Iced Out (Leighton U Book 1)

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling my attention from the textbooks scattered across my bed as I attempt to study for this damn economics test I have later this week. Which is insane, considering we’ve only been back in classes for two weeks.

That’s college for you. Cramming as much crap in our brains as humanly possible before tossing us out into the world to be functioning members of society.

Like Hayes so aptly pointed out earlier this week, Quinton’s already taken this class a couple years ago as one of his undergraduate requirements. Which is lucky for me. Not because he still has the notebooks or anything useful for me. It’s Quinn we’re talking about. But he knows the material and can still help me should I need it, which is more than enough.

And speak of the devil, that’s exactly who texted me.

Quinton: What are you doing?

Me: Studying econ. Wanna come help?

Quinton: Can it take a rain check until tomorrow?

I smirk at my phone screen. Ever since the night we broke the rules for the first time, we haven’t cared to go back to obeying them. Now, barely twenty-four hours can go by without Quinn or I touching each other.

Me: Is this a booty call, de Haas? Are you wanting me to put your sexual needs before my education?

Quinton: It’s not a booty call, though it’s comical to hear from the one who begged to come over last night so I could come all over YOU.

My dick twitches at the thoughts of Quinn and I last night. It was like a repeat of our first official hook-up, only he was the one in charge this time. It was different from what I’m used to, having someone else above me like that. Pressing me down into the mattress and stroking us both to heaven while I sank my finger inside his ass. But as strange as it was, I loved it. I loved every dirty, sweaty second of it. And from the way he kissed me afterward—all teeth and tongue and need—I’d say he was definitely a fan too.

Me: That was so hot. Remind me some more and I won’t be able to leave without my dick saluting everyone I pass on the way out the door.

Quinton: Is that a yes then? Is it really that easy? You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to, Mr. Stick To The Plan.

Coming from the guy who’s made it his life’s mission to get me to loosen up and have a little fun.

Me: Do I have to know every detail? Unless you’re planning to kill me, chop me into tiny pieces, and toss my parts into Lake Michigan, I think I’m good.

Quinton: …the fuck? How the hell did you jump from booty call to dismemberment?

Quinton: No, never mind. I don’t think I wanna know.

My grin is instant. Throwing him off-balance, even in the smallest ways, always makes me smile or laugh. Probably because it’s not an easy task, as I’ve learned over the past months.

Me: Let me know when and where to meet you for the non-booty call that may or may not be my plotted murder.

Quinton: You’re ridiculous. I’ll pick you up out front in ten. Bring a change of clothes.

Me: Thought you said this wasn’t a booty call?

Quinton: Just pack your shit, Oak. Before I turn you into fish food.

I do as he asks, and true to his word, Quinton pulls up outside our house in his flashy BMW ten minutes later. He’s halfway to the door when I slip out, not wanting him to knock and risk one of my roommates answering. Especially Brax or Cam.

Or Holden.

Quinn looks edible in a dark brown, worn leather jacket, a charcoal thermal shirt, and dark wash jeans. A knit beanie sits on his head, and I try not to smile when I notice he’s wearing his glasses again today. Something he’s been doing a lot more lately, and part of me wonders if it’s because I’ve mentioned liking them once or twice.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing my bag from me and tossing it in the trunk beside his own. “Thanks for agreeing to come.”

He seems excited. Giddy, almost bursting with energy as he moves back to the driver’s side door and climbs inside.

“You’re in a good mood,” I say slowly, sliding my body into the luxury car beside him. “Any particular reason why?”

Both of his brows quirk up, writing his amusement all over his face. “I can’t just be happy?”

“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “I prefer it when you’re miserable.”

Picking up on my sarcasm, a slow smile breaks out across his face, and he lets out a low, rich chuckle. It washes over me like whiskey and warm honey, and I feel it to my toes. “Touché, baby. I know the feeling.”

We drive in silence for a while, the only sound coming from the roar of the engine and the low, seductive thrum of Bad Omens’s “THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND” from the speakers.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask about fifteen minutes later, just as Quinn pulls out onto the interstate that loops around Chicago’s eastern side. It runs right along the shores of Lake Michigan, the setting sun casting a glow over the relatively calm body of water.

He glances over to me for a second, tongue in cheek, before returning his attention to weaving the BMW through the traffic on the highway. “You gonna be mad if I tell you it’s a surprise?”

No, but it might make me slightly more irritated. Which I’m sure he knows, no doubt.

“Why do I have a feeling you really are about to turn me into fish food?”

A grin breaks out over his face. “You tell me. You’re the one who put the idea in my head to begin with.”

Laughing, I shake my head and stare out across the water. Soon enough, Chicago’s infamous Navy Pier comes into view. One of the main attractions for tourists visiting the city.

“Have you been here?” Quinn asks, and when I shift my focus to him, he nods toward the pier.

My brows furrow, and—

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, astonished by the fact. “At least, not that I can remember, anyway. I’d have to ask my parents to be sure.”

I put a pin in the thought, because with it so close to Millennium Park, I’ve been here a few times. At least when my brother and I were younger. I’m still lost in thought as Quinton veers off the highway and onto the exit for the pier, stopping a few minutes later when he pulls into a parking garage.

“Were you planning to come here all along? We don’t need an overnight bag to walk around the pier.”

“The world may never know.”

“You’re the most infuriatingly ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “So you’ve told me once or twice.”

After killing the engine, he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the garage exit leading to the main level of the pier. Though, dragging might be the more appropriate term, because, once again, I can feel the excitement radiating off him in palpable waves. It seeps into my skin where our palms touch, and soon enough, I’m feeling the same level of anticipation he is.

Right until he starts crossing the plaza to the ticket booth for the Centennial Wheel.

I stop in my tracks, damn near yanking his arm from the socket. He turns and gives me a what the fuck look as I glance up at the wheel. When my eyes drift back down to him, I swallow my pride and admit something very few people know.

“I’m afraid of heights.”

The way his eyebrows almost jump into his hairline would be laughable…if I wasn’t being dead serious.

“You’re afraid of heights,” he repeats, to which I nod.

“Deathly afraid might be an exaggeration, but it’s close enough.”

I expect him to say we can forget about it and do something else. Maybe go ice skating again, grab dinner, whatever. But instead, a devious, shit-eating grin crosses his face and he drags me straight to the ticket counter, the line empty because it’s the middle of winter. In the Windy City. On a giant pier. Sticking out into a large body of water.

Panic sets in, a thin coat of sweat already gathering on my forehead beneath my hat. “You heard the part where I said I’m afraid of heights, right?”

“Sure did,” he says, ordering us two tickets.

“Don’t worry, honey,” the middle-aged woman at the ticket counter says. “There’s those little puke bags in there if you start feeling woozy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I mutter, which only makes her laugh.

“You two enjoy your evening.”

Quinn thanks her, pocketing his wallet and grabbing the tickets before taking my hand too.

“You’ll be fine, Oak,” he says, pulling me over to where the passengers get loaded. “I promise. And I’ll hold your hand the entire time.”

“It’s really not as bad as you think. Nothing like those ones they have at the fair,” a little girl in front of us says, clearly having never heard of the whole stranger danger concept. Then again, I’m willing to bet the woman whose hand she’s holding is her mother, so how dangerous could it really be?

She’s right, though, it doesn’t look nearly as scary as those sketchy ones that travel around for fairs and carnivals and shit. But it’s also like eighty-five times the size.

“What she said,” Quinn says, motioning to the little girl and chaperone currently loading into their gondola.

“I don’t think that’s enough to stop me from having a panic attack while hundreds of feet in the air on a spinning wheel of death,” I say to Quinn, all the while keeping my eyes locked on the door sliding closed on the gondola.

Oh God.

My heart races, more sweat causing my hands to get all clammy as our own gondola circles around. It stops at the loading platform for us, and after the people inside it disembark—all in one piece, I note—Quinn hands over our tickets.

The attendant motions for us to board, and Quinn’s eyes lock with mine.

“Trust me,” he murmurs and holds out his hand.

I’m surprised to find…I do trust him. So I grab hold of his hand and let him drag me into the tiny box on the spinning wheel of death.

That’s when I’m also surprised to find how big it is. With little leather benches running down two sides and a capacity to fit at least half a dozen people. Not what I was expecting.

I take a seat beside him, still clenching his hand in mine.

“This…isn’t so bad.”

Except the thing chooses the same moment to move, starting the upward swing into the air, and I’m about to retract my previous statement.

Quinn eyes me, looking for any signs of discomfort in my face. I’m sure there’s plenty there, but he must not see enough to cause any real worry.

“Do you need me to kiss you at the top if you get too nervous?” he says, a lilt of teasing in his tone. “Like in those cheesy rom-com movies?”

“I don’t even think fucking you while this things spins us silly would make me less nervous.”

He leans over and his breath coasting over my neck causes me to shiver. “That could be arranged if you want.” His voice is a low, husky whisper. “We’d have to be quick, though. The ride’s less than fifteen minutes.”

I let out a bark of laughter, his ridiculous antics helping to put me more at ease. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

A knowing smirk rests on those sinful lips. “Maybe not full-blown anal. But I’d definitely suck your dick if you needed a way to relax and get your mind off it.”

I have a snarky my hero ready to burst free from my lips, but it gets caught in the back of my throat when our gondola rises high enough for the sunset to shine through each little crack and crevice of the Chicago skyline.

“Wow,” I murmur, my attention fixated out the window.

“This is my favorite spot in the whole city,” he whispers, and when I glance over, I find him staring out the glass too. “I swear, it’s like being on top of the world.”

“I believe you’re thinking of Mount Everest,” I supply, though from the way my heart is still racing a little, I might as well be standing at the top of the planet’s tallest mountain peak. Heights are heights.

“You’re a wise guy today, aren’t you?”

“It’s the fear talking.”

“No, it’s definitely just you,” he says, smiling, and I’m starting to realize I’m not strong enough to withstand the sight of those damn divots in his cheeks. It’s like dimple warfare.

It’s not until the wheel starts its first descent when he finally turns to face me, allowing me to see both of them in all their stupidly attractive glory.

“When I was a kid and had hockey practices or games over at the rink in Grant Park, I’d beg Marta to bring me here after. It was always my reward for playing well, getting to ride the Ferris wheel.”

“Marta?” I ask, because surely he doesn’t call his mother by her first name.

His smile turns a little sad. “She was my au pair growing up. Now, she just works on the staff as one of the housekeepers.”

Confusion hits me. “I thought your dad took you. To hockey, I mean.”

“Only in the beginning. But when it became too much of an inconvenience for him, Marta was tasked with taking me.”

“And what about your mom?” I pause, a realization hitting me. “Wait, are your parents married?”

“Whether or not they should be remains to be seen, but yeah, they are.”

“So why didn’t she take you?” I ask slowly.

He gives me an off-handed shrug. “Not sure. Probably too busy banging whatever junior partner at the firm was suiting her fancy that week.”

I almost choke on my spit. “You’re kidding.”

All I get is a slow shake of his head for a response.

“They didn’t even go to your games at all?”

Another shake of his head as the wheel ticks upward again. “Normally, no. I remember having a parents’ night for a game senior year. I’d told them about it weeks beforehand; reminding them, putting it in the phone calendars and emails. It was so important to me, I even went to their personal assistants, making sure they had all the information too.” His blue eyes shimmer, and it’s not just from the glow of the sunset. “I’m sure you can tell where this story is going.”

A sinking feeling causes my stomach to roll, instantly making me want to vomit more than this Ferris wheel ride ever could.

“Neither of them showed,” I whisper. Not a question, because I know it could only be the truth.

His teeth roll over his bottom lip and he nods. “But there was Marta in the stands, just like she always was. So I took the rose we were supposed to give to our families straight to her. She was my parent that night.” A soft scoff comes from him. “Most nights, actually.”

My chest aches for him, in no way being able to imagine being raised the way he was.

My dad was gone a lot, sure, and my mom had to raise Logan and I on her own for six months at a time, but we never lacked in love or support or just…quality time as a family. Even if it was us going to see one of Dad’s games, at least we were all together.

“But your parents come now.” Again, not a question, but a clear observation because of the conversation I overheard earlier this season between Quinn and his dad.

Another scoff leaves him. “Only for their own benefit. Usually to look like the doting parents they could never be, supporting their collegiate athlete son when my father despises the sport simply because it brings me joy.”

“I’m sure that’s not the reason why.”

“It might as well be. Anything that doesn’t fit into his little plan for how my life should play out should be removed immediately. There’s only room in it for things like taking over the firm, the society wife. Fancy cars and houses and kids to pass stupid amounts of money on to. Even when it’s never been my plan.”

“That’s…quite a different version from what you have in mind.”

A solemn nod is his response, and it’s then when I finally get what he’s saying.

My parents have always been supportive of me and my coming out about my sexuality. It’s who I am, not something I chose for myself. But I’d have to be blind or stupid to not see their vision of my life with the wife and two-point-five kids and house with a picket fence going out the window when I told them I’m attracted to guys. And I’m sure it was difficult for them to swallow at first.

But never once did they tell me what I want for myself is wrong. Never.

“You want them to see you for who you really are? Then you make them. At every turn, you take the version of you they want and you toss it out the window to get left in the dust. Because there’s nothing more important than being the person you want to be.”

He whispers, “I could say the same about you, you know, Mr. I Have To Follow My Legacy.”

I smirk. “Yeah, but we’re not talking about me, are we?”

That gets him to at least crack a smile, and I find myself glad to lift even an ounce of the heaviness weighing on him. Something I never thought I’d be doing when it comes to him.

Hell, if anyone would have told me I’d grow to be fond of Quinton de Haas, let alone like him, I would have called them a fucking liar on the spot. Yet somehow, the walls I’ve built to keep guys like him out of my life are crumbling down, brick by brick.

I know I don’t have time for the fun, flirty heartbreaker with a heart of gold, or whatever crap people write about in romance novels to make women swoon. It’s not what my time at Leighton is for. I’m here for hockey, to pass my classes and get a degree. Maybe even search for a job if I don’t get any feelers from an NHL team—though Dad and Coach’s old agent, Louis Spaulding, has already been harping on me about a contract.

All this to say, I have far more important shit to get a handle on over my dating life.

Not that Quinton and I are dating by any means, even if it might feel like it right now. Because here I am, doing shit I’d be doing with a boyfriend—ice skating and Ferris wheel rides and deep, meaningful conversations—when all we are is fuck buddies.

Somewhere between the night in the frat house bathroom and right now, the lines got blurred. For me, at least. Because what we’re doing doesn’t make sense in my head anymore.

I’m helpless to stop it though.

“Where’d you just go on me?” he asks, cutting into my thoughts.

Busted. “Nowhere.”

The look on his face tells me he’s skeptical. “Oak, you might not know this about yourself…but you’re a terrible liar.”

“Just…it’s a pretty great view. That’s all.”

His eyes move back to the skyline as we swing up for our third and final time. “It is. Say what you want about my parents, but I was lucky to grow up down here.” Lifting his arm, he points to one of the high rises a few blocks away. “Right there. Penthouse apartment in downtown Chicago. More than most kids could ever dream of having, right?”

Nodding in agreement, I squeeze his hand. “So why does it feel like there’s a but lingering in your head?”

His head shakes. “Not but. I never wanted for anything. Not when it came to all the things necessary for me to survive. I had a roof over my head and was always fed—usually some five-course meal our chef would make—and made it to my fancy prep school on time every day, thanks to my personal driver.” He pauses, then repeats, “I never wanted for anything.”

Except, from the way he says it, there’s one thing he did want. Desperately, it seems.

Love.

And it breaks my fucking heart to pieces.