Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (3 page)

M
y legs shake as the door closes behind Matthew Decker. I order myself to stop staring in hopes the smoking-hunk will come back, fighting the urge to beg him to use me any way he wanted. That sweet, fucking, gorgeous man who keeps me awake at night after I see him. Tonight will be one of those when I won’t be able to sleep whatsoever. His musky scent, clear blue eyes, and ripped body play inside my head all night long while I try to figure out a new way to try to avoid him.

I refuse to succumb to him. And it isn’t easy to stand my ground. Since the first moment I met the Decker family, I’ve been actively fighting against Matthew’s charms. Hell, the whole family is irresistible. There’s AJ, who I don’t dare look at since her husband Mason will kill me. Ah, Mason Bradley. Of course their scary brother-in-law is hot too. Jacob and Matthew are almost identical, but the latter has a lot more sex appeal. The fucking dimple gets me every time. It’s sexy as hell, and combined with his deep, playful eyes, I can lose myself entirely in him.

I remember the first time I saw him. His predatory eyes undressed me, making me feel exposed. He knew. I’d never met anyone who could see right through to who I am like he did. Still does. Then that low voice he used to introduce himself. A combination of playful yet promising. The promise I’d submit to him. That he’d give me the ride of my life if I let him.

And oh, I want him to, so badly. But I won’t.

He’s the brother of my business partner. Also, he’s far too open about his sexuality. I’m not. I couldn’t.
Or could I?
Shit. No. I can’t.
Shit, I can’t believe I’m going to have to work with him. Not him. This guy has me tied in knots. Perhaps I shouldn’t have even signed the damn contract with his brother. Thrice is going to bury me in some way or another.

His last words bounce through the walls of my office.
“Whenever you need me, I’m here for you,”
he had whispered, leaving me with a need for his arms, his mouth, and his body.

I won’t be judged by him. That’s a fresh statement. My parents have had me under a microscope since the moment I was conceived. Both criticize each, and every step I take. Condemning me when I don’t perform as either one expects. Neither of my parents have ever tried to understand me. It’s because of them that I hide on an opposite coast to where they are. Their judgmental stance into who I might be keeps me isolated.
Safe.

I try to shake the images of Matthew in my office. The way he is able to so effortlessly see something in seconds that my own parents have neglected to see in fourteen years rattles me to my core. It took me years to realize what I wanted—who I wanted in my bed. During eighth grade, I dated Kate. My first kiss. She had long brown hair, light brown eyes and shared her food with me. Back then that’s all I cared about. Once I entered high school, the game changed. I wanted more than pecks on the lips and walking hand in hand. I dated a total of three girls by the end of my sophomore year. The summer when I was sixteen, my perspective changed. During football camp, I saw a couple of dudes kissing in the locker room. My cock twitched as I watched their display—it was fucking hot. I couldn’t rip my eyes away. I jetted off to my house mortified over how much the scene had turned me on.

Throughout that weekend I remained glued to my computer watching porn. Girl on boy, girl on girl, and orgies. The latter fucked with my mind because everything I watched made me hard. Watching men fucking men, man fucking a woman while another man fucked her. Limbs, mouths, and appendages being touched, rubbed, and sucked. I wanted all that, but I knew in my gut that having any of it wouldn’t be possible. Not in my family. My last resource to confirm I wasn’t gay was to fuck a woman. So I did. And I was relieved to find that I liked it . . . but that didn’t erase the fact I reacted to men too.

I experimented for a while, trying to figure things out. After a few years, I did. The term is bisexual. It was who I was. I tried to learn what I liked and who I was. During that period, I also learned what I was up against because of my sexuality. Bigots, haters. But what hurt the most was my parents. I rub my face, fighting the tightness inside my chest. It was during the first days of summer between my junior and senior year of high school. Father came home early from work and caught me fooling around in the pool with Lincoln, the boy next door.

Lincoln’s hands hold onto my neck while our tongues wrestle and our bodies clutch each other. My blood heats as my hips grind against Lincoln’s. Our cocks rub together. It’s the first time I allow myself to act on the fantasies.
Finally I am kissing a man. It isn’t as sweet as kissing a girl, but it is as exciting. My balls hurt, and they’re close to exploding.

“Tristan Benoit Cooperson.” My father’s loud voice makes my entire body freeze. “Get out of that swimming pool. I don’t know what you two think you’re doing, but it’s wrong. Lincoln, go home!”

“Call me later,” I whisper in his ear. My arms shake as I push myself out of the water. Lincoln follows, grabbing his clothes and scurrying to his house without giving Father or me a second glance.

Father grasps my arm and drags me through the patio toward the house. “Viviane,” he screams. “Viviane. Where the hell are you?”

She stands at the top of the staircase, watching my father intently.

“Do you know what I just found our
son
doing?” My father slaps me several times, then pushes me toward the staircase. I lose my footing and stumble with the first step. My mind is spinning trying to find the reason why this is happening. One minute I’m being hauled to the staircase like a petulant boy and the next, the resounding sound of my father’s hand meeting my face cracks through the air. My eyes water and my vision grows hazy for a moment before I can truly register what just happened. “Kissing the neighbor next door—Lincoln. You’re supposed to take care of our children. He’s going to turn out gay, Viviane, and it’ll be all your fault.” My mother gasps.

Adrenaline runs through my veins. I want to fight back, but I know it would be counterproductive. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. They had never been upset when I fooled around with girls I was attracted to. This should be the same. Father pulls me by the hair, his face only inches from mine. “My son will never be a faggot. Do you understand?”

“Oh dear Lord, what are you saying, Charles?” Mother asks, running down the stairs. “Don’t put ideas in his head. He’s not like that . . . he’s not. Please, Tristan, tell your father that you’re not gay.”

My dad’s green eyes become darker, his face an angry red. Pain shoots through my head as his grip tightens. “Homosexuality is an abomination to God! You’re condemning yourself to eternal damnation in hell.” My father raises his voice so I can hear him over my mother’s sobs. “Kissing a man is unnatural, evil.”

“But I kiss women too,” I stutter.

Wrong thing to say apparently because what follows is a closed-fist punch in the face. “You’re talking like a sinner, not like the man I’m trying to raise.”

“It’s not too late, Charles. He’s a kid,” Mother reminds him. “We can fix him.”

My father releases the grasp on my hair and kicks me one more time. “Pack him a bag. I’ll call the priest. He should know where to send him.” His eyes find mine. They’ve settled into a cold stare. “You have one summer to fix whatever is wrong in your head, or I’ll make your life a living hell until you become a real man.” With that, my father presses his hands against his pristine suit, as if trying to clean the filth off, and swiftly exits the room. My mother follows silently.

That night I boarded a plane to Plano, Texas. My parents sent me to a Christian camp where they guided me to take the right path through the bible and reparative therapy—gay conversion therapy, they called it. The camp only confused me further, filled me with guilt, and left me struggling with not just my sexuality, but my faith too. My parents would never accept me for who I am. Since then, the shame follows me wherever I go. Coming to terms with who I am or accepting myself is more complicated than the theory of relativity. Those times defined who I hide. The hurtful whispers inside my head are a constant reminder of those days, a constant reminder that will never leave my side along with the insecurities and painful memories of the past. My only sexual preference is for no one to find out what I like, or who I fuck. At thirty, I’ve given up and decided to live like the rest—under wraps.

I
hate working in an office. Scratch that, at
this
office. White walls with old framed movie posters. A few pictures of famous celebrities holding Oscars, Emmys, and other awards Transcending Productions have won throughout the years. A large dark desk in the middle of the office. Even with the closed door, I feel vulnerable and at the mercy of the executives that have been here for years. Everyone in this company watches my every move all day long. I wish I could run away, but I can’t. A couple months ago, I finished my master’s degree in film and television production. The same day when I received my degree, my father handed me his production company. He believes I’m capable of leading this company into the future, except, I have to do it with the help of his executives.

“
They have years of experience, Mattie.”
He used that condescending tone I loathe, but he believes is caring.

They don’t know shit. Their only goal since I started working for this company is to push me aside and for one of them to become president. As if I’ll let them do such. This is my father’s legacy, and even though I’m not completely invested at the moment, this will become my biggest accomplishment. I have to show my parents I’m capable. That no matter what, I can succeed like my brother and sister.

If I didn’t require permission from these clowns, I’d move the entire company close to home—Seattle. I hate L.A. The city, the entire Hollywood scene. For the past few years, most of our shoots have happened in Vancouver and Seattle. Seattle, my home, the place I crave to live forever. That’s where my family lives; where I feel safe. But I’ll ride this for now. For my father and for me. He needs someone to take away some of his responsibilities so he can enjoy life. I need to show him I don’t need them to watch over me all the time.

I can’t quit; quitting is for losers. A laughable statement, because that’s exactly what I did earlier today. Quitting. I owned a small social media business. I was in charge of the accounts of some big names—actors, celebrities, and a few business personalities that want to have an online presence but hate Tweeting, posting on Facebook, or any other social outlets. Yet, they always have a media presence because of me.

Unfortunately, I have to sell that portion of my life so I can keep up with everything else I have going on. I need to make sure Transcending is on track. Decker Records is now under my direction, at least until Jacob comes back. Everything that Jacob does is my responsibility for the next few months. AJ also needs my help with her Arts Academy. Plus, I have a few other businesses to oversee. So as of today, no longer will I post,
Happy Masturbation Month
and make it trend while using singer Ritchie Jackson’s account.

“Yeah,” I answer my phone the moment it rings.

“When are you leaving for Seattle?” I take the phone off my ear to check the caller ID. Tristan Cooperson. This call takes me by surprise. Last Monday he wasn’t pleased with me. In fact, on Tuesday he emailed me his schedule and there weren’t any planned trips for the next three months. He was going to handle everything from here.

“Tomorrow night, why?”

“I have to be there tomorrow morning and was hoping you knew of a flight or a way to get there tonight. There are no flights out until tomorrow morning.”

I check the time. Seven. Yep, he missed the last one at six thirty. I have memorized every freaking flight since I’ve been flying back and forth every week for the past six months. The only way I know is my brother-in-law, Mason Bradley. He owns a few planes and has access to my parents’ private jet, plus he knows a pilot. I shoot off a text to him.