Chapter 12: Hidden Scars: Chapter 11

that?” Paul asks, staring at the retreating back of my roommate.

“I have no idea, but that was really weird,” I mutter, chewing on a french-fry while also watching Preston leave. Who the hell was that call from? What did they say to him? He looked torn up, almost vulnerable.

Our waitress pops up with a to-go box and starts putting Preston’s food into it.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Brendon asks her, flicking his gaze to me like I have a fucking answer.

“The man who was sitting here, asked me to box up his meal and send it with you.” She looks at me. “Is that okay?” Her hands stop moving, hovering in the air.

“Oh, sure. That’s fine.”

She finishes up and closes the clam shell box. “Is this being charged to your rooms?”

After we give her our room information, I grab Preston’s dinner and we stand.

“I’m getting another drink,” Paul announces.

“I’ll join ya,” Brendon steps back toward the bar.

“I’m going to take his royal highness his dinner.” I motion over my shoulder with my thumb.

“Later,” Paul says over his shoulder. Brendon pauses then follows me toward the elevator.

“I thought you were getting a drink?” I lift an eyebrow at him.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking around us. “You want to fool around first? We can be quick.”

Shit.

Unease flitters in my stomach. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I’m really not interested anymore. If I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t been interested in a while, but he was convenient. That sucks but it’s the truth.

“I’m tired, I’m just going to go to bed.” I try to give him a reassuring smile but I’m pretty sure he can see right through me.

“Sure, okay. Another time.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter but I can tell by how stiff his shoulders are that it stings. God damn it.

The elevator dings and I step inside with Brendon walking off toward the bar. Right now, I can’t worry about Brendon’s hurt feelings. I have no idea what I’m about to find. Has Preston eaten anything since the game? If not, does he know that liquor is going to hit him like a freight train?

By the time I get to my floor, I’m concerned.

Opening the door with my keycard, I’m not sure what to expect but Preston lying spread-eagle on the corner of the bed with his feet on the floor, is not it.

He lifts his head and looks at me for a second before dropping his head back down.

“Hey man, you okay?” I edge toward him, putting the food on the dresser and slowly making my way closer to the bed.

“I hate hotel rooms. The beds aren’t against the wall.” He sighs heavily, like this is a major inconvenience.

That was not what I asked but okay. Now that he mentions it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hotel room with beds pushed into a corner.

“Who called you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes are closed but one side of his perfectly kissable mouth lifts in a half smile. “She’s in a boarding school in New York. She’s safe there.”

“Who is safe from what?”

He starts humming a soft, soothing melody I’ve never heard before.

“Did you drink more after you left? Have you eaten anything?” He’s fucking lost it. I’m concerned about a mental break here.

“Hmmm?” He lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t open his eyes. He’s wasted? How did he get this drunk off two shots of Jack?

I quickly scan the room looking for another drink, mini bottle, anything, but I don’t see it from here.

“When did you eat last?” I step between his knees and reach for his arms to pull him up into a sitting position. He hisses and cringes away from me, pushing at my hands.

“Don’t touch me.”

How does someone who plays a full contact sport not like to be touched? Do the pads make that big of a difference? Or is it just me he doesn’t want to touch him?

“You gotta sit up and eat,” I tell him, reaching for his hand this time. He threads his fingers through mine and holds my hand. The move makes me freeze. What the hell is this?

He doesn’t want to be touched but wants to hold my hand?

I stand there in my awkwardness and let him hold my hand in his while my heart thumps uncomfortably in my chest.

Less than a minute later, he’s asleep and snoring lightly.

Jesus. What a mess this guy is.

I carefully lay his hand down on the bed and kneel on the floor to pull his shoes off. Why do I keep doing this for him? He’s never nice to anyone, why do I keep trying to take care of him?

Since he’s sprawled out on top of the blankets, I pull one off my bed to toss over him. He doesn’t move at all. I have a feeling this was exactly what he needed tonight.

I get ready for bed and plug our phones in to charge. His screen lights up, showing a preview of a text message from Dearest Daddy. Would he have his dad saved in his phone that way or is he a lot kinkier than I thought?

The message cuts off but I don’t need to see the entire thing to know it’s not pleasant. Jesus. I don’t know if I hope it’s kinky shit or not. If that’s his actual dad, what kind of parent talks to their kid like that? No wonder he pushes himself so hard. He’s not good enough for his famous father.

I fall asleep pondering the life of Charles Preston Carmichael. Everyone thinks he’s a spoiled, rich kid, but maybe the grass isn’t greener just because your family has money.

The next morning, I’m awoken by the ringing of a Facetime call.

What the actual fuck is happening? It’s too damn early for this.

Reaching for my phone, I pick up the buzzing fucker and answer it without looking.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Um. Who are you and why do you have my brother’s phone?” I don’t know who that voice belongs to, but it’s not my sister. “O.M.G. Did Pres really go out and get laid last night or are you a boyfriend he’s hiding from me?” This girl is talking crazy at whatever the fuck o’clock it is.

I scrub a hand down my face and rub my eyes before looking at the phone screen.

“What are you babbling about?”

“Where is Preston?” She enunciates each word like I’m an idiot. A dark haired girl with light gray eyes and a big smile fills the phone. Definitely not my sister but there’s enough likeness that it’s not hard to figure out she’s Preston’s sister. “Well, hello there, sleepy head. Aren’t you adorable?”

“I don’t fucking know. He was drunk and passed out last I saw him.” The girl squeals as I sit up and look over at the other bed. Preston is face down on the pillow with the blanket from my bed wrapped tightly around him.

“Yo, your sister is calling.” He doesn’t budge.

“No, that’s okay! Tell him to call me later. I’m so glad he has a boyfriend to help him relax.” The video call ends, leaving me confused but too tired to give a shit. I lay back down and fall back to sleep.

At eight am, our team wake up call starts with a loud knock on the door of the hotel room.

“Yeah,” I yell at the door to make whoever it is, probably Carpenter, stop banging on it. Opening my eyes, I roll my head toward the other bed and find Preston pulling the nightstand away from the wall.

“What are you doing?” I lift up onto one elbow, facing him.

“I can’t find my phone.”

A phone chimes from behind me and we both look to see where it came from.

“Do you have my phone?” Preston climbs over me to lift the pillows and pull at the blankets, finding it tangled in the sheet, irritation clear in his determined, jerky movements. “What the fuck? Why do you have it?” He sits back on his shins with it in his hand and glares at me.

Why is it in my bed?

“Oh! Your sister video called you this morning, but you were passed out. I guess I fell asleep with it in my hand.” I shrug and sit up, leaning against the headboard.

Now he’s furious, shaking-with-anger kind of mad.

“You talked to my sister?” The words are so quiet I almost don’t hear them. My body prepares for a fight. Any minute Preston is going to swing at me, I can feel it.

“I didn’t realize it was your phone when I answered it.” I say carefully. I don’t really want to fight this big bastard, but I will if he starts it.

Faster than I figured he could move the morning after drinking, he’s flung a leg over mine and straddles my lap, leaning his forearm against my throat and dropping his head until our noses are almost touching.

My hands come up to block him but I’m too damn slow.

My heartbeat skyrockets, heat blossoming over my skin as anticipation, fear, and lust war inside of me. I lift my hands to push on his chest, trying to get some much-needed distance, my fingers gripping his t-shirt in case I need the leverage.

“Don’t touch me!” Preston snarls, ripping my hands off him.

“You’re the one on me! Get the hell off me!” Anger and confusion burn my blood. I’m tired of his shit. He can’t just grab me and expect me not to protect myself. That’s not how this works.

His chest is heaving while he stares at me. I don’t let myself look away, despite a small part of me wanting to.

It’s interesting watching him reign himself back in, pull the anger back and slide that indifferent mask back over his face. His hands shake and his spine straightens. The fact that he can look completely indifferent yet superior while straddling me is fucking weird.

“What did you say to her? What did she tell you?” His voice is quiet but stern when he speaks again. He’s resting his hands flat on his thighs, moving them back and forth just a little. Almost like a subconscious movement.

“She asked if you went out and got laid, called me your boyfriend, and said she was glad you had me to help you relax.” One of his eyes twitches at my words but that’s the only reaction he gives. “Oh, and she wants you to call her back.”

There’s some internal battle he’s fighting while sitting on my thighs, barely rubbing his palms on his legs. He doesn’t say anything and even though his eyes are on me, his gaze is unfocused, as if he’s not seeing me. Is he having some kind of panic attack? What the hell is going on right now?

“Hey,” I say softly, slowly moving my hand to his. The second my skin touches his, he blinks. “You, okay?”

His eyebrows pull together in confusion before he climbs off me and goes into the bathroom.