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Slants of light filtered into the room—turned out we were in my bedroom—as the ocean breeze ruffled the curtains through the open balcony door. I could hear squawking pigeons and for a split second I worried they’d prance themselves right into the room.
“So, uh, your mom was fine with us being together?” Matty’s calm-sounding words did not fool me, not with his hand pawing at me, as if he’d hold on for dear life if he found out differently. “Theresa doesn’t, like, want to murder me?”
I considered drawing it out, making Matty sweat, but we’d both had a difficult few days.
“Murder is off the table,” I joked and his lips slanted into a smirk as I wrapped an arm around his hip, pulling him closer. His eyes, though crinkled, were still closed. He was so handsome with his dark, tousled hair, skin-kissed tanned skin, scratchy jaw, and soft lips that begged to be kissed senseless. I could feel his partial erection against my thigh, but neither of us were doing anything to advance things. The bruises and cuts on his face only made him sexier, because he got them while defending me. “Long story short, yes, she’s okay with us dating, as long as we’re safe and provided the relationship is loving and healthy.”
Matty looked at me then, a hint of vulnerability tucked deep in his brown eyes. “Thank God.”
Last night’s words came back to me. I dare you to love me.
All his dares. His challenges.
Even from the first, when Mom and I drove up to the estate, Matty’s defiant gaze and hostile posture were a dare, even if he wasn’t aware of it at the time. I dare you to enter my glittering world of wealth and privilege, his body language seemed to be conveying at the time, and survive me.
Loving someone meant more than being attracted to them.
It meant accepting them and wanting to build something with them. Something real. Something true. Something honest.
For Matty, I suspected it also meant: I dare you to discover the real me, the me I don’t let anyone else see.
I see you, Matthias Vaulteneau.
“And you told your mom about Asshole Andy, er, I mean Drew fucking Jones?” Matty spat Drew’s name like it was poison on his tongue.
I nodded. “She blames herself for not seeing his true colors.” I studied the golden flecks in Matty’s eyes, the way the muscles in his shoulders flexed as he shimmied closer even though that meant he was now laying half on top of me. Not that I was going to complain. My fingers absently played at the fraying athletic tape covering parts of his shoulder and upper chest. He smelled of earth, of home, of sunny days in the ocean, of chlorine from the Olympic pool in the basement. There was, however, an undercurrent of emotions rippling through him just beneath the surface of his skin, where he wanted to tear Drew from limb to limb. I loved that Matty wanted to be my protector, but it wasn’t necessary. “Mom also told me it wasn’t my fault, which, deep down, I knew, but hearing her say it was, I don’t know, healing, I guess.”
“I’m just…” Matty let out a long breath. “I’m just glad she believed you. You hear all the horror stories, you know, where victims aren’t believed.”
My heart pinched. “Thanks, Matty,” I said, not able to fully express how much his words meant to me. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Ciaran.” He nuzzled closer.
“And what about your dad? Have you been disinherited from the Vaulteneau wealth?”
“You mean all the wealth you plan to give away?”
“Yeah.” I smiled. “That wealth.”
“Not yet.” Matty snickered. “I’ve done enough in the past to warrant such an action, but falling for you isn’t one of them. My dad was worried that Theresa would leave him, but once I set him straight, he seemed, well, somewhat flabbergasted that I had the capacity to form a true attachment to someone. Not that I blame him, of course. I mean, the fake girlfriend thing certainly tripped him up, and Dad will deal with Asshole Andy and Coach Anderson in his own way—actually, he probably has, given the way our phones are buzzing this morning—but in the end he had no objections to our relationship…provided…” Matty’s words stalled.
Matty wasn’t wrong about our phones. They were throwing fits at us like toddlers angry at being ignored.
I narrowed my eyes. “Provided what?”
“Provided I entered an out-patient rehab program for substance use disorder treatment.”
“Oh,” I blurted, and sat up abruptly, because this now seemed like a sitting-up kind of conversation. The sheet fell to my waist, exposing my bare chest, and even with the warm breeze tickling my skin, I felt chilly all of a sudden.
Matty sat up as well, his eyes lowered. He bit at one of his cuticles. “Turns out being blackmailed for snorting cocaine off a penis while drunk and not remembering any of it might be a sign of a problem.”
He tried to shuck it off as a joke, but when you put it all together, yeah, Stefon was right: Matty probably had a substance abuse issue.
“Hey.” I gathered his hands in mine and forced him to look at me. “You’ve got this, Matty. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I love you and I’ll support you, no matter what, in whatever way you decide is best. Joan and Filipe, our parents, and Franky are all here for you.”
“I’m not going off to war, Ciaran. It’s just a few hours a week at Malibu’s poshest clinic. They probably serve champagne at check-in.”
“No, they won’t,” I said instead of replying with a sarcastic joke. “I’m proud of you. This is a first step and first steps are always difficult.”
