Or worse, call the cops from his car, then I’d be in some kind of weird-ass chase that helicopters would hover over, then I’d end up on the news and…
Stop spiraling.
I stayed a couple of cars behind him as we headed up into the hills, a little confused when he added a convoluted left and right and ended up going around the block with no purpose. Still, I had him in my sights, and there was no way he’d see me when I was blocked by general traffic from his view. At last, we were out of the city and onto a quieter road going up past private gates, scrubby land interspersed with lush greenery, and it was unfortunate that the two cars between us, a Prius, and a Porsche, both turned off, which left my startling yellow Lamborghini right behind his Mercedes. Inconspicuous, not.
He slowed at a gate which opened smoothly, then pulled into the drive as I parked my car half a block down from him.
Now what?
I’d shadowed him home, but now I was on the winding street with views of the valley, and he was inside his place with the gates still open. I couldn’t stay here all day. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I thought about what to do next, and then he appeared right there in front of me. His hands on his hips, lips thin, and an eyebrow quirked. A car careened down the hill, a go-kart that looked like something out of a video game with splashy colors of yellow and bright pink, only just missing me and him. The driver yelled a greeting before disappearing around the corner. Cameron gave them the finger as they did, so I’m guessing he knew them. Maybe he should tell them to slow down.
He gestured for me to follow, and then stalked back to the gate and thumbed inside.
I did as I was told, and once he was back in his car, we created a tiny convoy that took us from the gate down a short road to the house at the end.
Nice.
Not a McMansion like mine, but wide and low. Neat, with greenery, and a palm tree, and a brilliant-white front door. I parked behind him, and then settled my breathing, pasted a smile on my face, and then opened my door. This was impetuous, this was idiotic.
I’m so fucking this up.
Atlas will kill me.
Cameron exited his car and came over to me, his arms now crossed over his chest. He’d clearly changed out of his training stuff because he was now in a suit, which had to be hot on a day like today. Also, had they played or something, because his left eye was puffy and there was a cut on the bridge of his nose.
“Are you stalking me, Hollywood?” he asked.
“No!”
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
“I promise I’m—”
“You followed me from the arena.”
“Wait. You saw me?”
He glanced at my canary-yellow car. “Difficult to miss.”
I grimaced. “Sure, yeah, I’m sorry, but I needed to talk to you.”
He relaxed then, his arms uncrossing, and after a sigh, he stalked to the house, opened the door, and waited. Was me going in there just going to compound my situation? What if the media got wind of me holding his hand, while I had an erection, and then stalking him to his home, and going inside? Shit. Shit.
“I’m not sure I should go in,” I called after him.
“Huh?” He turned to face me, then pointed up at the sun. “I have AC.”
“I have this thing…” I began. How to explain? “I don’t want you to feel I’m using my influence to force you to invite me in.”
He snorted a laugh. “Are you a vampire?”
I was confused, and then gestured up at the same sun. “Evidence says otherwise.”
“Then you don’t need to worry about crossing my threshold—I invited you in.”
“Yes, but…” I pulled out my phone and thumbed to record, pointing it at the ground. “Am I forcing you to invite me in?” I asked.
He glanced at me, then the phone, and frowned. “No, Finn Kerrigan, actor, star of the Rapid franchise and a cute film about ladybugs, I, Cameron Chavkin, star center for the LA Storm, am not being intimidated into letting you in my house.” He said that all so deadpan, and then disappeared inside, as I stopped recording.
That covered me, right?
After a moment I slunk in after him and found myself in a wide hallway with a wall of photos. This house wasn’t sterile like mine; it was filled with images of him and family and friends, along with a couple of hockey sticks laid by a small table. There was even a misshapen bowl for keys painted in bright purple and with the initials CC on it. Had he made that? Or was it a niece or a nephew? I had similar things from Henry and Lilly—a lot of things with Hobart-the-elf and ladybugs on—but I hadn’t unpacked the boxes they were in yet, because my huge place didn’t feel like somewhere I wanted to call home.
Cameron went down a corridor and through a door at the end and I followed, coming into a wide kitchen with light flooding in from huge wraparound windows, through which I could see a pool beyond.
Nope. He definitely didn’t need my money.
After he tossed me a bottle of ice-cold water, he took a seat at the counter and waited.
Probably for me to say something clever and to explain it all. Emotion welled inside me, all thoughts of getting an NDA fled, and it was the very worst fear that poked me hard.
“I didn’t mean to make you do anything,” I said. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to hold my hand, or touch me with the oil and stuff, when you were just being good to me because I hurt all over.” I lowered myself to one of his stools, thankful they were sturdy enough to hold him, so they should be okay for me. I had more bulk than he did, but he was solid and sleek, and he wasn’t a short guy at all. In fact, he was just the right height to—
Stop.
“You didn’t make me do anything.” He sounded confused, and took a swallow of water, which made my insides hot and squirmy. God, his lips were perfect and if they were wrapped around my cock I’d lose it in seconds.
“I did.” I lifted my chin. “I held your hand on me.”
He stared at me for a while—it seemed like forever—and then he snorted a laugh, which didn’t seem appropriate after my admission.
“Do you know Maverick King?” he asked.
I frowned. “Should I?” Was it his lawyer?
“He’s six-seven, plays up in Ottawa, built like a brick wall, muscles on muscles, a juggernaut of a D-man.”
Oh wait. This Maverick is a hockey player?
“He’s a hockey player?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“I don’t know him, sorry.”
“Wait.” He pulled out his cell and scrolled through the Internet, then turned the screen to me, showing me a photo of a huge man who towered over the skater next to him. “Maverick King, a hundred and ten kilos, like I said, a juggernaut.”
“Okay?” I had no idea where this was going but couldn’t take my eyes off the way his lips moved as he talked. He was mesmerizing.
“Not even he could make me hold your hand,” he said, and sat back.
“Oh, wow, is he gay?” I asked, then amended my question. “Or bi, or pan, I mean I wouldn’t label.”
Cameron rolled his eyes. “No.”
“Oh.” Then, what was the point of him bringing this man up?
“I don’t know if King is queer. He could be. But that’s not the point. The point is that even with your movie muscles, you couldn’t make me do anything.”