Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend Book 4) Read online

  “You’re not having another orgy in there, are you? Because I can come back,” Jackson says through the door.

  “So glad you’re able to make jokes about that now,” I yell back.

  Jackson was out with us the night we took those girls home, and he warned Miller to be careful so the tabloids didn’t find out, but he hasn’t mentioned it since. I thought it was going to be one of those things we don’t mention—like me walking in on him and his boyfriend.

  We fumble our way to the door and tumble out into Miller’s room while I try to think of disturbing things to deflate my cock like unicorns and cute cats—those evil bastards.

  Jackson’s eyebrows shoot up when Miller and I leave the bathroom together. Alone … well, with each other and no girl sandwiched between us.

  “Ah, your timing is off,” I say. “If you’d been here five minutes ago, you could’ve held Miller’s dick while he peed, because, you know, you’re into that.”

  Shit. Even I know when I tip the smartass scale too far, and that totally came out homophobic and like I didn’t like what just happened. Like I’m pulling scared straight guy shit when I’m not.

  Scared, that is.

  My level of straightness is still up for debate. After that kiss, I’m leaning toward not straight at all.

  “Yeah, shame,” Jackson says dryly. “Although something tells me you enjoyed it anyway.”

  My mouth slams shut, because I don’t know if he’s finally calling me on it or if he’s implying he knows I got hard over the thing me and him agreed to never speak about again.

  “No one’s holding my dick but me,” Miller says, “but I do need help getting back to bed, so can you assholes please lose your egos and help a guy out?”

  “Sorry,” we both mutter and then help him.

  “Tina tells me you need surgery,” Jackson says. “That sucks.”

  “What’s even suckier is he’s going back to New York for it.”

  Miller scowls at me. “Way to sell me out.”

  “Was your plan to leave without anyone knowing?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah, was kinda hoping. My family wants me back home, and I’m out for the season anyway.”

  “When do you need the surgery?” Jackson asks.

  “As soon as possible. They’re trying to figure out a way to get me there that’ll be comfortable. It’s not like this is an emergency where they can use a medivac or anything.”

  Jackson pulls out his phone. “I’m on it.”

  “On what?” I ask.

  “Noah has a private plane on standby.”

  “No fucking way,” I say. “I want a private plane. Imagine all the type of mile high shit you could do.”

  Jackson grins. “I don’t need to imagine.”

  Miller grimaces. “Okay, I’ll book a first-class ticket with someone. That’s gotta be better than flying in a sex plane, right?”

  “It’s like I don’t even know you at all,” I say. “Talon’s words of wisdom: never say no to a sex plane.”

  “It’s not a sex plane.” Jackson doesn’t look up from his phone as he shoots off a text. “I was joking.” He lowers his voice and mumbles, “Mostly.”

  There’s a knock on Miller’s door, and a nurse walks in. “Hi, guys, I’m sorry, but it’s actually past visiting hours.”

  Flirt switch: turned on. “Aww, precious, can we maybe get five more minutes with our boy here?”

  The young nurse blushes but stands her ground. “Don’t bat those pretty quarterback eyes at me, mister. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

  When she walks out, Jackson laughs. “I like her.”

  “I’m losing my touch,” I say, but when I turn back to them, Miller’s scowling at me.

  We have thirty seconds to talk about whatever happened in the bathroom with Jackson here to hear it all.

  “Twenty-five seconds!” The nurse yells from her station.

  “Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair.

  Jackson’s phone chimes. “The jet can come get you tomorrow morning first thing.”

  Miller nods. “Thanks.”

  Silence falls, and I have no idea what to say.

  “So, this is it?” I ask. “You’re done for the season.” And leaving me to figure this out on my own. But that goes unsaid.

  Chapter Eight

  MILLER

  Why did I think coming home would be less stressful than recovering in Chicago? Oh right, because it’s away from Talon.

  I still don’t know what happened in that hospital bathroom. Part of me wonders if the painkillers made me loopy and if it actually happened at all.

  Marcus Talon kissing me.

  Nope, no way. That’s what fantasies and wet dreams are made of.

  Right now, I’d take dealing with him and my temporary insanity over this torture any day.

  I’m in my childhood bedroom where all my football memorabilia and shit from high school hasn’t even been touched since I left home for college. The house is a single-story home on Staten Island, and living here again is surreal.

  Nothing’s changed, but my whole life is different now, so I feel out of place. Days of high school are long gone, bringing girls home and sneaking them into my room while Mom worked double shifts. Shane Miller, star football player bound for one of the top football schools in the country. Now I’m Shane Miller, NFL player who’s yet to make a name for himself, stuck in this tiny-ass room, where I can relive all my glory days from when I thought I was awesome. It wasn’t until college I realized that being awesome on a field full of semi-decent players didn’t mean shit. Fighting for my spot to stay on the USC team was what made me NFL material.

  Now look at me. Injured, on the cusp of being cut, and back living at home.

  Mom may not have to work double shifts anymore, but that’s probably the only thing that’s majorly changed. Well, that, and instead of living with my annoying little sister, I now live with her and my five-year-old niece, who takes after her mom.

  She wakes me up every morning by pulling my hair. “Uncle Shane, get up.”

  “Uncle Shane’s broken.” I try to roll over to get away from her, but then I remember my stupid leg, which sends pain shooting down to my toes.

  The kid doesn’t quite understand I’m not the same uncle who can carry her on my shoulders or swing her around right now.

  “Where’s your momma?” I ask.

  “At work.” She bounces with so much energy I have to close my eyes so I don’t get motion sickness.

  “Where’s Grandma?”

  “Making pancakes!” she yells.

  Mom appears in the doorway. “Sorry, honey, I told her to let you sleep. How’s the leg?”

  “The same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Sore as fu”—my eyes land on the kidlet—“fudge.”

  “Fudge is nummy!”

  I love my niece. She’s adorable. But holy fuck, kids need to come with volume control.

  My surgery went well a few days ago, but I’ve never been the type of guy to sit around and do nothing all day, and I have another four days of only getting up when I need to. Bathroom and kitchen are the only places I’m allowed, but Mom sends me away if I try to make any food for myself. I’m appreciative of her helping me out, but I’m already going stir-crazy.

  “Come on, Gabby, let’s leave Uncle Shane to rest.”

  “Well, I’m awake now,” I say.

  Mom smiles. “I’ll bring you some pancakes.”

  “God, they’re gonna have to rehab my stomach more than my leg if I keep eating like this.”

  I think it’s ingrained in moms to stuff their kids full of so much food that they’d be able to survive for weeks on fat stores.

  My phone pings on my bedside table, and Gabby reaches for it.

  “Can I play a game?”

  “No, baby, Uncle Shane needs his phone,” I say.

  “Game.” She crosses her adorable little arms across her chest.

  “One game.”
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  “Ooh, she’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” Mom sings as she heads back to the kitchen.

  Yeah, she really does. Even if she’s loud as fuck.

  “Gabby, I need your help decorating the pancakes!”

  The kidlet runs off, leaving my phone on the comforter.

  Thanks, Mom.

  Kinda wish Gabby had run off with my phone when I see the text:

  Talon: Jackson says your surgery went well. Thanks for letting me know.

  I groan. He’s calling me out for avoiding him. I thought it’d be easier to ignore him, being eight hundred miles away, but nope. That was pure stupidity on my part, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past six years, it’s that distance doesn’t make the memory of Marcus Talon any dimmer.

  Me: Sorry I didn’t reply to your text while under anesthesia.

  Talon: Smartass. It’s been three days.

  Me: Jackson CALLED me instead of tapping away on a phone.

  Fucking hell. His name flashes on my screen with an incoming call, and I should’ve known he’d do that if I taunted him. Yet, I still did it.

  Because he’s Talon, and I’m me.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice groggier than when I woke up.

  “You sound like crap.”

  “Miss you too.” I wince. Talking to grown-up Talon always brings out college Miller, and breaking old habits like joking about this kind of stuff is hard.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Why does everyone ask that?”

  “Because you had surgery. Duh. It’s like proper etiquette and shit.”

  Is kissing me in a hospital bathroom proper etiquette? Did that really happen or was I super high?

  I wish I was on the good drugs now so I had the courage to ask him these things.

  “The leg is fine. Drugs are good.”

  “Evidently,” Talon mumbles.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The line goes silent, and for a moment, I think it’s cut out.

  “Tal—”

  “Are we going to talk about what happened in the bathroom?”

  Oh. Oh. My tongue searches for the lie I want to say—my mind is blurry on the details. It’s not, though. I remember every single thing about it. I just wasn’t one hundred percent sure it actually happened.

  “I, uh …” I have absolutely no idea what to say.

  Talon laughs, but it’s awkward and sounds forced. “Yeah, that’s my thoughts on it too. I, uh, dunno what that was.”

  “I wasn’t entirely sure if it was real or a drug-induced hallucination.”

  There’s a pause, because this conversation is awkward as hell, and clearly, we both think it necessary to add to that awkwardness. If it did happen, why? And how?

  “Would it have at least been a nice hallucination?” Talon’s voice is small, and this whole time I’ve been wondering if I imagined it because I’ve wanted him that close to me for so long.

  I haven’t even had the chance to wonder how he felt about it all. “Have you ever … uh, you know—”

  “Been so blindsided by a kiss that I don’t know which way’s up anymore? Don’t know whether I’m going crazy or getting turned on by two guys going at it is normal? Uh, no. That’s all new.”

  “Wait, you got turned on by who?”

  “Jackson and Noah.”

  I thought I saw something in his eye the day he told me he walked in on them, but I’d dismissed it because I thought there was no way.

  “Have you ever …” Talon asks, “kissed another guy?”

  I suck in a sharp breath and wonder if yes is the wrong answer here. I have kissed guys. Not many, but a handful or so in the year between Talon leaving USC and me graduating the following year.

  “Pancakes!” a little—but fucking loud—voice says in my ear, and I jump. I didn’t even hear the squirt come in.

  I cover my half-hard cock with my blanket, because I really don’t want to have to have any sort of grown-up talk with my niece about that. Nope, nope, nope. Anatomy and sex and all that is totally my sister’s problem.

  “So, I can’t talk about this right now,” I say into the phone. “Little ears are listening.”

  “Who’s that?” Gabby yells some more.

  Talon’s laugh is warm. “She sounds cute.”

  “That’s because you’re eight hundred miles from all the noise.”

  Gabby pops her hip out with the attitude of her mother. “Who. Is. It?”

  “It’s Marcus Talon,” I say, and her entire face lights up as she reaches for my phone. “She wants to say hi,” I tell him.

  “All right.” His tone is more amused than annoyed we’ve been interrupted.

  I hand her the phone, and she presses it to her little ear.

  “My mom says you get sacked more than anyone else in the league.”

  “Gabby!”

  “It’s true,” she says.

  Talon’s laugh is so loud I can hear it from here.

  “She said you hold onto the ball for too long, which is why you get tackled all the time.”

  I take the phone back off her. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Go help Grandma with the rest of the pancakes.”

  She doesn’t move.

  Talon’s still laughing when I put the phone back to my ear.

  “So, yeah, that’s about the extent of my next few months. I don’t think I’m going to get a minute to myself ever. Feel sorry for me.”

  “How old is she?” Talon asks.

  “Five.”

  “Hmm … can five-year-olds read yet?”

  “Not big words.”

  “Cool. What I have to say might be easier over text anyway.”

  Before I can reply, the call ends, and I find myself in a stare-off with a five-year-old. A minute later, a text comes through, and I’m the one to break my gaze from Gabby first.

  “Mommy only lets me have half hour screen time.”

  “I’m pretty sure Mommy doesn’t want you to eat pancakes either.” I cock a brow at her, and even at her age, Gabby understands my underlying threat.

  Then I realize I’m threatening a child. I don’t think I should ever be a parent.

  Gabby runs off, and I go back to my phone.

  Talon: So your sister thinks I’m bad at football, huh?

  I snort.

  Me: You remember what Vanessa’s like. She went to USC too.

  Talon: Shit. She’s a mom now?

  Me: Yup.

  Talon: Is the kidlet mine?

  Me: You better be fucking joking.

  Talon: HAHAHA. Of course, you fucker. Sisters are off-limits.

  Me: Not cool, bro.

  There’s a long pause before the next text comes through.

  Talon: Kinda feels like we missed out on a lot of each other’s lives.

  Me: Yeah, well, football and life happened.

  Talon: I meant what I said in the bathroom. That I’ve missed you.

  Okay, nope. Texting is not easier. My stomach does a weird flip thing, and as I read over it again, it keeps doing it until I feel physically ill. I keep staring at the words that could either mean everything to me or continue to string me along on Talon’s hook.

  Talon: And I really liked kissing you.

  I blink rapidly, making sure I’m reading what I think I am. What am I supposed to say to that? My fingers type out three different responses:

  I liked it too.

  You should have. I’m awesome at kissing.

  Are you drunk?

  I end up deleting them all, and he beats me to responding.

  Talon: I don’t know what that means.

  Well, that one’s easy to reply to.

  Me: Neither do I.

  Talon: Kinda surprised you didn’t push me away. Or punch me.

  It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

  I was too drugged up.

  I was two seconds away from pushing you up against a wall and fucking your mouth with my tongue.


  Delete, delete, delete!

  Me: It’s not like I hadn’t thought about stuff like that happening before …

  I shouldn’t send this one either. It’s playing with fire. A little voice in the back of my head that sounds a hell of a lot like the Talon I used to know whispers in my ear. “Here are some matches. Have at it.”

  I hold my breath as I hit send.

  Talon: Really?

  Rationalize, my brain tells me.

  Me: We’ve shared a lot of girls. Done a lot of crazy and kinky shit with them. Are you saying you’ve never thought about it?

  Talon: Not until recently, no.

  I shouldn’t be surprised or hurt when I knew that was going to be his answer. Instead, I should be focused on the point that he’s thinking about it now. But that’s the thing. He’s only contemplating it now. Experimenting. Thinking he could like dick after seeing two guys get it on. That has nothing to do with me. I did the exploring thing when I was in college. I’ve played out the fantasies running through Talon’s brain right now, and I came to terms with being on the straighter end of the Kinsey scale but still very much bi. What if he doesn’t? He could kiss me again and say “Nope. Definitely straight.”

  Will I resent him for crushing me? Worst of all, would I be able to recover from that?

  Marcus Talon has the power to break me, and he doesn’t even know it.

  Talon: Have I freaked you out?

  Guess I’m taking too long to respond.

  Me: Nah. Takes more than curiosity to scare me off.

  Talon: You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.

  Me: It killed it?

  Talon: Nah, it turned him gay.

  I can’t help but laugh even though I probably shouldn’t.

  Me: That’s a horrible joke, even for you.

  Talon: I’m a little out of my element here.

  Me: Man, if this message thread didn’t have so much private stuff on here, I’d have to screenshot that. Mr. Know-it-all is out of his element? Oh shit, does admitting that mean you’re no longer eligible for MVP? Don’t you multi-time winners know EVERYTHING?

  Talon: Are you sure you want to taunt me about this? You know what happens when I’m challenged.

  Me: Somehow, I don’t see you becoming an expert in everything gay just to prove a point.