Read Online Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) by Avery Cockburn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Avery Cockburn
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own body, grown foreign to him after months of celibacy preceded by years of sameness. With Evan, sex had been reliably satisfying but decidedly lacking in ambition. Rather like Evan’s architecture.
He let his lids fall shut again, imagining the faded imprints of John’s lips on his skin from head to toe. Soon this train of thought awakened Fergus’s cock, so he rolled over to see if John was awake and in a similar mood.
The bed beside him was empty, covers thrown back, a head-sized indentation left in the snow-white pillow. He sat up and scanned the floor, seeing only his own clothes crumpled in a sorry heap, trouser legs clinging to the distressed-wood feet of the bedside table.
Trying not to panic, Fergus held his breath and listened for signs John was elsewhere in the flat. But why would he take his shoes just to go to the loo or the kitchen?
Out in the living room, his flatmate laughed long and loud. Abebi was probably relaxing with her Absolutely Fabulous DVD set, per her Saturday morning tradition. Maybe John was with her.
Fergus pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts, then eased open his bedroom door. The bathroom was empty. So were the hallway and the kitchen. The only room he couldn’t see, besides Abebi’s, was the living room.
His flatmate’s laughter rang out again—louder this time, but very much alone.
John was gone.
Trembling with anger, Fergus scoured his bedroom for a note, a clue—anything to explain why John would leave without saying goodbye. Did Fergus seem so unstable that men couldn’t pay him the courtesy of a face-to-face farewell?
It seems crass to say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” Evan had written, but we both know in this case it’s 100% true. I am the problem.
Maybe that had been a lie. Maybe Fergus drove men away with his—
With his what ? What had he done or said last night? He’d been nothing but patient, even after John lost his head over the Celtic blanket, then lost his erection over God-only-knew-what—even as John described his thug of a brother bludgeoning one of Fergus’s fellow Celtic fans ( an actual pool of blood, deep enough to drown a mouse ).
“You think I’m unstable?” Fergus muttered as he wrested his phone from his trouser pocket. “I’ll show you unstable.” He composed a quick rage-text to John, then opened his bedroom door. His knees felt rubbery as he walked down the hall, rereading the message. He hit send just as he approached the flat’s entrance. “Morning,” he said to Abebi.
The front door opened, nearly smacking him in the face. On the other side of it, an electronic chime sounded.
“Fergus still asleep?” a familiar voice whispered. The door swung shut, revealing John holding a canvas shopping bag. His face fell when he saw Fergus. “Oh. I wanted to surprise you. Hang on, I’ve got a text.” He fished his phone from his pocket.
“No!” Fergus snatched John’s phone and rushed past him into the kitchen.
John followed. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I heard it ding.”
“It was from me. It was stupid.” He looked at John’s phone, dismayed to discover it was an Android, with a completely different setup to his own iPhone. “I’ll just delete it.”
“Gonnae no do that!” John grabbed it back. “You cannae delete just one message. You can only delete the whole thread.”
“So?”
John gave an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe I’m a wee bit sentimental, but I’d like to keep the text where you said you’d do the charity match. And the one where you said yes to dinner. And the one—” He looked at the phone screen and froze. “The one where you call me a ‘cold-blooded, limp-dicked bastard.’”
C HAPTER S IX
J OHN STARED AT the phone, fighting to keep his face untouched by the thousand and one emotions zipping through him. If his feet weren’t rooted to the floor in shock, he would’ve already been out the door.
“I’m so sorry.” Fergus pressed his palms together over his own
He let his lids fall shut again, imagining the faded imprints of John’s lips on his skin from head to toe. Soon this train of thought awakened Fergus’s cock, so he rolled over to see if John was awake and in a similar mood.
The bed beside him was empty, covers thrown back, a head-sized indentation left in the snow-white pillow. He sat up and scanned the floor, seeing only his own clothes crumpled in a sorry heap, trouser legs clinging to the distressed-wood feet of the bedside table.
Trying not to panic, Fergus held his breath and listened for signs John was elsewhere in the flat. But why would he take his shoes just to go to the loo or the kitchen?
Out in the living room, his flatmate laughed long and loud. Abebi was probably relaxing with her Absolutely Fabulous DVD set, per her Saturday morning tradition. Maybe John was with her.
Fergus pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts, then eased open his bedroom door. The bathroom was empty. So were the hallway and the kitchen. The only room he couldn’t see, besides Abebi’s, was the living room.
His flatmate’s laughter rang out again—louder this time, but very much alone.
John was gone.
Trembling with anger, Fergus scoured his bedroom for a note, a clue—anything to explain why John would leave without saying goodbye. Did Fergus seem so unstable that men couldn’t pay him the courtesy of a face-to-face farewell?
It seems crass to say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” Evan had written, but we both know in this case it’s 100% true. I am the problem.
Maybe that had been a lie. Maybe Fergus drove men away with his—
With his what ? What had he done or said last night? He’d been nothing but patient, even after John lost his head over the Celtic blanket, then lost his erection over God-only-knew-what—even as John described his thug of a brother bludgeoning one of Fergus’s fellow Celtic fans ( an actual pool of blood, deep enough to drown a mouse ).
“You think I’m unstable?” Fergus muttered as he wrested his phone from his trouser pocket. “I’ll show you unstable.” He composed a quick rage-text to John, then opened his bedroom door. His knees felt rubbery as he walked down the hall, rereading the message. He hit send just as he approached the flat’s entrance. “Morning,” he said to Abebi.
The front door opened, nearly smacking him in the face. On the other side of it, an electronic chime sounded.
“Fergus still asleep?” a familiar voice whispered. The door swung shut, revealing John holding a canvas shopping bag. His face fell when he saw Fergus. “Oh. I wanted to surprise you. Hang on, I’ve got a text.” He fished his phone from his pocket.
“No!” Fergus snatched John’s phone and rushed past him into the kitchen.
John followed. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I heard it ding.”
“It was from me. It was stupid.” He looked at John’s phone, dismayed to discover it was an Android, with a completely different setup to his own iPhone. “I’ll just delete it.”
“Gonnae no do that!” John grabbed it back. “You cannae delete just one message. You can only delete the whole thread.”
“So?”
John gave an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe I’m a wee bit sentimental, but I’d like to keep the text where you said you’d do the charity match. And the one where you said yes to dinner. And the one—” He looked at the phone screen and froze. “The one where you call me a ‘cold-blooded, limp-dicked bastard.’”
C HAPTER S IX
J OHN STARED AT the phone, fighting to keep his face untouched by the thousand and one emotions zipping through him. If his feet weren’t rooted to the floor in shock, he would’ve already been out the door.
“I’m so sorry.” Fergus pressed his palms together over his own
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