Declan tilted his head thoughtfully. “I find it interesting that David being bisexual doesn’t seem to surprise or bother you as much as the two of them together does. Would you rather Rig obeyed your off-limits rule and helped David find a random hookup instead?”
“No.” Something dark and possessive engulfed him at the thought of David slipping into a stranger’s car for a bout of meaningless, empty… “No. I’d rather see him with Rig than one of those vicious sluts at Tango’s.”
Sluts like me.
If Rory’s emotions weren’t so involved, he knew Rig would be his first choice for David. He was a catch. He cooked, he loved his family, he had a solid financial portfolio and an actual house with real furniture. That and his stamina in bed was unsurpassed.
So what if this was more than a make out session? What if Rig and David fell in love and adopted a slew of nerdy kids and puppies and only saw their old friend Rory on special occasions? It would be better than David being with someone who didn’t know him. Someone who wouldn’t care about him or appreciate how special he was. Wouldn’t it?
No crying. “Ignore me. I’m begging you to ignore me. I’m not myself right now.”
He was only heartbroken because in every fantasy he’d ever had since he’d met David Mills, Rory had been the one to introduce him to the dark side. The one to touch and kiss him. The first man to blow his mind while blowing his dick. Sure, a lot of those sex dreams had included Rig, but Rory was the one who’d made that decision. He was the one in charge of David’s pleasure.
He was Don-frigging-Quixote and David was his impossible dream. A fantasy he whipped out on special occasions to torture himself. The reason he had a straight guy fetish to begin with.
Only now the impossible was actually happening and David had decided he might like men as well as women. If Rig was telling the truth, the Mistletoe Meltdown had been his catalyst. Which fucked with Rory’s head more than he could ever express, since he wasn’t the one David had turned to in the end.
Now that was irony. Maybe. Hell, Alanis didn’t even know the definition.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he slipped it out, his laugh jagged as broken glass when he saw David’s text.
Multiple-choice question. Which one of these things are you currently experiencing?
A. Belieber fever
B. Porcelain worship
C. Downloading friend-blocker app as we speak to avoid seeing this text.
…
You didn’t go home. Rig told me. We should probably talk.
There was one from Rig too.
Didn’t mean to start your vacation like that. I’m an asshole. If you don’t call me by noon, I’ll call you. We need to clear a few things up.
What more could either of them say? Rory didn’t want all the dirty details. His imagination was vivid enough.
Jen leaned her head on his shoulder and read both text messages in silence. “I forgot you had this week off. At least you’ll have time to recover from your bender.” She glanced at the men behind her. “I’m making more coffee. This is going to be a long night.”
Rory rubbed his temples. “What’s the point, Jen? I doubt there’s enough coffee or talking in the world to unfuck this situation. It is what it is. I’ll adapt. I always do.”
Declan cleared his throat. “Things are rarely what they seem, Rory. Especially in your family. You should know that by now.”
“For her.” Rory gestured toward his cousin. “For Owen and Stephen, sure. In my case, things are usually exactly what they seem.”
His father never sugarcoated Rory’s existence or left him with any illusions. No matter how many people he tried to help, he would always be the Finn most likely to disappoint the people around him. The one who didn’t deserve the people he craved the most.
“Now that sounds like a challenge, pretty boy.” Trick smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Or famous last words you’ll be eating while I watch.”
Rory went cold and his teeth clenched, the eggs in his stomach starting a riot. “I think that damn Minion-lover was right. I’m going to be sick.”
He barely made it to the kitchen sink before he did, in fact, hurl.
Dude.
Chapter Three
Rory rolled over on the king-sized bed that didn’t feel anything like his cheap, lumpy futon at home and flexed his ass, pressing his hips down and moaning at the decadent sensation. The sheets were smooth and cool against his erection, the feather-light strokes of sensation making him crave more.
His body was begging for relief after a night filled with frustrating visions that left him with more than morning wood. He rocked into the mattress experimentally. Ignoring his needs because this wasn’t his bed would be too masochistic, even for him. Miss Manners could suck it.