“Right.”
“Is everything okay?” More water sounds, and he could tell she was getting out of the tub.
“I dropped Keats off. He’s at some shithole motel on Hines that probably has more drug dealers and hookers in it than county lockup, and I’m trying to talk myself out of turning around and dragging his ass back to my house, willing or not.”
“So you’re calling me to convince you not to do that?” she guessed.
“Yes.”
“Turn around and go get him.”
“What?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be the rational one here, not repeat my own crazy ideas back to me.”
“Sorry, but he’s being stupid and bullheaded. Someone needs to talk some sense into him. Especially since he’s likely just freaked-out because—well, staying with you would probably be hard for him.”
“Hard? Why? Because I used to be his teacher?”
“No, of course not.” She made an impatient sound, like the answer was obvious. “Because he’s into you.”
Colby glanced at the screen showing Georgia’s number on it as if he could see her face and effectively give her the what-the-fuck look. “What are you talking about? He’s straight. And he was all eyes for you today.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“What do you mean?”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I probably shouldn’t say anything. But last night when I was, you know, watching you, I wasn’t the only one with a front-row seat. Keats walked in.”
“What?”
“You were already on the bed and had your eyes closed, but he walked in—an accident, I think, because he looked surprised. But then he stayed. And watched.”
“Fucking hell.” That was why Keats had been so skittish when he’d brought him a towel last night. Everything went annoyingly hot at the thought that both Georgia and Keats were there with him last night.
“I mean, I don’t know,” Georgia said, and he could tell she was choosing her words carefully, “maybe I misread it. Maybe he’s just into watching . . . or listening, like tonight.”
“That’s more likely,” he said, jerking the wheel to the right and exiting the highway again. “He’s made it clear he’s straight. But when I was talking with him tonight, I got the sense he’s kind of fascinated that I’m kinky.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled to a stoplight and tapped his head against the back of the seat. He had no idea if the vibe he’d gotten from Keats earlier was truly an untapped interest in kink or if he was projecting that onto Keats, seeing what his dirty mind wanted to see. If my torture did it for her, then I don’t mind suffering . . . The simple statement had drawn all kinds of pictures in Colby’s head. And it had made him look at the guy sitting at his table with new eyes. “Just a feeling I got.”
“Would you care?”
Colby scoffed. “If he’s kinky? Of course not. That’d actually make it easier, considering the things he may hear or see living with me.”
“And if he’s bi?” she asked gently.
He hit his turn signal with more force than necessary, almost breaking the arm off the steering column. “He’s not. But it’s not my business what he is or isn’t.”
She made some noise, but he couldn’t tell whether it was assent or judgment. “Just go get him, Colby. Make sure he’s safe. The rest will work itself out.”
Sure, it would.
Just like last time. He could almost look back over his shoulder and see the paved path of good intentions stretched out behind him. He knew where that road led.
But he was going anyway.
THIRTEEN