Page 81 of Never Forget

NAZ

“…and that was about when you ran into me.”

I am reeling. My eyes are dry from how much they were bugging out during his story. I am fully engaged, body turned towards him with my back against the arm of the couch.

“Holy shit. So Blake and Cory were in on the whole thing?”

“Well, Cory was,” Scott says humorlessly. “I’m not sure about Blake.”

“No, I think he was trying to tell me something when I talked to him. I was pissed and not thinking clearly, but he kept telling me to trust him.”

“Well, he was convincing as hell when he was talking to me. So until the man himself explicitly tells me he doesn’t hate me and I still have a job, I really don’t know what to think.”

Extending my leg, I poke his knee with one socked toe. “You know I wouldn’t let them fire you, right?”

Scott reaches down and captures my foot, pulling it to him in one swift move that puts me on my back again. He crawls over me but stays hovering above me, looking down at me with a soft, almost timid expression that I’ve never seen on him before.

“Even though I screwed up?”

Part of Scott’s story tickles the back of my mind. An important detail that almost got overshadowed by how unbelievable our entire situation has become.

“You told Blake that you lo–”

I’m cut off by a phone ringing. Scott gestures for me to hold that thought and pushes up to his knees to fish the burner phone he got this morning from his pocket.

“What’s up?”

I can hear the voice on the other end, presumably Cory, but can’t make out the words. Just his low timbre and clipped tone before Scott looks down at his phone to see the call ended.

His eyes shift to me. “Cory’s here.”

Well shit. We both look down at our disheveled clothes, pants undone, shirts rumpled. There’s an obvious cum stain on the front of my jeans and what looks like a handprint on Scott’s black t-shirt.

Both of us jump off the couch at once, scrambling to put ourselves back together. My t-shirt is long enough to cover the stain on my hip and groin, but Scott’s shirt is too obvious.

“I’ll go next door and change,” he says.

“No time. Try the guest room.”

Scott disappears into Will and Ari’s second bedroom. We’ve all crashed there at one time or another, if he’s lucky someone will have left something behind that fits him.

Cory walks in barely a minute later, looking flat-out pissed and exhausted. He runs his eyes over me, assessing. “You don’t look any worse for wear.”

“Can’t say the same about you, man. You look wrecked.”

“I stayed near the locker facility until it closed for the night, then I got caught in the storm.”

“Do you think they’ll come for the locker?”

“I’ve got a camera on it if they do. That’ll have to be enough. We’ve got other problems to deal with.”

“Like what?” Scott asks, emerging from the guest room in a Shreveport Cyclones shirt and track pants that obviously belong to Luc. Even the NFL player can’t compete with the sheer size of Scott, the pants clinging to his ass and thick thighs. The shirt is a little looser, but the arms and a few inches of the bottom are cut off, showing off a tantalizing strip of his lower abs and hair below his belly button.

My mouth goes dry. The sight of Scott in Luc’s workout gear distracts me from whatever Cory is going on about.

It’s Scott’s shift in posture that brings me back to the present. He’s got his hackles up, shoulders raised, jaw flexing, radiating the same tension I saw on him earlier. He’s worried.

“What’s happening?” I say, dragging my eyes away from Scott and facing Cory.