Rules of Play (The Script Club 2)

“You will forget. You will forget.”

I shook my head as if coming out of a trance. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Hmm. Hop in. I’ll take you home. You can hit me with your best Dracula trivia on the way.” I tossed my keys in the air, caught them, and smirked. “Unless, of course, you don’t know any.”

“Surely, you jest.” George bared his teeth, sweeping the cape around him dramatically.

I nudged his elbow and pointed at the seat meaningfully. “Move it. I’ll strap you in myself if I have to.”

“That sounds hot. Okay, okay.” He climbed in, fastened his seat belt, and glanced up at me. I was positive he was going to give me his top ten monster mash list. He didn’t. He smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you, Aiden. For everything. I appreciate it.”

The sincerity and raw gratitude in his voice was unmistakable. It tugged at something deep inside me. He wasn’t thanking me for a ride or a beer. Well, maybe that too. But this was about acceptance. Thanks for hanging out, talking, going along with the crazy, and not judging. It was a thank-you for friendship.

I mussed his hair playfully. “Any time, ya little weirdo.”

George swatted me away with a wicked grin, and I snickered as I rounded the truck.

Balance set and restored. Nothing to worry about here, nothing to analyze.

Oh, yeah. Except I’d kissed my best friend’s brother.

Fuck.

Men kissed men all the time. Right?

In some countries, kissing was part of a greeting ritual. Like a handshake. But sticking your tongue down a guy’s throat was next level.

George might have initiated contact, but I’d met him thrust for thrust, nipping, licking, and sucking at his lips without a shred of doubt or self-consciousness. To be honest, I’d shown admirable self-restraint. I’d wanted more. It was a miracle that I’d stopped the momentum before we started something we couldn’t laugh off.

I knew from experience that what felt good in the dark could turn into a whole lot of regret in the light of day. I couldn’t risk that with George. We had too much history and way too many close mutual contacts. I imagined him waking up this morning with a headful of remorse, hoping last night was a bad dream.

Wait.

I didn’t want that either. I wanted him to like it as much as I had. And that alone was cause for concern, folks. See, as far as I knew, I was straight. But I’d always had a thing for George. Always.

I’d just never thought it was sexual.

Sure, I’d popped a boner in front of the fridge with him years ago, but teenage me did that all the damn time. I got hard when I accidentally rubbed up against a desk in those days. And yeah, if I’d thought about what it might feel like to touch another man, I didn’t worry about it. I’d read somewhere that same-sex fantasies were totally normal. So, I occasionally checked out bi porn with man-on-man action, so what? It didn’t mean anything.

Or maybe it did. ’Cause my reaction to our encounter was all kinds of gay.

I’d jacked off in the shower to the memory of that kiss when I got home that night. Water had sluiced over me as I’d braced one hand on the tile, stroking myself in long, slow pulls. Envisioning George on his knees, licking my balls, sucking them one at a time before trailing the tip of his tongue along my length had been nearly enough to send me over the edge.

Of course, the second I’d pictured him opened wide to swallow me whole, I lost control. Cum shot over my fist and hit the glass shower door. I’d panted for air and watched as water washed away the evidence, equal parts fascinated and dumbfounded.

First of all, I hadn’t come that hard while jerking off in a while, and second…that was George. I grew up with that guy, for fuck’s sake. I’d known him as a pimple-faced teenager and a painfully awkward young adult. Now he was a twenty-four-year-old sexy genius with a smart mouth and—fuck. Did I say sexy?

It didn’t matter. I knew the score. George was right. It was best to forget that the kiss had happened. It was a one-off deal, never-again kind of thing. Everything would be normal today. And in a normal world, I’d fix his SUV and send him a few baseball-stat spreadsheets to go through as payment for my time. Done deal.

In the light of day, my body would remember I was straight.

Or a little bi. Maybe.

But that kiss could never be repeated in any way, shape, or form, so it was best to get old Willy fixed up and out of the garage as fast as possible.

I rested my hand on the top of the engine hood, mentally cataloging a list of repairs needed. The leaking fluid, acrid smell, and clunky noise followed by an ominous hum were dead giveaways. He was low on coolant, battery fluid, and oil. Those were easy fixes. The rest would require much more.