Page 55 of Bone Deep
Come Out and Play
Spencer
Taking a deep breath, I school my thoughts.
Get a grip, Stark. Ryan isnota hook up—he’s barely a friend. He’s certainly not Travis Hale.And you are not the same stupid boy you were in college.
I glare at my hand on the door handle, willing the memory clawing at the back of my mind to stay buried where it belongs. Tonight is not about that. It’s not about old wounds or bad decisions or men who whispered promises they never intended to keep.
Tonight is about Chance and Anthony. It’s about something good. Something I’m actually proud to be a part of. The nonprofit. The agency. The work. My role in it. And Ryan—whether I like it or not—is part of that too. The agency’s first signed athlete. The Primary donor for the THRIVE Foundation and Queer Youth Center I’ll be running.
We both need to be at this event. We’re just carpooling. That’s it. A sharper knock rattles the door. “Hey, Spencester, open up!” I close my eyes briefly, exhale once more, then twist the knob. The door swings open.
Jesus Christ. Someone help me.
Ryan Buterbaugh stands at my door wearing a powder blue tux. Powder. Blue. He’s also wearing a million-watt smile—the same one he flashes in his latest cologne ad. I look him up. Down. Back up again. Then I shake my head. “No.”
His smile drops. “What?”
I step back, waving a hand at his ridiculous choice of evening wear. “I’m not walking into an event with you in a powder blue tux, Ryan.”
He blinks at me then laughs. “Aw, c’mon, Spency. What do you have against powder blue tuxes?”
I level him with a look. “For starters, we’ll look like Harry and Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber.”
His grin comes roaring back. “I love that you know that movie. But we’d need to get you into an orange tux for the full effect.” Before I can react, his knuckles brush my shirt, rubbing the fabric over my chest like he’s appraising it.
I roll my eyes, stepping back. “Not happening—and don’t touch the Gucci.”
“Gucci, huh?” he echoes, amused. He raises his hands, curls his fingers like claws, and starts creeping toward me.
I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, eyes glinting with something dangerously playful, and in a tone that feels deeply, profoundly stupid, he says…
“Gucci.”
My eyes widen and I point at him. “Don’t you dare.”
“Gucci,” he repeats, taking another step forward.
I step back. “Ryan—”
“Gucci.”
I bump into the back of the sofa. Shit. He lunges, fingers dig into my sides and then he shouts…
“Gucci-gucci-goo!”
I clamp my mouth shut.
I absolutely will not.
A laugh bursts out of me, loud and helpless.
“Stop!” I twist, laughing, trying to shove him away, but he’s relentless, grinning like a maniacal menace as he keeps going.
“Gucci-gucci—”
