Jet rattles off an address, and when the cab starts moving, my stomach churns. That can’t be good.
“You’ve been here for months,” Lennon says.
“Numbered streets are hard.” The words are mumbled, but Lennon still finds them amusing.
“Tell me ’bout it,” Jet says. “Took me forever to work it out.”
The car turns a corner, and the alcohol threatens to make a reappearance. Urngh. I close my eyes and throw my head back on the seat.
Jet and Lennon talk, but I don’t take in what they say—something about giants not being able to hold their alcohol—and the next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake.
“Come on, big guy,” Jet says. “You’re twice our size and a bitch to carry.”
My eyes slowly crack open, and I’m hanging halfway out the cab.
“Maybe we should drag him,” Lennon says.
“There you go being all nice again.”
“Hey, I’m always nice.”
“I can walk.” I can totally walk.
My legs tell me that I’m lying. Seriously, I didn’t drink that much, did I? When I fall out of the cab, Lennon and Jet pull me up by my arms and help me to the steps leading up to an expensive-looking brownstone.
I groan. “Fuck. Stairs.”
Jet and Lennon laugh as they help me tackle them.
As soon as we cross the threshold one hundred years later, I mutter, “Thanks. And not for the stairs. But, like … you know … things.”
“Things?” Jet asks, his tone mocking.
“Thanks for saving me from that chick.”
“Woulda thought a straight guy like you would’ve been pissed,” Lennon says.
God, his knowing attitude is annoying. “Fuck off, you know I’m gay.” And apparently my mouth has no filter now.
“Well, I didn’t know,” Jet says, “but I suspected because you totally checked me out when we met.”
I straighten up. “No, I didn’t.” I look at Lennon. “I swear I didn’t.”
Lennon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, and that pisses me off. Can’t he care even a little bit?
“I was looking at your tats,” I say to Jet.
“Sure you were,” Jet says. “That’s what all the straight boys say when they wanna go gay.”
Thumping in my brain rhythmically pounds, and I think it’s the alcohol, but then Lennon grumbles as if he can hear the pounding too.
“Do they seriously ever stop?” he asks.
“Who?” I’m confused.
“Matt and Noah,” Jet says. “And no, they don’t. But they leave for Fiji in a few days for a long vacation.”
Is he saying they’re doing what I think they’re doing? “Wait … they’re …”
Jet slams the front door hard. “That should alert them to our presence.” The sex noises don’t stop. “Shoulda known they wouldn’t have cared.”
“I think it’s sweet. In a perverted way,” I say.
Lennon huffs a small laugh. “I think I like drunk Ollie.”
“Bullshit. You hate me.”
“Think you’ve got that the wrong way around there, buddy.” He slaps my shoulder.
“Mmm, true. You don’t hate me. You think I’m shit at hockey.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re great at hockey. The best. We should give you the number ninety-nine jersey and tell Gretzky to move over. There’s a new legend in town.”
“Gretzky’s number’s retired. But you’d know that if you knew anything about hockey. Which you don’t. Which is why I hate your ass.”
“Wait … you hate me or hate my ass?” Lennon appears more amused than offended.
“Your ass. I want to hate you but can’t.”
“What’s wrong with my ass?” His smile pisses me off.
“It’s a great ass,” I mumble.
“He has a point. It’s a really nice ass,” Jet says.
Ah shit. Stupid mouth. “For the love of Gretzky, this is why I don’t drink. Like ever. Mouth. Stop. Talking.”
“Who knew all you needed to bust open that closet door was alcohol,” Jet says.
“I’m not closeted,” I argue. “I mean … not really. Just, you know … to the NHL. My family and friends back home know. Ooh, the great and powerful Tommy Novak knows. That counts.” Neither of them says anything, and I realize I’m rambling. “Oh my God, shut up,” I say to myself.
Jet grabs my arm. “How about we tackle these stairs, you can sleep it off, and we’ll talk when you’re sober.”
“More stairs?” I ask, my voice coming out as a whine.
“One more set,” Jet says.
“Ugh, you sound like my trainer. When I get to the top, are you going to tell me one more set again? That asshole does it to me every time.”
“Just the one. I promise,” Jet says.
“He says that too!”
Lennon laughs, and I find myself smiling back at him.
Damn it.
Mad, Ollie. You’re supposed to be mad.
Ash always used to complain that I don’t get hangovers. The worst I generally get is a headache. Today is one of the few times in my life I wish I wasn’t like that. The stupid shit I said and did isn’t distorted or blurry or something I could easily forget.
I wince when I remember being passed drink after drink, and I took them no questions asked. Then I remember the girl, the obvious come-ons that I ignored to keep gazing at Lennon across the bar, wishing he could be anyone else but … him. A journalist who calls me on hiding shit. Because that’s why I’m truly pissed, isn’t it? It’s not that he thinks I’m talentless, which is bullshit. I know he doesn’t think that. I used that girl last night to distract me from gravitating toward Lennon, and then I walked her out anyway when I wasn’t interested. God, I’m an idiot. And an asshole.