Gray Robertson, my oldest and best friend, the godfather to both of my sons, and the better parent to the elder of the two, was a bit of a bohemian. He cleaned up nicely for sure, but Gray didn’t bother with anything more than shorts or jeans and a tee if he could help it. He spent the majority of his time in his home studio—or, weather permitting, on the pool house roof…writing music under the sun.
That was the weird thing about our twenty-plus-year relationship. I knew shit about Gray I’d never forget. Not just factual things anyone paying attention could figure out, but nuances. The way he cocked his head when answering a difficult question, the way he smiled with his eyes before his mouth was involved in the equation. I supposed that meant he knew things about me too, but the big difference here was that Gray had moved on.
Wait a second. I’d moved on too.
Geez, I wasn’t some pathetic schmuck hung up on an ex who’d broken up with him for the third and final time over a decade ago. I had a full life with a rewarding career and two amazing sons. I traveled all over the world, networking and strategizing with the best in my business, bringing joy to the masses through entertainment.
I was a future-thinking pioneer, damn it. I was not stuck in the past.
Except…I kind of was. And I hated it.
I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Since the day Gray had told me he’d asked Justin to marry him, I’d been a head case. Of course it was also the day I’d met Trent, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him either. The difference was that my thoughts about Trent were X-rated, while thinking of Gray made me anxious and sad.
I felt a bone-deep possessiveness for Gray on a level I hadn’t when he was mine. It was creepy, but I could shake this. I just needed a little time to process.
My personal diagnosis was shock. I hadn’t thought Gray would ever get married again. Scratch that. I hadn’t thought he’d marry a man. A much younger man, no less.
But I’d been wrong.
So here I sat, on my familiar barstool at the island in Gray’s kitchen, nursing a headful of resentment I couldn’t voice to the person I usually told…everything.
“Thanks.” Gray pulled a slice of pepperoni from his pizza, tore it in half, and bent to offer it to Chester. He cooed like a proud papa, petting Chester between his pointy ears before straightening. “Don’t tell Justin.”
As if.
I did a zipped-mouth motion, then took a huge bite to shut myself up. I wasn’t going to ruin our time together by talking about What’s His Face. It was bad enough I had to pretend to like him. I chewed and swallowed while stewing in toxic thoughts.
Thankfully, Gray didn’t seem to notice I was lost in don’t-be-a-dick-land again. He yammered on about an idea for the score I’d commissioned him to write for The Last Drop. Something about the mood and texture. Did songs have texture?
Don’t ask, don’t ask. I’d say something mean and offend Gray or Justin or Chester. And I didn’t want to be that guy. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be strong.
But texture? I would have liked to give that one the “What the fuck?” it deserved. For some reason, I heard that WTF in Trent’s voice with his thick slightly-wrong-side-of-the-tracks accent. A smile tugged at the corner of my lips and before I could stop it… Bam! It spread like melted butter on a hot biscuit. I couldn’t control it.
Not good. Jesus, I was supposed to be listening to Gray’s monologue about the ethereal quality of his rainforest sound mix, not thinking about my one-night stand—excuse me, two-night stand—with a part-time actor, waiter, and extraordinary lover.
The truth was…I thought about Trent a lot. Way more than I should have. It had been a few weeks since “that day.” And by “that day” I meant “incredibly hot sex over my desk day”—aka, the hottest office liaison I’d had in years. Maybe ever. And yeah, I’d had a ton of office sex. Hell, I’d had a lot of meaningless sex. That wasn’t a brag; it was the truth.
And that was what Trent and I had engaged in—passionate, albeit meaningless monkey sex. Twice. Christ, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dissected a lover’s every move and every word long after he was gone. The way he’d undressed me with a hungry stare, demanding answers, then demanding me to follow his lead. Me. I’d built an empire by maintaining control at all times. But all he’d had to say was, “Let go of your cock…because I said so” and I’d obeyed.
I’d loved giving him the reins. I’d loved how easily he read me and knew exactly how far to push and when to let go. I replayed both occasions in my head with my hand wrapped around my cock every night and sometimes in the morning before I left for the office. Sometimes I made up new scenes with Trent ordering me to ride his cock in the back seat of a limo or a battered old truck. I could practically hear his husky timbre, commanding me to get naked and show myself to him.