GAVIN
I’m keeping a metal list of what’s changed in my life since Alexandra dropped her bombshell Friday night. I’ve kissed my best friend. And not a peck on the lips this time. I kissed her like I wanted her to imagine what my tongue would feel like on other parts of her body.
Next on the list? I now sneak through my own apartment at four in the morning.
Tiptoeing through my kitchen, I take one, virtually silent step into the living. I swear I don’t make a sound. But four pups lift their heads off their respective beds. I take another step and Ava is on her paws, rushing to greet me. Trailed by the pups, I move quickly through the room, and manage to slip into my office without a K-9 companion.
I need to be alone with my fears, locked away in my office. Alexandra caught me off-guard with that picture at the party. She witnessed my old wounds opening up. I won’t let it happen again. When I read the news articles, the Twitter threads, and the Instagram posts, not a single soul will see my reaction, not even Kayla. There are parts of my life that I can’t let anyone witness. Even my best friend needs to be kept at arm’s length from my fears. It’s the only way I know to survive.
I take a seat in the leather chair behind my desk. A framed picture sits on the edge of the otherwise uncluttered surface. In the image, a smiling twenty-four-year-old version of myself holds a college degree. By the time I’d applied to colleges, I’d sold my first piece of software. And I’d changed my name. I’d buried the boy who’d been bullied until he was afraid to eat.
I reach for one of the granola bars in the bowl beside the picture. For the first few years after college, I kept candy on my desk. But after the modeling contracts, I switched to granola. I wasn’t granted Kayla’s wild metabolism and can’t down junk food without adding extra workouts.
On the other side of the sliding glass door, I hear Ava bark. The woof is followed by a feline hiss and then the sound of a dog pawing at my office door. I’m tempted to let the Shepard into my office, but then the others will follow her. I can’t handle that many animals in the study.
Focus, dammit.
Ignoring the dog drama in the other room, I open my laptop and retrieve the email Margaret sent yesterday with a link to a long Twitter thread that Alexandra posted. My publicist also included a list of media outlets that picked up the story. One celebrity gossip site ran the headline: Gavin Black’s Traumatic Childhood, Ex-Girlfriend Has Proof.
I click on the link, knowing this publication also claims to have “proof” of an alien invasion in Kansas. Then again, I haven’t been to Kansas lately. Maybe both articles hold elements of truth.
Scanning through the article, I find one falsehood after another. Apparently, Alexandra’s infamous twitter thread claims she dumped me. My ex told all of her Twitter followers that she couldn’t handle all of the lies about my past. And her last tweet in the chain? A copy of the picture she showed me on the roof deck.
I stare at the beaten fourteen-year-old huddled on the floor. If only I could remember the events leading up to this image. But the grainy snapshot of the picture on Alexandra’s twitter feed doesn’t offer a single clue. Who was in the room? Who held the camera?
My foster parents banished me to the bathroom most days after school. I’d come home beat up and bleeding, especially in high school when I responded to the verbal abuse with my fists. Rick and Liz Masters would send me to the bathroom to clean up when I got home. I’d hide in there until dark. I wasn’t dragged out for dinner unless the useless Mrs. Galanos, the social worker from the agency was stopping by to check on me. Although, I think Sophia Galanos knew I was being abused. She just didn’t want to pull me from my placement. She would have lost her damn fee.
I stop reading and return to my inbox. There’s a new message from Margaret with the headline, Read Celebrity Spot. With a sigh, I click on the link, expecting another image from high school. Instead the top story on the gossip rag’s homepage features Kayla with her lips pressed to mine. The accompanying article is a welcome reprieve from Alexandra’s exposé. The story details my proposal. There isn’t one word about my ex.
I bet the Celebrity Spot reporter calls Kayla today for a comment on Alexandra’s accusations.
When Kayla wakes up, I’ll warn her. I should also prepare her for the shit storm of pictures she’ll see online. Not just the ones from my past, but also the shots of us kissing. Staring at the image from last night’s gala, I know there is nothing “necessary” about that embrace.
I raise my hands and run them through my hair. What possessed me to kiss her like that on the gala’s red carpet? Ego? I’ve worked overtime building my self-esteem up. Did I subconsciously want an image that would trump Alexandra’s news?
Or maybe it was something closer to plain lust?
Hell, I don’t know what drove me, but in that moment, I wanted to give Kayla a kiss that would make every other man who’s ever touched her fade into the background.
“Last time I checked that wasn’t the definition of necessary,” I mutter.
The dogs bark at the sound of my voice, begging to join me in my study. I glance at my watch. It’s close to five now. They’ve been up for an hour and are eager for a walk. And I’m ready to talk to Kayla about these articles without losing myself in fear.
I escape my office without letting the dogs in the only pet-free space left. Then I lead a freaking parade to Kayla’s bedroom door. I raise my hand to knock, and Ava, in her abundant wisdom, barks.
“I didn’t make a sound yet,” I say to the Shepard. The other dogs add their voices to the wake-up call. But Kayla’s made it pretty clear she can ignore a bark or two when sleeping. “I’m going in to wake her,” I tell the dogs. “You guys are waiting out here.”
I consider it a small miracle that I manage to slip into her bedroom. Once inside, I grab a pair of jeans from the back of a chair and head to the queen-size bed.
“Wake up and put on some pants.” I stand beside Kayla and hold out her jeans. “We need to walk the dogs.”
She rolls over and the comforter slides off her shoulders. A paper-thin tank top with spaghetti straps covers her torso. I spot a hint of lace over her bare breasts. Yeah, I’ve already looked too long.
I crossed a line last night. The situation played upon my fantasies. The idea of sex with the possibility of getting caught is an instant turn-on. Couple that scenario with Kayla’s plan, with her soft moans, and with, hell … just add Kayla to the mix and I was in over my head.
But I would deal with the repercussions of kissing Kayla as if I wished to fuck her later. We survived the rest of the charity gala without mentioning the kiss. We made it home and walked the dogs together. It can wait a little longer. Right now, I need my best friend.