I point a stern finger at him.“Not a draw. You’re a cheater. That’s the last time I let you play me, Dawson.” I point a stern finger at him.
He stares at it like he wants to suck it into his mouth but mercifully he doesn’t. Because we’re friends and friends don’t suck on friends’ fingers. I think I learned that in kindergarten.
But yeah, that’s what we are. Friends.
This past week since the hard-on in the pool incident as I silently call it has been filled with Keith being gone a lot during the day as he works on the album the band is trying to finish up. Marco and I spend the majority of that time going over everything I need to learn. But our nights have been spent watching movies and TV, reading and playing chess. Talking and laughing. Basically, my own personal version of heaven.
I always win at chess, but tonight was obviously his breaking point with that.
“I’ll remember that, Angelo. So… hungry?”
“I could eat. But only if you sit with me on your big ol’ sofa and watch a film with me.”
“Will you rub my feet?”
I grin. Because how can I not? This man. This man is just… too many things that I cannot think about or even go near. “Not on your life, pal. Remember, I am one-handed for the next few weeks.”
“How could I forget? Okay. Go sit down and pause your flick. I’ll be back with some of the things Diane made me for us.”
Us. I don’t read into that. Not at all.
Diane, his housekeeper extraordinaire cooks very healthy. I’m guessing that’s how Keith keeps his body as hot as it is. I mean, obviously he works out hard. The man does a bazillion laps in his pool and then hits his home gym, which is larger than my previous apartment times two.
But food plays a large component, and carbs are scarce while protein and veggies are in abundance. At least with dinners. There are plenty of muffins for breakfast, but I have yet to see him eat one.
Only rich people eat this way.
When I used to bring Isaac, the homeless vet who lived on the neighboring stoop, home leftover meals from the restaurant, he never once mentioned the carb to protein ratio. And the staff meals at the restaurants were usually some form of pasta that all of us waitresses and waiters ate happily because it was free food.
Get where I’m going with this?
Diane cooks protein-rich meals like a dream and again it’s food I don’t have to hunt/gather, so I’m happy with anything.
Keith returns a few minutes later with two plates loaded with salad, steak—mine is already cut up if you can believe that—and asparagus. It looks and smells divine and my mouth waters.
He sets it down in front of me and leaves instantly only to return with a beer for himself and a water for me. He teases me that I can’t have a beer because I’m only twenty. Cue the eye roll, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve never had a drink in my life, and I don’t plan on starting now.
I take a bite of my food, chewing slowly as Keith hits play, settling in beside me. Like this is just the most normal thing in the world for him to do on a Friday night. But how can it be? Keith is a gorgeous, wealthy, single man. A celebrity to boot.
Plus, I heard him on the phone earlier with Henry. Henry was trying to get him to go out somewhere and Keith said he wasn’t in the mood. That he was just going to stay in and watch a movie with me. It sounded from the one-sided version I heard that Henry was giving him some shit about that too.
Something inside of me stirs uncomfortably.
“What would you be doing tonight if I weren’t here? It’s Friday night.”
He pauses mid-chew, only to continue a second later and swallow. He takes a sip of his beer, almost as if he’s stalling, and then glances over at me. “I don’t know. Depends.”
“On what?” I press as he goes back to his meal like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“On what I felt like doing,” he says evasively, and I raise an eyebrow, making sure he catches it. He grunts. “I might be here watching a movie or a ballgame. I might be over at Jasper’s since that’s where we always seem to congregate. I might be out with Henry or another friend at a club or a party. Like I said. It depends.”
“You can still do all that, you know. You don’t have to stay here and babysit me.” He ignores that in favor of his dinner and something about that frustrates me to no end. “I mean it. I’m not so helpless that I can’t be by myself or heat my own dinner. I’ve already ingratiated myself on your life enough. If you want to go out, you should go.”
He grins but tries to hide it by taking another sip of his beer. “Are you trying to kick me out of my own house?”
“No. Of course not.”
“So you just don’t like spending time with me then?”
“God, why are men so aggravating?”
He laughs. “Says the pot to the kettle, darlin’.”
“I just mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he interrupts, his gaze meeting mine with a hint of something I can’t place behind it. “And if I really want to go out, I’ll go out. If I didn’t want to be here with you, I wouldn’t be.”
I smile before I can help it only to quickly realize how stupid that is and let it slip from my face. He said he wants us to be friends who can be ourselves with each other and I feel like we are. At least I am with him. So if that’s how he wants us to be, I suppose that means I can ask him anything.
“When you go out with Henry or your other friends, do you meet women to have sex with?”
Keith chokes lightly on his bite of food, clearing the obstruction away with a few heavy hacks and then he pins me with a wary stare. “Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious how it all works for you. I mean, I know you don’t date any of the women you take to bed—”
“Who told you I don’t date?”
Oh. Well, crap. That slipped out, didn’t it? I can feel my stupid cheeks heating. “Marco might have innocently mentioned something in passing.”
He blows out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his thick dark hair. I bet that feels nice to do. I bet the strands are silky and soft. “Yes. Sometimes when I go out, I meet women and have sex with them. Not as often as you think, but it does happen from time to time. And no,” he adds with a finality to his tone. “I don’t date those women. I have sex with them and that’s it. Is that all you’re curious about or is there more you want to know about my private sex life?” His eyes are all over me. Rough and unapologetic.
He’s saying don’t dish it if you can’t take it.
“You know mine.”
“Yes, I know all about yours. Believe me, I’m very aware of it. There’s more though, what do you want to know?” He waves an impatient hand in the air, indicating I should just ask and get it over with.
“These women are okay with that? Just sex and nothing more?” I whisper because suddenly my heart is starting to pound in my chest, and I don’t even know why I’m nervous. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. The way he said he’s very aware of mine.
“Yes. They are. Most of them are only after that as well. A quick and dirty fuck and nothing more.” He’s watching me even more intently as he says that, and I have to look away from his scrutinizing gaze. It makes me want to squirm so badly. The way he says dirty fuck like that. “Some of them are looking for more. They want to fuck a rock star. They want the money and fame and notoriety that comes with dating one. They want to be able to brag. But I never slip my cock inside them until they agree it’s just one and done and sign the same NDA you did.”