Hostile(76)

But instead, he had to go and get signed with a record label who wants him to immediately go to LA and lay tracks for an album. I’m happy for him. Music has always been his favorite talent, but I’m a selfish asshole, feeling lost and abandoned.

“No.” I turn to look at Grady, his black hair just a little overgrown and blowing in the wind, and even though I can’t see his dark green eyes, I know they’re sparkling with mischief. “I want you to go and blow their fucking minds.”

His grin widens. “You know I will. And you?”

I shrug and swallow hard, still facing him. “Me?”

“You’re going to kill it in college sports, and then you’re going to the MLB. You’re going to the big leagues, and they won’t even know what hit them.”

How can I do that without Grady?

What’s a catcher without his pitcher?

I don’t recognize my own voice as I shift my body so I’m facing him directly, pulling my legs up on the dock and tucking them under me awkwardly. “What if I fail?”

He places the whiskey bottle next to him and then turns his body, mimicking my position. His large hands grip my face, not letting me look away. “Ryan, when have you ever failed in your life?”

When hasn’t he been there to back me up? It’s what I want to ask, but I don’t. I just shake my head, taking his hands with me as I do. “I’m scared.”

I hate making this admission. Men don’t get scared. And if we do, we sure as hell don’t admit it. In a small town like this in Kansas, men are still supposed to be “tough.” We don’t show weakness. “Me too.”

I’m shocked when he readily admits this. Grady isn’t afraid of anything. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m going to California, Ry. This is all I’ve ever known.” He doesn’t release me, but he looks around the lake. No one is around us, but I hear the music coming from the shabby cabin our class rented for the weekend, and I can see the bonfire they started close to it.

“You’ll be great.”

His eyes meet mine, and I feel that familiar feeling stirring low in my belly. One I’ve been trying to ignore for years. One I’ve tried to drink away. I’ve tried my best to get lost in the girls in our class and out on the baseball field. I’ve thrown myself into everything else, trying like hell to ignore the one thing I know deep down I want.

Him.

“So will you.”

“Chances of going pro are slim,” I say lamely, my eyes transfixed on his full lips. No wonder he has such a reputation for being a good kisser. With lips like those, how could he not be?

Of course, that’s only with girls.

Every fucking girl in our school.

Grady is, no doubt, straight. And I . . . I have no idea what I am.

Lost.

That seems about right.

He cups the back of my neck with one of his hands and pulls me close, resting his forehead against mine in a gesture he’s done a lot when I’ve doubted myself. “Not for you. You’re Ryan fucking Bailey. You’re going to go far. You were destined for this.”

A shiver runs through me from the intensity of his eyes on mine. “You’re always so sure.”

“About you? Of course, I am.”

I want to lean in even closer. I breathe him in and hope like hell it’s not noticeable, but I can’t resist. He smells like whiskey and the lake from swimming earlier. And him. Just fucking him.

“Grady?” My voice is full of gravel as he pulls back enough to look into my eyes. His breathing seems rapid, but maybe it’s my imagination.

“Yeah?”

I swear his gaze drops to my lips, but I try to shake that thought away. I’ve wanted him for years, but there’s no way he feels the same. “I don’t know what I was going to say,” I admit.

“You think too much, Bailey. You always have.” His thumb on his free hand—the other is still cupping the back of my neck—runs over my bottom lip, and I think I stopped breathing.

When he leans closer to me, I’m almost certain I’m dreaming. Or maybe I fell into the lake and am drowning. Hell, maybe I’m dead.

But when his firm lips press against mine, I couldn’t give a fuck if I’m actually dead because this is my heaven.

His hand around the back of my neck grips me tighter and pulls me closer as a growl escapes my throat, and I don’t think . . . I just attack his mouth with mine. Taking everything I’ve wanted for so damn long.

My hands move to his thick, soft hair, threading my fingers through it and pulling him to me, not able to get close enough. His mouth opens for me as my tongue darts inside, tasting Grady. Finally.

God, he tastes good.

Our moans mingle as he shoves me onto my back on the dock, and I think this is it. This is when he’ll wake up from his drunken daze and punch me right in the face.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his body covers mine, settling between my legs, and I know he can feel how hard I am. But what really fucking shocks me to my core, something I’ll never forget as long as I live, is the erection that’s not mine. His hard dick is pressed against mine as our lips meet again, and we grind against each other. Groaning and moaning with need as we kiss and writhe on the old wooden dock. My body is larger than his—both in pure muscle mass and in height—but he has no problem taking control, grabbing both my hands and pinning them above my head as our clothed cocks rub against each other, and I’m about to lose my mind.