All In With Him (Men of Summer 3)

I swivel around, and he wiggles his brow, his smile lighting up. He mouths, “You’ve got this.”

He has no idea how I really, really don’t.

No clue I’m faking it.

I need him as a buffer to hide my discomfort, which gives me an idea. I shift positions to behind him, my hands on his arms, his hips, his waist. There. Now I know what to do with my body.

Hide it behind his.

With my jaw tight, and tension lining my spine, I dance with my boyfriend for the next endless, awkward, absolutely uncomfortable songs.

6

Grant

I’ve been weighing options for the last two songs, considering variables and solutions, and I’m damn close to figuring out the answer to the math problem of tonight.

As I bump and grind against Declan, though, it seems the only answer is that I’m an asshole.

To say Declan isn’t into this is an understatement. Not only is he not into this, he’s having a terrible time, and he’s faking fine for me.

That could be a good thing in some cases, but it’s a big fucking problem here.

As the purple and electric blue lights swivel across the floor, I spin around, catching my boyfriend off-guard. His eyes flicker with questions. “C’mere,” I mouth, then tug his hand. I lead him off the dance floor, past the lounge area with its chaises and divans, and the bottle-service servers in slinky clothes, all the way to the hallway near the restrooms.

The music fades to less eardrum-splitting levels, and I pull him into a quieter corner. “You okay?”

“Sure,” he says with a light shrug, like ‘why wouldn’t I be?’” Like it would be impossible for him to be anything other than okay.

I arch a dubious brow. “Seriously?”

Declan swallows, eyes shifting for a second, then moving back to me. “Yes. Why are you asking?”

My heart squeezes—it’s a pang I’ve never felt with Declan before.

He’s lying to me.

I stare at him like I can coax the truth out of him with my gaze. Time to be direct. “You don’t seem happy.”

Dragging a hand through his thick hair, Declan flashes a smile that feels plastic. “It’s just hot,” he says. But his hair isn’t even damp with sweat, and he still smells like the shower he took thirty minutes ago. We’ve only been here for twenty minutes since the club is close to our house.

My chest twinges. Why the hell won’t he tell me what’s wrong? “You want to get some air?” I ask.

“Do you?” His voice pitches up with hope.

I wince. He’s not going to admit he’s unhappy. I’ll have to take the lead and get us out of here. “Actually, I do.” Now we’re both lying because I don’t give a fuck about getting air. But he does, and I don’t know why he won’t just be honest with me.

“Okay then,” he says, with a sliver of a smile that reads like relief. Reads like a neon billboard on the highway at night, beckoning the driver to take the exit.

I metaphorically flick on the turn signal and cruise off the highway because Declan needs that but for some reason won’t ask for it.

I lace my fingers through his. He threads his through mine and squeezes back. It seems he’s thanking me without words, like his touch is telling me what his lips won’t.

I lead us along the hall, back through the club, weaving through the crowd. Spotting Reese at the bar, I make a beeline for her. She’s laughing with Holden, then looping her hands around his waist.

Nodding to the exit, I cup a hand over her ear. “Need to get some air. We’re gonna step outside.”

She flashes a smile, then winks. “Right.”

I wish we were leaving to bang. I wish Declan and I were on the same wavelength.

We make our way to the heavy gray double doors and finally spill out into the San Francisco night. The doors close with a thunk, sealing the pulse of music behind us. Only faint traces of bass seep under the door, through the seams.

The street teems with groups of friends dressed for clubbing and click-clacking down the sidewalk. Declan takes a deep breath, drags his hands through his hair again, then blows out a long stream of air. “You feel better?” he asks, as if I were the one freaking out inside.

My jaw ticks. “I’d feel better if you’d tell me what’s wrong,” I say as I grab my phone from my back pocket, open my Lyft app, and order a ride.

His brow knits. “What are you doing?”

“We’re going home, and you know why.”

“I do?” he counters. His voice isn’t cool and calm, like usual. There’s worry in it.

The scene is full of too many people.

Too many faces.

Too many cameras.

I’m not going to argue with my boyfriend in public. No way will I give any passersby, potential paps, or too-curious onlookers the satisfaction of capturing the city’s All-Star Cougars catcher having words with the city’s All-Star Dragons shortstop.