Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (33 page)

On a whim, I wrap my arms around him: thick and warm and soft and panting. I love dogs because they warm the soul without the baggage of another human.

“C’mon boy... where’s your daddy?”

I find Kellan in the kitchen, making pancakes. At first I can’t see much of him because he’s standing behind an island, so I step around it. I find he’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, in a pair of loose, charcoal longue pants and a white undershirt that emphasizes his beautiful body—and his gold-blond hair.

I smile a little, and he arches a brow at me. “Daddy?”

I laugh. “You are kind of his dad. Unless you’re his brother?”

He scowls. “No.”

He pushes a plate of bacon at me as I walk back around the island and take a seat at the bar.

His hair looks messy, and there’s some delicious scruff on his jaw. I can’t help noticing his eyes look tired. I feel a pang of guilt for not asking how his night went, although it’s not as if I actually could have. I was already in the harness when he woke me up.

“Okay, bro,” I tease. “Then dad it is.”

“I’m not his dad.” He flips a pancake.

“Adoptive dad?” I want him to smile, but he just gives me a blank look.

“Things must not have gone very well last night on your... um, errand.”

I see the muscle of his jaw clench. He doesn’t even lift his gaze to me.

“Okayyy. Well cool beans.” I grab two pieces of bacon off the plate and get up to get myself a drink. If he’s going to be a moody butthead, maybe I’ll go have my breakfast somewhere else. I can sit on the balcony and continue reading news stories about Kellan Drake.

I grab a Mason jar out of a cabinet and a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. I set it on the countertop.

“You should try some lemons in your water,” I advise. Just filling the silence, I guess. (Cleo Whatley: always awkward).

He doesn’t reply, and my feelings war with each other. Part of me feels sorry for him, part of me is irritated that he’s still so moody—especially after our night last night. Part of me feels pessimistic, like I’ll never really get to know him, and still another part wants to erect a wall around myself.

I pour some water into my glass and feel the warm weight of his hand around my wrist. I look down, then get the nerve to glance up at his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His blue eyes hold mine.

“What for?”

“For being a dick.” He lets me go and runs his hands through his hair. He lets a little breath out, like he’s been holding it. “Bad night.”

His voice sounds thick—emotional, even. His cuts his eyes away and then turns back around toward the skillet. The pancakes sizzle, but he doesn’t pick the spatula up. I can’t even see him breathing.

Shit.

I turn around and lean against the counter. “Anything you want to talk about? You have a roomie now, you know.”

I look at his broad shoulders, imagining them in a jersey. Bare and goosebumped while he stands on a surfboard. I imagine them tucked around me last night... the way he pressed his face into my hair.

I have the urge to wrap my arms around his waist again, but I think of his reaction last time at the grow house. And that’s how I know I should.

Is this what he does with other girls, too? Just fucks them, and if they make him laugh or wrap their arms around him, they get pushed away?

I put my hand on his back, then realize I want more and press my cheek against it.

He goes very still. So still I can hear his heartbeat.

I kiss him through his shirt, and then I wrap an arm around his waist.

“Don’t be pissed,” I whisper. “You seem sad. I like hugging you... I’m a hugger.”

I smell something burning, and I lean around him to find the pancake smoking.

I slide my arm from around his waist and kiss his bicep. “I didn’t mean to make you burn the food.”

“You didn’t,” he says gruffly.

I walk around the bar and take a seat on the stool right in front of him. I find myself waiting for his eyes to meet mine. He looks everywhere but at me as he finishes the pancakes, smears butter on them, and brings out a small cup of hot syrup from the microwave.

He puts three on a plate for me and sets it in front of me, still without looking in my eyes. Then he turns around to open the refrigerator. He takes out some fresh-looking strawberries and sets them in front of me as well.

“Thank you,” I say, as he finally looks me in the face. “Are you going to have some too?”

He shakes his head and mumbles something about working out.

I puzzle over this as he walks slowly toward the living area. He opens a door that looks like a closet door, situated between the kitchen and the living room, and disappears into it.

I eat slowly.

Should I ask him about football? Should I tell him what I saw? And what I read? I want to know the answers to my questions, but do I really
have
to have them? He’s clearly in a shitty mood. I don’t want to make things worse. Although of course, I want to know.

I finish eating, clean and wash my plate, and when he’s still not back, I can’t help myself. I follow him through the door, which leads down to a basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, I find a nice home gym, and Kellan running on a treadmill, pouring sweat.

He glances at me, then straight ahead. I’m not sure if I should feel irritated by how he’s acting, or sorry for him. I go with sorry. If I knew him even just a little better, I would ask what’s up. As it is, I stick my hands in the pockets of my robe and stand there feeling like some awkward stalker.

“This is really nice down here. I guess this is how you stay in shape for soccer.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you guys have a game in a few days?”

“Yeah.” His gaze flicks to mine, and I see effort on his face. He’s trying to be... not an ass. Which I appreciate, even as I wonder why he has to try so hard. “You a fan?” he asks. His voice is rough, the words slightly panted.

My throat tightens with the secret I’m keeping—about his past. “I’m a fan of how you look in your uniform,” I say slyly.

“Is that right?” He slows his pace.

I nod as the air around us starts to prickle. “I used to appreciate you as eye candy even though I thought you were a jerk.”

“And now?” He steps off the treadmill and closes the distance between us with three steps. He seems so tall. He looks very serious, considering we’re teasing.

“Now I don’t know.” My heart gives a long, unsteady beat. “You seem... really hard to read. I don’t know what I think of you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, folding his arms. Any emotions I might have seen on his face are locked away now. “Tonight, we’ll be going somewhere. It will be a chance for me to show you another aspect of our business.”

“Are you getting a shipment or something?”

“You’ll see.”

I nod, and when silence spreads between us, I can’t stop myself from prying. “So what about last night? What did you have to do?”

“It was nothing,” he says softly.

Sweat rolls down his temple. I put my finger on his shirt, where it’s stuck to the middle of his chest. “Do you do this every day?” I step slightly closer as I ask.

He nods.

I stroke his chest, then ease my hand away. “How long do you run?”

“I try to do aerobic shit for at least ninety minutes.”

“Holy hell. Ninety minutes? You’re like, training,” I say, stepping a little bit away.

He raises his brows.

I take another small step back, establishing a safe distance between the two of us. Then I take a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

He plucks a towel off a weight machine and wipes his forehead, not quite meeting my eyes as he says, “You have that ability.”

“Will you promise not to be growly about it?”

“Growly?” He smirks—but it’s a ridiculing smirk. Like he thinks I’m crazy. Like he isn’t close enough with me to tease.

I plunge right on ahead, keeping things casual even as my pulse picks up. “Yep, growly.”

He stares at me. “Is something wrong, Cleo?”

“No,” I hedge. “But I... last night, I saw a DVD of you playing football.” I search his handsome face. “You had black hair, and you were playing for USC. Your last name wasn’t Walsh. Your jersey said Drake.”

I know I’ve hit on something, because his face stays absolutely neutral and his jaw tightens. He doesn’t move, just stares right through me.

“Kellan?”

IT ALMOST FEELS RIGHT—
that Cleo found it. Sloth. I let her in my house, of course she finds the DVD of me playing.

This girl has got some fucking link to me. I’ve heard of it before: a soul tie, that’s what Whitney used to call it. When people’s souls just know each other. Maybe that’s Cleo and me. Sloth and “R.”

As I cooked her breakfast this morning, I wished I knew more about her than chicken pizza. Tonight before we meet Pace to look over the stuff, I thought about taking her for pizza. I can’t let her stay the full three weeks now that I know who she is—but I’m not sending her away quite yet.

Call it selfish. You’d be right.

I look down at her, and I try to imagine Cleo writing me the letters.

I didn’t really go to sleep last night. After I slipped into the windowed room and held her for a little while, I re-read every one of them. Before the sun rose, I went and got Truman. Got her some strawberries from the farmers’ market. Stared at her art.

Cleo.

Sloth.

I’m not in a good place, but having her here... it eases me a little.

“You watched my DVD?” I ask.

She nods.

“What did you think of it?”

“Your name was Kellan Drake. You had black hair.”

I smirk and run a hand back through my sweaty locks. “Which do you prefer?”

“I think the blond is really your hair. Is that right?”

I nod. I have a memory of Lyon snickering at the black dye stains all over my neck the day I did it—to disguise myself at a game of flag football with the senior dudes from our rival high school. I can hear his laughter.

“That’s right,” I rasp.

“Why did you dye it?”

“For a dare.” It’s not entirely true, but I don’t want to recount the flag football game. Don’t want to think about it—
him
.

She chews her lip. Her brows are drawn together. “What about your name? Which one is real?”

I remember the stench of heavy perfume, and an older lady’s gentle hands on my shoulders. The way I fell into the cab that day, the first day I told someone my name was Walsh. “Walsh was my mother’s maiden name,” I tell Cleo now. “It’s my middle name.”

“So your real last name is Drake?”

I nod. I’m not telling her much more, but I don’t see the point in lying about these basic facts. I don’t think BTM ever told her anything about me. She doesn’t know anything but what I told her in my letters: that my name is Robert. Which is, of course, untrue.

“Why’d you change it?” she asks.

The truth of my change in surname is not just the need for privacy once I came back from New York and started college here, but what happened before that. All the many things that made me feel like leaving Kellan Drake behind. Things Cleo can never know—lest she should find out how the two of us are linked.

I would never put her through that.

“Something happened,” I say slowly. “Something that made it so... I couldn’t be that person anymore.”

“Was that something an assault charge?” she whispers.

My stomach clenches as my pulse pounds behind my eyes. “What do you know about that, Cleo?” I rasp.

“I Googled you.” She looks nervous—and guilty.

“And you read I was suspended from the Trojans for a bar fight.”

She nods quickly.

I nod with her, trying to decide what if anything to add to that.

“What else did you read?” I need to know if any of the articles mentioned Lyon. His situation.

“That’s all. You had some killer stats when you were a senior at private school. You played first string as a freshman after Mark Waldon tore his ACL.” I nod, because those are facts. “And?”

“And then you got into a fight that night. You weren’t drunk—that’s what the story said—but you were at a bar in L.A. at like... closing time. And you got into it with this guy, this other player. It said he lost his hearing,” she says in a whisper.

I grit my teeth. Fear swells in me. Worry—about what Cleo thinks of that.

“It happened in January,” she adds, as if I need reminding.

“Yes.”

Her green eyes widen just a little. “So you really did it?”

“Do you think they lied?” I snap.

She shrugs. “Sometimes people do. Or there are disputes. Someone remembers one thing, someone else remembers something different. Keeps lawyers in business, you know?”

Not in my case. Everything the papers reported about that night was true. Franks did lose his hearing in his left ear. Like both Lyon and me, he never returned to the field. My father found a way to settle out of court.

Franks runs a vineyard now. And the truth of that story is, it took me years to feel sorry for what I did to that fuck.

I nod at her comment about lawyers. I’m starting to feel twitchy now. I want this subject dropped—but Cleo doesn’t notice. She shifts her stance a little, digging her hands deeper into the pockets of her fluffy robe, and tilts her head.