Page 14 of Heart of the Race

“It does,” I informed him petulantly.

His grin was evil. “Of course it does, baby.”

I growled. He grabbed me, and though I was still five ten to his six two, the man was much more muscular than me, and he easily pulled me off my chair and into the forced embrace.

“Hug me back,” he demanded, soft and husky in my ear.

But he reeked of perfume and cigarettes and cum, and he was trying to show me again, for the billionth time in my life, that we were brothers. Friends. And in that second, I had the weirdest moment of absolute shining clarity.

It was funny, but it was like something actually clicked in my brain. I shoved him off me, and he looked wounded for a moment before I grinned wide.

“What’s this? You’re not actually going to lighten up, are you? Wouldn’t want you to break something in your face,” Varro sniped.

Epiphanies came at the weirdest times, in the oddest places.

What a bastard I must have been for him to say something like that. There I was, thinking I was hiding everything, when my thirst for him, my hunger, consumed every second. I was making him miserable too; I had to be.

The things I wanted—him with me, not drinking, not fucking the paddock girls or any of the other thousand women milling around—were not possible. I had to let it go.

He was straight, no matter what foolish dreams my heart had conjured up, and I was supposed to be his best friend. I had completely lost sight of that.

It was time to make the best of it.

“Brian?” He sounded worried. “You all right?”

I took his face in my hands, realized who he was, what he was, and finally—after a lifetime—let him go.

“Baby?” And even the nickname would not stop the severing, not this time.

I took a step back and exhaled a decade of craving.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll stay until the end of this season,” I informed him. “But then I’m going back to the States, picking a city, and buying my own place.”

“What kind of place?”

“Not sure yet.” I grinned. “But I think I can be a good boss, ya know?”

“Bri—”

“Go get your kink on, V,” I replied, sitting back down beside Aidric. “We’re gonna get drunk while you get laid.”

“Are we now.” Aidric laughed, his hand on my shoulder like it never was, companionably. “You think you can outdrink a Scot?”

“Hell yeah.” I waggled my eyebrows.

Varro was at a loss.

“Just go,” I said cheerfully. “Don’t worry about it.”

He was suspicious. “Just like that?”

I nodded. “You can only carry a torch for so long before you finally have to drop it.”

“I don’t— What? What does that mean?”

“Everything’s gonna be good,” I promised. “I swear, baby.”

He visibly jolted.

“What? Only you get to say that?”

“I—”

“Off you go.” I dismissed him, turning to Aidric. “Get me a pint, will you, mate?”

Aidric’s grin was huge and crooked. “I like you this way, Mr. Christie.”

Everyone did.