I dress quickly, still feeling the soreness between my legs. Like they’re still inside my pussy. It’s a new, strange feeling that I don’t hate. Maybe even like.
I text Akara where I want to go today and hit send. Fuck, there’s something else. It’d be crass to text him about it, so before he can respond, I decide to call.
He answers on the first ring. “Sul?”
“Hey, sorry. Did you get my text?”
“Yeah. When do you want to leave?”
“Soon.” I put my phone on speaker and grab a pair of running shoes from the closet. “Do you think you could put a temp on my detail today?”
The air strains. “Is everything alright? Last night—”
“Was fucking perfect,” I say quickly. “Better than anything I could have imagined. It’s just I think you two should talk things over while I think things over alone.” In case they want to choose each other. That option still exists.
He exhales a breath of relief. “Okay, yeah. That’s a good idea.”
My stomach does a somersault. Nothing about this is going to be easy. I might have made a decision, but it’s not simple or easy or will leave everyone happy.
Not in the slightest.
He adds, “Gabe will be over there in five minutes to take you.” Gabe is one of the better temp bodyguards that pre-dates Michael Moretti, though Oscar mostly uses Gabe to protect Jack.
“Thanks, Kits.”
Beckett’s bedroom in his New York apartment is a mixture of deep blues and gold tones. He’s a minimalist through and through, but his style still shines bright in the abstract gold etchings framed perfectly on his wall. I get lost in them for a second.
He returns with a couple cans of Fizz Life. When he notices me observing the etchings, he stares longer at them, then goes to the wall. He adjusts the frame by a hair.
I don’t mention that the frame was perfectly aligned before. Or else he might spend the next five minutes readjusting.
Beckett comes over to me, soda still in hand.
Seeing him in the flesh is so different than our phone calls over the past weeks. We didn’t even FaceTime. Just heard each other’s voices.
He’s all lean muscle, and a shadow of stubble lines his jawline like he hasn’t shaved yet this morning. Most girls swoon over his floral tattoos inked down his arm, his dark-brown hair with a good amount of wave, and his unique yellow-green eyes.
His jeans are ripped today at the knees, and I recognize the Carraways band T-shirt as one of their first merch designs.
He’s twenty-two.
My best friend.
Former best friend.
He hands me the can of soda. “Charlie really didn’t put you up to this visit?”
I pop the tab and hear the familiar fizzy sound. “He really didn’t,” I say. “I’m here of my own free will. I have something to tell you.”
I want his friendship back—and I figure, if I want it to be what it was, then I need to confide in him like I used to. And I want that. God, I fucking want that.
His brows rise. “Before you start, I have something to tell you too.” He motions to his bed. “Take a seat.”
“This is a sitting kind of conversation?” I plop on his mattress, crossing my legs. Being in his room feels more comfortable than I thought it would, but his declaration seizes my pulse. Deadens it for a second. Is he going to tell me he doesn’t want to be friends? Maybe something happened to him.
Something I missed again.
“It’s an overdue kind of conversation,” he says. “I just didn’t want to have it until I saw you again.” He winces. “And I probably should’ve been the one to come to you, but ballet and…” He stares down at the can of soda in his hand. “That’s a shit excuse. It’s all pretty shit, really.” His eyes flit to mine. “When I started using cocaine before shows, I always thought about you.”
My mouth falls open for a second. He’s talking about cocaine. My hand is cold from the condensation of the can.
He continues, “I kept imagining what you’d do. Not what you’d say to me, if you knew about it. But if you had a drug that wouldn’t disqualify you from competition, and it’d take away all your pain, make you a better swimmer—I wondered what you’d do.”
“It’d be an easy out,” I say. “I wouldn’t have done it. We always said we wouldn’t.”
“Not even if you didn’t retire?” he asks me, brows knitted. “Imagine you’re still competing for the