“And you determined yesterday that I was an addict?”
“After what I witnessed, yes. The addiction isn’t the problem. Like I said, this list is full of viable options for you to seek help. BBS is willing to reevaluate—”
“After I get clean,” I interrupt. “How kind.”
I inch closer to him as he holds out the paper, realizing now why he’s going through this entire spiel. This could’ve been handled over the phone. I presume Deacon Black would be the one calling me if my contract was being canceled, but I just can’t figure out why Brooks is here in person.
I don’t reach for the list of treatment facilities when I step into his space, rather I reach past him, the front of my body brushing his as I open the drawer on the side table.
He doesn’t budge, doesn’t freak out that another man is touching him, doesn’t shove me away as I stare at his mouth and blindly reach for the items he’s already determined to be the vice feeding my addiction.
He’s partially right, but so far from the mark it’s unreal.
He looks bored, his handsome face a mask at my blatant attempt to get a rise out of him, despite my semi-erect cock brushing his thigh.
He still smells of sexy bodywash and mint like he did yesterday, and it takes herculean strength not to press my nose into his throat and breathe him in fully. There may be time for that later. Right now, I have a point to prove even though I really just want to tell him to go fuck himself for not having faith in me. The man doesn’t owe me a damn thing, and it doesn’t matter if people have been bending to my will for the last decade, I have no right to expect him to do the same.
I’m close enough to hear his swallow, forcing my gaze to the column of his throat and the Adam’s apple bobbing mere inches from my mouth. I want to bite it, to feel the flesh there against my tongue.
Somehow, this man is seducing me, teasing me to the point of insanity and all he’s doing is standing in my living room. I’m losing my grip on reality, and in this moment, I can’t even be angry about that.
What I do know, is I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him thinking I bought a couple of grams of smack yesterday.
“I’m not going to rehab for my addiction. I’ve tried for years to move past it, but it has me in its clutches. I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on it. I know it’s out of hand. You’ll never catch me trying to deny it. I didn’t even want to meet with my dealer yesterday but passing it up wasn’t possible. If I didn’t buy it, someone else would swoop in and get it.” I pull back, the small baggies in my hand. “There’s just something about maroon that makes my dick hard.”
I prove my point by pressing my now fully erect cock against his hip before taking a step back.
“I’ve been searching all over for the Hippo Root Beer.”
Brooks shakes his head, and although extremely difficult, I control my facial expressions at the sight of his pink cheeks. The man blushing has to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’m not up to date on drug lingo, Archer, but—”
His mouth snaps closed when I hold the baggie up mere inches from his face.
He pulls his head back, his eyes focusing on the item.
“Clever,” he says, snapping the thing out of my hand.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I watch him flip the thing over.
“It’s just a bottlecap?” He continues to scrutinize the thing, but I have to pull it from his hands when he attempts to open the plastic.
“Don’t. The oils on your fingers will damage it.” I clutch the prize to my chest.
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“And the other?” He points to the baggie in my other hand.
“Oh, that’s just a Mt. Dew cap I needed to complete that part of my collection.”
“Bottle caps?” he asks again. “You had an armed limo driver and a thug with a briefcase here to sell you fucking bottle caps?”
“I don’t think insulting Levi’s aesthetic is very nice.”
“The driver had a gun,” Brooks says, as if he still doesn’t believe me.
“The Hippo is very rare. Do you know how many people would kill to get their hands on it?”
He blinks at me, his eyes darting from my face to the bottle caps and back to my face again. “Not drugs?”
“Never been my thing,” I say with a shrug and a frown.
“What’s the look for?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, because how can I tell him the truth?
I can’t open my mouth and speak of my disappointment in the world, how my manager convinced me that saying I was a drug addict and alcoholic would be more widely accepted than admitting I was bi. He made it sound like coming out was much worse than snorting cocaine.