Page 9 of Line Change

Nobody is watching. Bobby is three rows ahead, swearing at the game on his screen. Caleb is asleep across the aisle. Everybody else is busy or minding his own business.

What the fuck was that?

I’ve never had a dream about a man. I’ve never wanted a man. I’m not gay. I like women. I like their bodies and the way they smell and the noises they make when I fuck them. There’s plenty of evidence.

My brother Grayson is gay.

Hello, universe. Grayson Pope is the gay brother fucking a hot hockey player. If some cosmic message got switched, it needs to be redirected to Miami.

Hot?

Well, Vasily Korolev is objectively a good-looking man. Everybody knows that. He’s also my friend and my little brother’s boyfriend, so thinking about him naked is an excellent way to get murdered.

But was I thinking about Korolev or Fraser when I thought hot hockey player?

Fuck. I press my palms against my eyes. Fraser’s wet body is waiting for me there. The tattoos. His thighs. His hand reaching down.

It’s stress. It has to be. I got moved across the country with no warning and joined a team that can turn a three-goal lead into a public execution. Then Fraser followed me behind those trees last night and wound my tie around his fingers. My brain grabbed whatever was handy and made it weird.

My cock stays hard beneath the jacket.

The seat beside me dips, and Fraser drops into it before I can pull the jacket any higher. The seats are wide and plush. He still feels too close. His shoulder nearly touches mine, and his thigh is a few inches from the erection I’m hiding. He smells like soap. Of course he fucking does.

“Bobby’s trying to land a plane,” he says. “He’s killed all of us four times, and now he wants advice.”

I keep my eyes on the seat in front of me. “Then help him.”

“I did. He said I was making it worse.”

“He was probably right.” And I have no idea why I’m bantering about Flight Simulator with a man I… Nope, not thinking about it.

Fraser turns his head. I can feel him looking at me. “Good talk.”

I glance down the aisle. “There are twelve empty seats.”

“Fourteen.”

“Great. Pick one.”

He doesn’t move. “You wake up on the wrong side of your nightmare?”

My whole body locks. “What?”

His eyes flick to the jacket across my lap, and his mouth curls. Sleep erections are normal. He can’t know who was in the dream or where Fraser’s hand was about to land.

“Must’ve been a good nightmare,” he says.

“Go bother Bobby.” I nod toward the rows ahead.

“He’s wearing headphones.”

“Take the hint.” I pull the jacket higher.

His eyebrows go up. “You’re bitchier than usual.”

“You haven’t known me long enough to know what’s usual.”

“Two weeks has been plenty.”