Page 163 of Studs Up
…
I used the spotty at best internet when it worked to read through social media to gauge the reactions.
A lot of pictures and videos from that night had been posted. At least one reporter hadn’t left at risk to their balls and caught Goldstone on video. That wasn’t going over well with either fandom.
But the one picture that most people were clinging to was the kiss I gave him in the parking garage.
An awful lot of people fawned over it, which I found to be fucking weird.
We covered a wide gambit of topics when it came to who reported on us. Between coming out, deep seated rivals revealing a relationship, and the blackmail, we made it into the social consciousness, and many people had a lot to say.
I would keep it from Holden as best I could, especially the threats. There were people who really had strong opinions about our private lives, which was weird. Why the fuck did they care so much?
When the internet cut out, I filled the time working out or reading in bed. I never strayed too long because I wanted to be there when he woke.
When he did, he was a ravenous monster. He would drink a gallon of water, eat his weight in food and then coax me back into bed with a seductive smile while he stripped his sweatpants off. He hardly spoke, and that was fine. I didn’t need to have a whole bunch of conversations with him.
After two days, he could stay awake for more than a few hours but still got sleepy and would be out for another six or eight.
I went through four Michael Crichton books and started the Andromeda Strain, which was unsettling. I put it back on the shelf and picked up a book with a bare chested Scottish man in a kilt looking particularly masculine with a sword and his foot braced on a rock. By the end of the day I was looking up how much Scottish castles were.
…
The literal reason I bought the cabin was to give Holden and me some space from the world. So when someone knocked on the door, I was instantly not in the fucking mood.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Two men in black suits with black ties and blacked out sunglasses stood on the porch on the grayest day of the year.
“Mr. Reed?” The one on the left said.
“Who the fuck are you?” I repeated.
“FBI Special Agents Johnson and Ellison. We’ve been trying to get ahold of Mr. Monroe.”
“He’s sleeping,” I said and crossed my arms.
“We’ve been trying for three days.”
“Good for you,” I said. “He’s sleeping.” They exchanged a look.
“It’s important that we talk to him,” said Ellison.
“Leave your number. I’ll call you when he’s ready.”
“Look,” Johnson took his sunglasses off like it was a fucking power move. “We drove all the way out here-”
“Good, you know how to drive all the way back to where ever the fuck you came from.”
“Nolan,” Holden mumbled from behind me. He put his hand on my back, and I turned to slide my arm around him. I would never forgive them for waking him up.
“Who are they?” He still looked exhausted.
“They said they’re FBI agents.” I kissed his forehead and absorbed his body as he leaned in. I turned back and glared.
“What do they want?”
“Dunno,” I said. “Didn’t ask.” He tipped his head back and squinted at me.
