his wet head, sending drops of water flying at the lens.
“And that’s all we have tonight, from Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Keep it cool, and we’ll see you next week,” the announcer says as the camera pans out.
I shift my gaze to Kellan. He’s just staring. I can see no feeling on his face.
“When did it happen?” I whisper.
“September 18. 2011.”
I nod slowly. “That date is coming up.” I look at his hands, sitting listless in his lap, and I wonder about his fight at the bar. It was January 2011—just a few months after this game was filmed. Was his brother there that night? I didn’t read anything about his brother in the papers. Was Lyon as talented as Kellan? Were they both untamed boys, privileged athletes living outside the lines? Were they using drugs?
“It must be on your mind.”
I touch his thigh with just my fingertips, even though it makes me nervous—the act of reaching out and touching him when he’s in so much pain. I don’t want to hurt him more. Instead, he doesn’t move at all. His body is like a statue. After a moment, he leans his head against the back of the couch.
He closes his eyes, and I stare down at my helpless hand on his jeans. My heart pounds with the need to comfort him somehow, but my mind is painfully blank. I feel a burst of panic as I watch the even rise-fall of his chest. I hope he didn’t fall asleep. Not before I get a chance to comfort him.
“I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. “I never take this shit.”
“Please—don’t be sorry.” I have a memory of a letter I got from “R.” once, where he replied to a note I’d sent about going to see Olive’s grave. He told me I should take Xanax before bed after I went. Tomorrow—well, today—I’m going to Olive’s grave again. Maybe I’ll take a page from “R.” and Kellan’s book. “You should never feel bad about doing something that will ease your pain. Everyone deserves a break.”
I raise my hand and ease it behind his head, dropping down to rub his nape gently. His skin is soft and very warm. His eyes lift up to mine.
“Can you not... rub like that?” He rasps. “I’m sorry.” He drops his forehead into his hand.
“Of course. You want me to give you some space?” I start to move my arm, still hovering over his shoulders. He grabs my hand and tugs it down, settling my arm firmly around his back.
I scoot closer to him. My hip touches his as I tighten my grip on his back, hoping that the weight of it will make him feel less alone—the way he did for me today at dinner.
We sit like that a while, and I lean my head against his shoulder. A moment after I move, he does—raising his head to look at me with haunted eyes. “I need you again,” he whispers. “Now, please.”
I nod, and he lifts me in his arms. He cradles my body to his chest, my forehead on his shoulder as he slowly climbs the stairs. I’m expecting slow sex on the bed, so he shocks me by lowering me belly-first onto the hall runner, yanking off my pants, and coming down heavy over me. He fingers me until I’m gasping, then he fucks me without flair.
Just a pounding doggy style, until his warmth jets inside me and I clench around him. We groan in unison, splitting open the dark silence.
He braces himself there atop me for only a moment. Then he scoops me up, sets me on my feet, and smacks my ass so hard it echoes. I yelp and whirl around to face him. I find Kellan sharp-edged and somber.
“Go to your bedroom,” he orders. “Lie on your back, in the middle of the mattress. Wait for me.”
I nod quickly, and he walks through the door into his bedroom. He shuts it behind him. I can’t quite say why, but I feel the urge to follow him inside. I count to thirty, then walk to his door on weak legs and turn the knob. I push the door open slowly, hoping he won’t notice me peek in. When it’s open just an inch, I align my right eye with the crack.
I find a large room stuffed with sleek, mahogany antiques, fluffy armchairs, a massive corner bookshelf, and—a wall rug? Yep, the right wall of the room is covered with what looks, to my