bed, nobody was abusing my friends, and nobody was giving me curious stares and pelting me with questions I don’t have the first clue how to answer.
“And who was the guy you brought to Christian’s?” Michael’s not letting this one go.
You really gotta focus when you’re putting jam on your toast, you know? Especially the cherry jam. It’s got all these little chunks in it, and?—
“Simon?” There’s worry in Michael’s voice. I don’t need to look at him to hear it.
“I hope it was a lot,” Eve murmurs. “I don’t even let the clients do that stuff to me, and I do more than most.”
Just throw out a number. That’s all I need to do. Any number, and it’ll be fine. If they think it’s too high, I’ll get fist bumps, and if they feel it’s too low, they’ll all groan and tell me I should know better, but I need to say something. Anything.
In that moment where the only wrong answer is no answer, my mind is as blank as a brand-new notebook.
The longer I stay silent, the longer they do too. Out in the central part of the restaurant, the wait staff is all singing “Happy Birthday” to someone. For birthdays they put one of those ridiculous cone-shaped hats on your head and take your picture while making you kiss a stuffed cow. It’s humiliating as hell.
I would give my left testicle to trade places with whoever’s getting the birthday treatment right now.
“Oh, shit. You fucked him for free, didn’t you?” That’s Dean. For one thing, I can hear the slight southern drawl in his voice. For another, he’s usually a little slow on the draw. Judging by the silence around the table, I’m sure everyone else has already figured it out. I’m still refusing to look up, but there’s only so long a guy can spend spreading jam on his toast. Right now you’d think my life depended on an even butter-to-cherry ratio.
Finally, I look up, taking a bite of my toast as an excuse. And when I do, I see what I was most afraid of on their faces. Drawn eyebrows. Creased foreheads. Sad eyes.
Worry. Concern.
Pity.
Chapter
