Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
It’s in my DMs too—in the form of a note from Zane.
Dude, that better be you on the floor in front of Rafe.
In the back seat, I groan, covering my face with my hands.
Owen warned me to be careful. I should have listened. Instead, I gave in to instinct, and the result? Someone snapped a photo of Rafe Rodman getting pleasured, and that image has been splashed across social media and gossip blogs.
My pulse hammers as I attempt a reply to Zane. But what is there to say? Am I defending myself? Telling my buddy yeah, it was me?
I shut my eyes and take a few deep, calming breaths as the car nears the private airport. My brother is meeting me there, and I need to get my act together. But my heart will not settle down.
Focus, man.
I need to think about my brother, my sister, my mom.
I’ve been playing with fire since I met Rafe. It was only a matter of time before my fantasies got me into trouble.
Of course there was a photographer somewhere last night. Of course someone took a picture of us. And of course it’s everywhere online this morning. The press were at the party, but this style of image is more the realm of the soulless paparazzi than any sports journalist respected enough to be invited to the event. I dismiss Finn Michaels because he’s after clandestine board meetings, not clandestine blow jobs. And judging by the angle, the photo wasn’t taken by anyone at the party—just some rando in New York.
I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to jump back in time and find just one ounce of self-control.
But all I can do is wait anxiously for the fallout.
I don’t look at my phone anymore and tuck it in my pocket.
At the airport, Charlie waits inside the terminal, wearing a broad smile or a knowing grin—I can’t tell which. But after we hug, he drapes an arm around me. We walk past a luxury rental car kiosk, and he whispers, “Dude, did you see that picture of your boss? It’s everywhere.”
“He’s not my boss,” I snap, a knee-jerk reaction.
“Whoa.” Charlie holds up his hands as if backing off. “Didn’t know that was a sore spot.” He studies me a moment. “You okay?”
I drag a hand through my hair in frustration. “Sorry. It’s not you. But Rafe’s not my boss. His company is just a sponsor.”
“Why are you so bothered, then? I mean the dude’s a fucking billionaire. He can do whatever he wants.”
Like, get a blow job from a ballplayer who’s just trying to be a good guy, maintain a good reputation, and fight the urge to act on his big, messy, exhibitionist desires.
Charlie arches a brow as we stride across the plush carpeting of the private airport, past a tiny booth peddling magazines like Golf Digest and Travel + Leisure.
“I mean, good for him, right?” Charlie pushes.
I take a breath, part my lips, but I’m unable to speak. I’m shaking, thinking that somebody, somewhere must be putting two and two together in a race to figure out who is the man on his knees in the photo. He’s—I’m—barely visible and very blurry, but is it that hard to figure out?
Does Charlie know it’s me in the photo?
I don’t think so from the oblivious way he continues the subject. “Rafe should have a good time at his own party, right?”
Too good a time.
But I lost control. And I’m going to lose sponsors. And I hate lying to my brother. As I’m about to tell him the truth, my phone rattles, bleats, and buzzes in my pocket.
Shit. Has my ringer always been that loud? My agent’s name flashes across the screen. This just keeps getting worse.
“Hold on a sec, Charlie.” We stop near our gate and I take a few steps away as I answer the call.
“Josh, what’s up?” I’m all business, but all nerves too.
“Hey, I don’t have a ton of time, but I need to talk to you,” my agent says crisply.
Panic spikes and my stomach drops. This is it. He’s figured out I’m the guy on his knees in the picture.
Maybe Owen contacted him. Possibly Marlow is already talking to him about the Dragons dropping me. I am such a fool for giving in to my lust. “What is it?” I blurt, not suspiciously at all.
“Did you hear?”
I grimace, and my gut twists into knots. “Yeah, I did.”
“Yeah, the kickoff event was huge. I’m rushing to a meeting but it’s all over social, trending everywhere.”
He’s so businesslike, I can’t get a read on him—I only know I’m terribly embarrassed. I should have had more control. Just because you want something in bed doesn’t mean you get to do it wherever the fuck you want. “I’m sorry,” I say, still reeling.