“Laundry almost done?” I ask since I think the dryer stopped a while ago.
“Yeah. Shit,” he says.
“What’s wrong?” A strange dose of unease wiggles through me.
“I need to go too,” he says.
Oh. That’s a new line. This is his place. “Got another date?” I ask, a little cold because fuck him if he does.
He scoffs—several times. Then he grabs my waist. “Dude. I would not jizz all over your abs if I had another date.”
“Jizz. Lovely,” I say, cracking up.
“I’m a classy guy.” He heaves a sigh. “Anyway, listen. No, I don’t have a date. Don’t even go there. Don’t even suggest that. But here’s the thing. I’m into you, but I’m not into relationships and shit. So please know where this is coming from.” He stops to swallow then continues. “I would love to sleep with you, and hang with you, and suck you off, and party with you. But I need to catch a flight to Vegas tonight to spend the weekend with some buds. Is there any chance you’d want to come with me, and we can have fun and hang out and then fuck till we’re too tired to move?”
Dear God, this hunk is speaking my language. “What do you know? I’m not keen on relationships either.”
“Then, in the immortal words of Hump My Ass Off Bogart, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship with benefits.”
“Ah, is that Cockablanca? Now that movie I’d watch again too.”
“Same here. So it’s a date,” he says.
And we have a date to spend the weekend in Vegas as well.
8
NATE
Somewhere around the exit for the San Francisco airport, my nerves kick in. Like, clammy hands and a weirdly racing heart. And I’m not a nervous guy. When linemen chase me like tigers hunting prey, I hardly feel nervous—just steely determination to catch the ball and carry it as far as superhumanly possible.
But going to Vegas with a dude I met six hours ago?
This has all the makings of a very bad idea. Traveling with someone can be awkward with a capital A.
As I shoulder my bag, exit the car, and make my way through the airport, I do my damnedest to chill the fuck out. After grabbing my phone from my front pocket, I fire off a text to Jason.
* * *
Nate: Off to Sin City. Taking the hottie. I plan to practice all my skills.
* * *
Jason: Dude.
* * *
Nate: It’ll be fine. It’s Vegas, baby. Plus, you’ll be there tomorrow. TJ will too, and we’ll all just hang and party. It’ll be cool. I got this.
* * *
Jason: Good. I have faith in you then. But I might check up on you before I arrive. Maybe even while I’m there. :)
* * *
Nate: Course you will. I presume you’ll be studying game film of the new Renegades QB until then?
* * *
Jason: Yes.
Hmm. Jason isn’t usually short in his replies when we’re talking football. But maybe he’s worried about the new rival quarterback in town.
Nate: Beck is a fast mofo. But you’re the best there is.
* * *
Jason: Indeed.
* * *
There he goes again. Curt, and that’s weird. But I don’t have time to parse out his short replies since it’s my turn to show my ID and head through security.
As I stride toward the gate, I map the weekend in my mind. We’ll go to the concert tomorrow, then the party after. For tonight? Maybe some blackjack and bets. Yup. It’s the perfect Mister Casual recipe.
But when I reach gate twenty-three, Hunter is nowhere to be found. I scan the seating area with eagle eyes, searching for the dark-haired Brit with the jawline that could carve . . . my heart up.
Won’t let that happen.
I roam through the row of seats, looking for the guy who bought a ticket to Vegas. But wait. Did he?
Back at my place, he booked his own flight. Said it was easier since he had a flight to London on Sunday, and rerouting it out of Vegas would make things simpler.
What if he didn’t book a flight at all?
I blink, drag a hand through my hair, try to talk myself down.
You made plans. It’s fine. Just because Gavin didn’t show up for the sports awards gala and left you high and dry doesn’t mean this guy is a charlatan.
“Flight sixty-nine to Las Vegas will commence boarding. All elite flyers and first-class travelers can now board,” the calm voice of the female gate agent says over the crackly loudspeaker.
I slide open my screen, ready to tap out a text to Hunter.
* * *
Nate: Hey. I’m boarding. I’ll catch you in the air, I suppose.
* * *
Then I close the message app, stuff the phone in my pocket, and wait another minute or two.
But he’s not here. And I feel ghosted before we’ve begun.
9
HUNTER
“Tell them it’s non-negotiable, Ilene,” I say into my mobile as I pace. “We made it clear the offer was for the sub-channel for six episodes only. Not eight. Six.”
“I know that, hun. Trust me, I so totally know that,” my VP says in her speed-of-light voice. “But it’s my job to bring you the counteroffer.”
“It is, Ilene. And I appreciate it. But we need to stay firm. Six episodes. Sub-channel. And the price per ep won’t change,” I tell her.
“But,” she says, and she’s uncharacteristically slow as molasses right now when I need her to be on speed, “the agent is saying Vespertine has an offer from you know who.”
I take a calming breath. “You can use the name of our competitor. They aren’t Voldemort.”
She laughs loudly, and I pull the phone away to click open a text message. “True, true. Rhymes with Zulu,” she whispers when I open a new text and read it.
Ah, bollocks.
“Attention, we are now boarding,” another voice booms.
“Listen, love. I’ve got to go. Remember what I always tell you? I trust you to handle these deals,” I say, calmly reminding her.
“You’re right, you’re right. You do,” she says, and we say goodbye as I march to the gate, hunting for the strapping man I want to spend the weekend with.
After I end the call, I weave through the crowd to catch up to my traveling companion. “Pardon me,” I say, then I set a hand on his shoulder.
Nate jerks his gaze toward me, and his eyes register surprise, then relief, but a hint of coolness too. “Hey, man,” he says, a little casual.
But before I can ask why, the gate agent calls us forward and scans our passes before we step onto the jetway.
I follow Nate. I could play things the way he wants. The man did lay down the rules of the road. No relationships and shit. Which is more than fine by me.