Life wasn’t always charming for princes no matter what the fairy tales said.
Chapter 7
Finn
What did I do?
What did I do?
One glimpse of Cameron in those training pants, and his erection, knowing he was as turned on as I was, and every single promise I’d made to myself for the sake of career vanished.
I nearly did it.
I nearly reached out and pulled him down on top of me.
Fuck.
The weight of regret was as heavy as the mix of fear and shame I’d carried for so long, and I had to stop the car when my chest got so tight I couldn’t breathe. I’d parked in the first place I could find—a vacant lot in front of a boarded-up pizzeria, then stared at the fading signs pronouncing two for one meal deals.
I hadn’t had pizza in so long, empty carbs, not enough protein, had to keep the six-pack, had to stay in shape, had to work hard to be the Finn Kerrigan everyone wanted. I rested my head and hands on the leather steering wheel and groaned.
Stupid. Stupid. Fucking stupid.
But he was there, and he was touching me, and I felt bold and brave, and so freaking horny, and then I’d touched his hand…
I had to get some perspective, consider the scenarios, evaluate the good and the bad.
I could imagine the way Cameron would grip me, then move his hand, and fingers and… shit… it would have been so hot. His expression was beautiful, a want and a need in his stunning gray eyes. And jeez, I was getting hard in an empty lot in my car, and I couldn’t do that.
I couldn’t desire what he’d done again.
Fuck.
I couldn’t even begin to make sense of it all. Cameron could make a ton of money by selling the story of what he thought we might have done, and then I’d lose the Grierson movie role, and then I wouldn’t be able to live an authentic life. I wouldn’t be able to cross the bridge to being out in Hollywood but still getting work. Actors who fuck everything up before they made it big don’t get to cross that bridge.
Would Cameron do that? Did he need money? I pulled out my cell, and typed in How much is Cameron worth? It returned a few results for other famous guys called Cameron—I’m an idiot—and I added his last name of Chavkin.
The top hit was a net worth site, twenty-six million.
So maybe he wouldn’t out me for money.
But what about notoriety? Would he out me for that? Was I worth more in the public eye than he was? I doubted it—he had years of being an elite sportsman, I had three chewing-gum-for-the-eyes action movies and a kids’ movie.
He didn’t need people to know what had happened just to make him look good.
I began to feel better. And just to be sure, I pulled down the vanity mirror to check that I didn’t appear as if I was losing my shit. As I confronted my stupid-ass reflection, I swore I could see it smirk back at me for giving in.
In that moment I wanted him.
And now I’ve fucked up.
My resolve to wait for everything had crumbled in the face of Cameron with his sure grip, and his eyes, and his hair, and his thighs, and fuck… where had my self-control vanished to?
I’d nearly traded a hand job for everything I wanted and planned for.
“Fucking idiot!” I snapped at myself, then pushed up the visor so hard I heard a crack. Great, now I’m breaking my car.
I sat back in my seat, and settled my breathing, using all kinds of techniques until I relaxed into the seat. It was all going to be okay. I’d go back, talk to him, get him to sign a post-sex NDA, pay him off if I needed to.
I should call Atlas.
And tell him what? Sorry I nearly fucked up; I think my hockey player knows I was more than turned on by a massage. I held his hand. Fuck. You need to fix it for me?
I scrolled the entertainment news searching for my name—waiting for it to pop up.
The first headline I saw was “Secrets revealed derail Rapid franchise!”
Heart in my throat I clicked and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The big secret was that a plot hole had been found in the second movie. I was surprised it had taken people that long to find it.
Nothing about me. About being gay. About me losing my shit over a man I should be avoiding.
Atlas would work it out for me, hide it, make it go away, but he’d make it worse by explaining all other things I’d only just avoided making the press.
My chest tightened as I recalled the warnings Atlas had given, about Me Too, and responsibility and… wait. What if Cameron accused me of inappropriate advances? What if he stated that I grabbed his hand, and he felt like I was using my influence to get him to…
To what?
I don’t have influence.
But the media would jump all over it.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh fucking goddamn shit!
I was sweating, hot, freaking terrified.
That was way worse than losing my career—that would ruin me, ruin everything. My family would be dragged into it, I’d end up in the—
A bang scared the living daylights out of me, and after I gasped and clutched my chest dramatically, I side-eyed whoever had knocked there, and saw a cop. I sat upright, years of media training coming to the fore, and lowered the window.
“Is everything okay?” the cop asked me, and it was obvious he recognized me because his eyes widened. “Finn Kerrigan. Right?” he asked, and I was flustered.
“Sorry. Yes, of course. I’m just getting my license and ID.” I reached for the paperwork with exaggerated care, and handed it to him, and he gave it a cursory glance.
“Are you aware that you are parked on private property, Mr. Kerrigan?”
I am? I glanced up at the pizzeria sign, then noticed the one beneath it warning of consequences for parking in the space. Shit. Way to add more shit to an already crappy day.
“I wasn’t, I’m sorry. I just needed to take a call,” I lied, but it seemed to be enough to mollify the cop who nodded and passed back my ID.
He stared at me then peered into the cool interior.
“In the future I’d be careful where you park your limited edition, only ten of a kind, Lamborghini, sir.”
“My apologies.”
We stared at each other now, and he cocked an eyebrow. “If you could move it on, sir.”
“Sure. Sorry.” I restarted the engine and smiled my best action hero I’m-a-respectable-citizen smile, then left before things got any worse. Now what?
I’d had my meltdown, was convinced that Cameron was going to accuse me of all kinds of things, and there was only one thing I could do.
Talk to the man himself, but that would have to wait until tomorrow, for our lesson.
If he even turned up to the lesson.
What if he didn’t?
I knew where he was right now—at the place I’d stalked him and where the Storm played, doing something with clearing out lockers and giving interviews. I headed in that direction, straight into midday traffic, and got caught up in the snarl of cars and buses around the arena. I did make it to a security line, but I was twenty cars back and as conspicuous as a parrot in a gaggle of geese. So much for getting to wait anywhere near the Cali Natural Gas Arena. A couple of flashy cars headed in the opposite direction, heading away, and when I saw a familiar matte-blue Mercedes, it hit me that the players were leaving and there was Cameron! All I needed to do was follow him again and hope he didn’t realize it was me and stop his car to ask me to explain what in god’s name I was doing.