“You’re just going to walk away?”
Keats tensed in his grip, and he turned cold eyes on him. “Unless you plan to throw more money at me, big man, I’m outta here.”
Colby let his arm go but squared off in front of him to block him, the dominant side of him shimmering to the surface. “Keats, if you think you’re going to blow me off and pretend you don’t know me, I suggest you rethink that.”
Keats’s smile was wry even though fear flickered through his eyes. “Blow you? So that’s what this is about? Not my thing, dude. But give me two hundred bucks and maybe I can forget that I don’t like cock.”
Colby stepped into his space, unsure what pissed him off more—that Keats was still keeping up this act or that what he said could be true—that the smart, quiet kid he used to know was now selling himself to keep afloat. He hoped to God Keats was just bluffing. But if the kid wanted to play this game, he could, too.
“Fine.”
Keats blinked, the tough-guy face faltering for a second. “What?”
“Five hundred and you come home with me for the night.”
“That wasn’t the offer.”
“You’re going to turn down five hundred bucks and a warm place to sleep?” he asked, knowing Keats had no more than thirty bucks in his case and that the cold rain would start falling any minute.
“Nobody gives you that much money for nothing,” he said, his expression tight. “And I don’t fuck guys.”
Even hearing the crass words roll off Keats’s lips had anger welling in Colby. So he was going to keep this bravado crap up. Colby crowded Keats against the side of the bench, using his size to the fullest advantage. He knew he wasn’t fighting fair. Keats was nervous even if he was trying to play it off. But there was no way in hell Colby was letting him walk away. If it meant playing as dirty as Keats was playing, so be it. He leaned in, meeting Keats eye to eye. “Do I look like someone who’d need to pay for a fuck?”
“Col—” he started, then caught himself. “Shit.”
Colby smiled and backed off, victorious. He took the guitar case from Keats’s hand, the burden of Colby’s awful day lifting a little. The situation was beyond screwed up. Keats was on the street—or close enough to it to be busking in a park. He hadn’t actually asked him if he had somewhere to go. But he was alive. That was enough to be thankful for. “Come on. Let’s get a sandwich and get indoors before the skies open up. I need to sober up before I can drive. But when we’re done, you
are
going home with me.”
The nothing-bothers-me attitude dropped from Keats’s expression and he looked . . . lost. “Why?”
“Do you have someplace better to go?” he asked, lifting a brow.
Keats’s jaw twitched and he glanced away, the shame in his eyes making him look more like the kid he used to know and less like—Colby counted off the years in his head—the twenty-three-year-old man he’d grown into. “Not if I don’t show up with some cash in my pocket.”
“That’s reason enough, then. I’m guessing five hundred will cover you. Come on.”
Keats followed him when Colby started walking back toward the main road. He fell into step with him. “Your . . . family isn’t going to mind you showing up with some stranger?”
Colby peered over at him, the question catching him off guard. “I live alone.”
“Oh.” Keats looked down. “That’s cool.”
Ah, hell.
This had trouble written all over it. Colby switched the guitar case to his other hand and put some distance between the two of them.
Line drawn.
FIVE
Georgia sat curled up in her living room, nursing a glass of wine and trying to plot out the next scene in her book on the legal pad propped on her lap. A rerun of
48 Hours
was on in the background, but she wasn’t listening to it. Really, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything all evening. Instead, her eyes kept drifting to her living room window. Colby had said he
Keats tensed in his grip, and he turned cold eyes on him. “Unless you plan to throw more money at me, big man, I’m outta here.”
Colby let his arm go but squared off in front of him to block him, the dominant side of him shimmering to the surface. “Keats, if you think you’re going to blow me off and pretend you don’t know me, I suggest you rethink that.”
Keats’s smile was wry even though fear flickered through his eyes. “Blow you? So that’s what this is about? Not my thing, dude. But give me two hundred bucks and maybe I can forget that I don’t like cock.”
Colby stepped into his space, unsure what pissed him off more—that Keats was still keeping up this act or that what he said could be true—that the smart, quiet kid he used to know was now selling himself to keep afloat. He hoped to God Keats was just bluffing. But if the kid wanted to play this game, he could, too.
“Fine.”
Keats blinked, the tough-guy face faltering for a second. “What?”
“Five hundred and you come home with me for the night.”
“That wasn’t the offer.”
“You’re going to turn down five hundred bucks and a warm place to sleep?” he asked, knowing Keats had no more than thirty bucks in his case and that the cold rain would start falling any minute.
“Nobody gives you that much money for nothing,” he said, his expression tight. “And I don’t fuck guys.”
Even hearing the crass words roll off Keats’s lips had anger welling in Colby. So he was going to keep this bravado crap up. Colby crowded Keats against the side of the bench, using his size to the fullest advantage. He knew he wasn’t fighting fair. Keats was nervous even if he was trying to play it off. But there was no way in hell Colby was letting him walk away. If it meant playing as dirty as Keats was playing, so be it. He leaned in, meeting Keats eye to eye. “Do I look like someone who’d need to pay for a fuck?”
“Col—” he started, then caught himself. “Shit.”
Colby smiled and backed off, victorious. He took the guitar case from Keats’s hand, the burden of Colby’s awful day lifting a little. The situation was beyond screwed up. Keats was on the street—or close enough to it to be busking in a park. He hadn’t actually asked him if he had somewhere to go. But he was alive. That was enough to be thankful for. “Come on. Let’s get a sandwich and get indoors before the skies open up. I need to sober up before I can drive. But when we’re done, you
are
going home with me.”
The nothing-bothers-me attitude dropped from Keats’s expression and he looked . . . lost. “Why?”
“Do you have someplace better to go?” he asked, lifting a brow.
Keats’s jaw twitched and he glanced away, the shame in his eyes making him look more like the kid he used to know and less like—Colby counted off the years in his head—the twenty-three-year-old man he’d grown into. “Not if I don’t show up with some cash in my pocket.”
“That’s reason enough, then. I’m guessing five hundred will cover you. Come on.”
Keats followed him when Colby started walking back toward the main road. He fell into step with him. “Your . . . family isn’t going to mind you showing up with some stranger?”
Colby peered over at him, the question catching him off guard. “I live alone.”
“Oh.” Keats looked down. “That’s cool.”
Ah, hell.
This had trouble written all over it. Colby switched the guitar case to his other hand and put some distance between the two of them.
Line drawn.
FIVE
Georgia sat curled up in her living room, nursing a glass of wine and trying to plot out the next scene in her book on the legal pad propped on her lap. A rerun of
48 Hours
was on in the background, but she wasn’t listening to it. Really, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything all evening. Instead, her eyes kept drifting to her living room window. Colby had said he
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