Hostile(47)

“Or is he fucking you?” Bree teases with a grin.

“I’m glad we can be mature about this,” I deadpan, keeping my eyes on Grayson as his feet land on home plate.

He sees me, and his shit-eating grin is bright and telling. He’s going to give me so much shit for showing up tonight, but I can tell he’s glad I’m here.

“But really? Grayson?” Fletch demands my attention again, and I nod.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

His brows furrow as he thinks it over. I know it has nothing to do with Grayson being a guy and everything to do with the way we grew up—despising privileged people with money.

“You really like him?”

I nod my head once. “Yeah. I do.” I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. “He’s not at all who I thought he was. He’s good, Fletch.”

His eyebrows furrow closer together as his forehead wrinkles deep in thought. “He’s a third. He comes from more money than we could ever imagine. He’s had brand new cars handed to him at every birthday and every Christmas. Like, no joke, the fucker gets a new car nearly every month.”

That’s an exaggeration, but point taken. “He can’t help that he comes from money any more than we can help that we don’t. And I believe your car is pretty damn shiny and new.”

He folds his arms over his wide chest. “He’s a jock.”

“So?”

He looks back over at the baseball field, and so do I as another hitter comes up to the plate. “This really does it for you? The tight pants and the goofy-ass hats?”

Bree bites her bottom lip and nods in appreciation as she watches the guys dressed in the same baseball uniforms. “Oh yeah. I can see that.”

“What?” I laugh and look at her. “Tell me you don’t have a newfound jock fetish.”

She cackles and then shrugs. “Maybe. I tried the broody artist thing, but it didn’t quite work out.” She leans against me, and I hug her to me.

“Sounds like he was an idiot.”

Fletcher lights up now. “Oh good. We can finally joke about this? Because I have some really good ones.”

“No,” both Bree and I say, and he laughs.

His eyes drift back to Grayson, who’s busy talking shit with another player in the dugout. “Grayson Lancaster.”

I shake my head. “I know, it’s weird. But yeah.”

He shrugs his big shoulders and huffs out a sigh. “Okay. He better not pull any of his macho bullshit.”

“Grayson’s not like that, man. He’s a good guy. He even volunteers down at the mission with me.”

“That’s real? I thought he was just fucking around.” He looks surprised.

“Nah, he goes with me every time. He cares about the kids.”

Bree and Fletcher share a look, and I know they both feel guilty because they can’t bring themselves to volunteer at the mission, but I’ll never hold it against them. I get it. “Okay.” He places a hand on my shoulder and grips it tight. “If you like him, I’ll tolerate him.”

I snort a laugh because that’s as good as it’s going to get with Fletcher. “Thanks.” I remember my conversation with Grayson and quickly add, “You can’t tell anyone though, okay? It has to stay here.” I gesture between the three of us, and his eyes darken.

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you not to tell anyone.”

“For you? Or for him? What the fuck? Are you his dirty little secret, Rhett?”

“Calm down,” Bree tries to placate his protective side.

“No.” His eyes meet mine. “Tell me. Because that’s bullshit. He should be strutting around like a goddamn king, telling everyone he’s lucky enough to have you.”

“It’s not like that.” I understand why he’s upset, but it really doesn’t bother me. I’m not interested in having anyone else in my business. “His family isn’t like ours, okay? His friends . . .”

“I know his friends. They’re a bunch of shitheads. But that doesn’t mean he should hide you.”

“He’s not out, Fletch. And you can’t out him. That’s no one else’s job to do. Okay? You can’t say a word.”

He’s pissed. I know he is. He shakes his head. “He’s not out? But he’s with you?”

I shrug. “It’s complicated. We aren’t really together, okay? We’re fooling around.”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Bree quickly interjects.

“He’s going to college on the West Coast. I’m staying here. There’s no need to blow our lives up for . . .” I feel my irritation growing because I don’t know what we are, and I still don’t really know what I am. “For nothing.”

“You aren’t nothing, though, Rhett.” He may be big and bulky now—packed muscle and insane height—but I still see the young kid I befriended all those years ago. “Are you . . .” He looks frustrated as he searches for the words. “Are you out?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what I am. I just know I like him, and he’s the first and only person I’ve ever been interested in that way.”

“You shouldn’t have to come out anyway if you don’t want to. It’s so dumb. Why can’t you just say, ‘I’m dating this person,’ and that be it? Not ‘I’m gay’ or ‘I’m bi’ or whatever. It shouldn’t matter.”