Reluctantly You (Our Exception Book 3)

Mitch

My skin is too tight for my body, a hum beneath my bones making me itch. He sucked my cock and slid his finger inside of me. I begged for it, asked him to do it.

What the hell am I doing?

And why do I want to do it again?

My feet carry me over to Gideon, who is leaning against the worn bar top, and I come to a stop behind him, suddenly unsure of my place. Does he want me next to him? In the same room as him? I don’t fucking know.

We’re so different, him and I. He effortlessly commands a room, while I pretend. It’s all a farce. I’m a fucking joke.

Before I can overthink it, his hand reaches back, and he pulls me next to him, my body now pressed against his side.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks me, his lips brushing my ear. I can feel him through my entire body, a spark of lust and need. A shot of desperation.

I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything anymore.

When I don’t answer, he just sighs and shouts something to the bartender, who nods and moves away. I have no idea what he’s ordered, but I had no say in it.

I can’t speak right now.

My hands dangle by my sides, limp and useless, so I place them on the worn bar top, curling them against the woodgrain.

“Are you freaking out?” he asks, and I peer over at him, my gaze sliding down to his mouth, the way his lips look swollen from overuse, before shooting upward to the dark pools of his eyes.

I don’t answer, unsure what to say. Yes, of course I’m freaking out. Because it was him on his knees for me and yet, he commanded me the entire time, even though I could have easily taken charge.

Why did I let him do that?

Why have I always let him do that?

“If you are, we talk about it, like adults,” he says. “You don’t run away. You don’t hide. You talk about it.”

My mind flashes to the business card on my fridge. The one he left for me. For the first time in my life, I wonder if I should give that psychologist a call and speak to someone about what’s going on in my life. How to make sense of it all. Before I end up broken and shattered beyond repair.

“Fine,” I manage to say, and he looks pleased at my response. Something inside of me rebels at that, but another small ember bursts into light, glowing warmly.

A beer bottle is slid up next to my hands, and I fiddle with it as I watch Gideon sip on an amber colored whiskey.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, trying to behave like a mature adult and not some whimpering, rude child.

“You’re welcome,” he replies as he swallows slowly. My eyes flick to his Adam’s apple, and I feel that ember glow.

Fuck.

He nods toward an empty standing table, and I move with him, letting him place his hand on my arm to guide me. It’s not needed, but part of me knows there’s a chance I may run. He wants me to stay and face what happened like a man.

As I take another long, fizzy swallow of my drink, Rory comes bounding up, his hair hanging in his eyes, sweat lining his pale skin.

“Hi!” He beams as he throws his arms around Gideon and squeezes tightly. Something inside of me burns. No matter what Gideon’s told me, I can see the adoration they have for one another.

What’s their story? What made them so inseparable?

I don’t know if I want to know.

Rory turns his violet eyes on me and then his grin softens. He holds out his hand, a simple handshake, and I can’t help but slide my palm against his.

“Hi, Mitch,” he says, and I nod back at him, once more unable to find the words.

If he only knew what kind of man I’ve been, what kind of man I am, he wouldn’t be so kind. He’d discard me and never speak to me again.

Just like everyone else.

My chest clenches, and I rub at it.

“You okay?” Gideon asks Rory, who nods.

“I am. I’m having so much fun. Thanks for coming here with me. It’s so—” he adds, some of his words melding into the overwhelming music pumping from the speakers.

Gideon squeezes his shoulder and his eyes meet mine.

I glance away quickly, letting them have their moment, not wanting to intrude even more than I already have. Rory whispers something into Gideon’s ear and then prances back onto the dancefloor, his hips swaying perfectly to the music.

“Rory has some trust issues in places like this,” Gideon explains, again so fucking close. “It’s why I’m here with him. To watch over him until he’s ready to leave.”

“I didn’t ask,” I reply, and Gideon scoffs, taking another sip of his drink.

“You didn’t, but I could see the question in your eyes all the same.”

I hate that he can read me so well. That he seems to know me better than I know myself.

Suddenly, I want to run, want to disappear and never come back, but Gideon grabs on to my forearm tightly and squeezes.

“We talk about it.”

My eyes narrow, and his lips thin. He knows. He can see it. The chaos roiling inside of me.

I glance away and chug my beer, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

Gideon steps a little closer, crowding me, and I feel my skin alight at his nearness. My hole clenches around nothing, still wet from earlier and…fuck, there goes my cock. I want him to do it again.

And again.

I know that when I try and slide my finger inside, it won’t feel the same. It won’t be nearly as good.

It makes me hate him so much more.

How can one man have such an effect on me?

“What are you feeling? Right now?” he asks, his hand sliding down my arm and curling around my fingers. It’s almost like we’re holding hands, and goddamnit, my throat tightens.

“I’m…” I can’t admit it. I can’t. “I’m angry. At you.”

“And why is that?” Gideon asks, no frustration in his voice, just curiosity.

“Because.”

It’s a terrible answer, and yet I give it all the same. I’m angry because he makes me want things I can’t have.

He makes me feel.

“Because why?”

He won’t take that as my excuse. He wants more. He always wants fucking more. Why can’t what I am be enough? Why am I never enough?

I shove at him, my anger bubbling over, but he grabs me in a hug, pulling me against his strong chest, his hand moving into my hair, cradling me.

“Not here,” he says softly, his arms tightening around me. “Not here.”

I let out a shaky breath and nod, my lips brushing against his neck, feeling the pounding of his pulse against my mouth. My muscles slowly relax against him, my anger ebbing away the longer he squeezes my body to his.

He’s right. Now isn’t the time or place.

Later. I can get angry later. When no one else can see.

“Hello, bitch,” a familiar voice says from behind me, and I peer over my shoulder at Emery, who is loudly drinking another large smoothie at the gym. “Sorry, that wasn’t nice at all. But your name does rhyme with bitch.”

He sighs and then takes another long slurp of his smoothie. How does he manage to make it so loud and obnoxious? Not that he notices.

“I’d say you could call me a name, but nothing rhymes with Emery. Bemery? Cemery? Celery? God, I don’t like that vegetable…or is it a fruit?”

Good fuck.

I turn around and focus back on the punching bag, tuning him out. His brain is a weird place. Kind of overwhelming, actually.

“Anyway, can I join you? I want to try boxing again. I think I’d make a really terrible one in real life. My therapist told me that. He says I’m a big marshmallow. Although, I’d like to think I’m more of a cherry lollipop.”

I peer at him and then lean over to my bag, grabbing some cotton to wrap around his hands and knuckles.

“Gotta put the damn smoothie down,” I say, and he mumbles an apology as he nearly trips over his feet to set the drink on a small stool in the corner. When he comes back, he holds his tattooed hands out and wiggles his fingers. He’s near-constant movement. It’s almost hard to get the wrap situated on his hands properly.

“So, you have a therapist?” I ask, and he bobs his head.

“Oh yeah. I have been seeing one for ages. I have all sorts of things going on in this brain of mine. Need to talk to someone to sort it all out. I’m on meds too.”

I finish wrapping his right hand, then move to the other. “Do you like it?”

“Meds, yeah. Therapy, totally. It’s pretty cool when you find someone you gel with, you know? You don’t want to be spilling your life story to some boob.”

I snort softly and then meet his stare.

“I may go,” I say. Everything seems to be getting worse, more confusing. I don’t know how to process it all. I need help. I need professional help.

“Oh, to therapy? You totally should. Therapy club mates,” he says and swings up his hand, trying to high five me, but only ends up unraveling all my work. I have to start over and Emery looks contrite.

“Sorry about that, but fuck yeah to therapy. It’s cool, man. There was such a stigma about it growing up, but now I own it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be better, you know? And sometimes we just have trauma we need to process. I have tons of it. A whole closet full. Gonna be in therapy until I die.”

He snorts a laugh as I finally finish wrapping his hand and then move back to the boxing bag. Emery follows suit and watches me intently, trying to get his stance right. I sigh and then show him a few postures and punches as he does his best to mimic me, and by the time we’re done, his arms are hanging limply at his sides.

“I can’t lift them,” he sighs and then stares at his melted smoothie. “I won’t be able to drink that. It was ten dollars, too. I’ll never be able to retire at this rate.”

“Jesus,” I murmur as I help him unwrap his hands and then do mine. I stride over to the smoothie, condensation lining the plastic cup and hold it up to his mouth. His eyes twinkle and he grins at me, taking a long sip from the chewed-up straw.

“Thanks, man. You’re a real friend.”

That word sinks deep inside of me and I feel my throat start to sting. So without thinking too much about it, I nod toward the door, leading out to the main gym.

“Want to do a run?”

He moans in agony. “No, but I guess I should. You’ll have to carry me out of here though, big man. August won’t mind. Especially once he sees my abs.”

With shaky hands, he pulls up his shirt and stares down at his flat stomach.

“Shit, no abs yet,” he whispers, and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

I’m back at home, Little Pants in my arms, my fingers flicking the business card between my fingers.

Fuck. Am I gonna do it?

Something about what Emery said just resonated. It struck me.

That benign rambling made fucking sense.

It’s not a big deal. I can get help and it’s not a big deal. Emery does it, I’m sure my brothers do and haven’t told me. Yeah, my parents went on and on about how it wasn’t needed, but I think I fucking need it.

Why can’t I try and be better? Why am I drowning in emotions that I can’t understand?

“Why can’t I try?”

Little Pants meows a response, pawing at the card, and I sigh, picking up my phone and dialing the number.

Of course it goes straight to voicemail. I am calling late at night and he obviously doesn’t work this late, so I quickly hang up and curse myself for being an idiot. I don’t want to leave a fucking message, don’t want to blather on and on to a damn machine. I stare down at the card.

Paul Henderson. Licensed Psychologist. His website is listed as well.

“Should I try that?” I ask Little Pants, and she starts to purr.

Yeah, fine. I can fucking do better.

Emery’s words echo in my head, the way he spoke so casually about therapy, about mental illness. It wasn’t a big deal to him. I wasn’t going to be mocked for trying to make myself a better man, no matter what lies my parents put in my head growing up.

I click on his website and see a virtual calendar. And without thinking too much about it, I sign myself up for a virtual lunch slot on Wednesday. An intake, it says.

Yeah, I can do that. I can sneak away to my car, eat lunch and talk to this guy. Fuck knows if it will help at all, but at least I’m trying.

I have to try.