Page 27 of Good Boy
"Alright," Cynthia interjected, her voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife. "Darius, why don't you and Zander go check out the car collection? I'm sure you'd both enjoy that."
What kind of name is Zander? Stupid ass name.
"Cool." Darius rose from his chair without tearing his gaze from mine. Zander followed suit, and they both made their way toward the door.
I watched them walk away, each step they took causing a white-hot ball of fire to grow within my chest. My blood boiled with every inch of distance put between us, raw jealousy consuming me like a ravenous beast.
As they disappeared from view, I made myself focus on the conversation at hand, doing my best to push thoughts of Darius and his infuriating smirk to the back of my mind. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more going on between him and that prick. And the thought of it set my entire body aflame with a potent mix of anger, desire, and need.
"Weston?" Cynthia's voice pulled me from my trance, her concerned gaze fixed on me. "Is everything alright?"
"Fine," I muttered, my jaw still tight with barely restrained rage. "Everything's just fine."
"Fuck this," I said as the dining room door closed behind us and we walked down the hallway. Zander followed, his presence like a leech on my back. The night had been shit so far, with Weston's increasingly sour expression only making it worse. I could still feel Weston's eyes burning a hole through me, even though he was back at that godforsaken dinner table.
"Your grandpa's collection is still in the garage, right?" Zander asked, his voice irritating me more than I cared to admit.
My mind raced, trying to figure out why the fuck he was here. We'd shared a year of fast and filthy hookups during our first year of college before he took off for an Ivy League school across the country. I was a dumbass and had mistaken those late nights and early morning face-fucking sessions as love, but it wasn't. It was just my charred heart's desperate attempt at any type of affection. He couldn't just show up now, unannounced, without some ulterior motive.
"Yeah, it's still there," I said, walking through the kitchen and opening the door to the garage.
The familiar scent of oil, metal, and gasoline hit me, and I sighed, feeling a small sense of comfort among my grandfather's vintage cars and bikes.
Zander whistled appreciatively as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the space. "Damn, your old man had good taste."
"Grandfather," I corrected, not wanting him to mix up my dead father with the man who'd bait and switch me to come back to this shit show. I climbed onto my father's old motorcycle, straddling the worn leather seat, and watched as Zander fingered the hood of a '67 Chevy Impala. His touch seemed almost reverent, but I couldn't give a shit about that right now.
"Didn't know you'd be here." I studied Zander's face for some hint of his true intentions. The fucker had shown up out of nowhere, and something told me it wasn't just to reminisce about old times.
"Surprise?" he said, holding his hands out to the side.
I eyed him, refusing to buy the bullshit grin plastered across his face. A surge of regret washed over me for playing along with his flirtatious crap at dinner, just to keep suspicions away from Weston and me.
"Cut the shit, Z," I growled, the anger simmering in my chest. "You're here for a reason, and it ain't to catch up."
His grin faltered, and he tried another approach, stepping closer to me. He slid his fingers along the curve of my lower back, his breath hot on my neck as he leaned in. I wanted to shove him away, but part of me reveled in the familiar touch, despite the hurt that lingered like a phantom pain.
"Can't we just enjoy each other's company, driver?" he whispered, sending a shiver down my spine.
I hated that nickname because he was the one who gave it to me. One late night drive with his lips around my cock and the new nickname had been born.
"Fuck off, Zander," I snarled, sidestepping his advances and crossing the garage to put distance between us. I couldn't let myself fall into that trap again. He'd broken my heart once already, and I wasn't going to give him the chance to do it again.
"Whatever, have it your way."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but I could still see the challenge in his eyes, daring me to figure out the real reason he was here.
Zander wandered around, his fingers grazing the hoods of the cars as if they were precious relics. He rambled about the past two years, how he'd been traveling with his father for business. His family owned a chain of high-end hotels, as if that fucking mattered.
"Paris in the spring is really something, driver," he said, his voice dripping with pretension. "You should come with me next time."
"Who you been fucking, Z?" If he wanted to play games, I could play too. "Heard you're quite good at keeping cocks warm in that tight little ass of yours."
He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. But he didn't take the bait. Instead, he sauntered over to a vintage 1949 dark-blue Rolls Royce and opened the driver's door.
"Nice ride." He ran a hand along the smooth leather interior. "Bet it's worth a fortune."
"It is," I snapped, leaning forward on the bike, my anger simmering just below the surface. "Why are you really here?"