Adoring Keaton: A Stand-Alone Friends-to-Lovers MM Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 9)

by Siobhan Davis

  “That dude is bad news, bro,” Colton says, after I’ve posed my question.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Propping my head against a few pillows, I cross my feet at the ankles as we talk. “Can you find out any specifics?”

  “I’ll ask around.”

  “Be discreet.”

  “Obvs.” A pregnant pause ensues. “You sure you’re not in trouble, man?”

  “I promise I’m fine, and I wish I didn’t have to be so vague.” I didn’t tell Colton what I saw tonight or why I want him to dig into Brock because Keaton values his privacy highly, and I’m not about to rat him out when I don’t even know what’s going on.

  “It’s cool, man. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  We hang up, and I pull out my sketch pad, picking up the design I’ve been working on intermittently these past few weeks. Finding time to sketch, or ink, is challenging these past couple years as I have minimal downtime. But it’s my passion. My go-to when I need to unwind. However, I can’t switch off tonight, and the longer Keaton is gone, the more anxious I feel.

  Without stopping to second-guess myself, I hop up and stalk out of my room. Opening the door to Keaton’s bedroom, I scan the neat and tidy layout for any evidence of drug paraphernalia, but there is nothing in plain sight. Bile churns in my gut as I step into his room, rifling through the drawers of his desk before moving to his nightstand. My hand falters on the small handle, and air whooshes out of my mouth. I rub at the tightness spreading across my chest.

  This is wrong. I can’t invade the guy’s privacy, even if I’m worried he’s got a drug problem. While it seems like the obvious reason behind the exchange in the alleyway, I’ve seen nothing so far to indicate Keaton has ever taken drugs, and I could be way off base.

  Backtracking out of his room, I close the door behind me and return to my room. Throwing myself on my bed, I bury my head in the soft comforter, hating what I just did.

  The only way I’ll find out if Keaton is in deep shit is if I ask him.

  I’ll see what I can dig up on Brock Jonas, and then I’ll talk to my friend and offer him my help.

  ***

  Keats has completely closed himself off, and it’s like living with a stranger. I can tell he’s on edge, and I’ve asked him what’s wrong, but he brushes my concern aside, spending more time out of the apartment than usual, and when he’s here, he hides away in his bedroom, avoiding me at all costs.

  So, when Colton asks to grab a bite to eat after practice on Thursday, I’m praying he has some intel for me.

  “Word on the street is Jonas is estranged from his family and he’s cut off from his trust fund,” Colton says in between ripping into his steak.

  “Is he dealing?”

  Colton shakes his head. “Appears not.”

  I rub my thumb along my bottom lip as I rethink my theories. If Keaton wasn’t paying him for drugs, what was in that padded envelope? Is it possible they are friends? Or their families are connected in some way and he’s helping him out?

  Brock doesn’t seem like the type of guy Keaton would be friends with, even if their families are close, but Keats wouldn’t deny a friend in need, even if he didn’t like him. Or maybe it wasn’t cash in the envelope and I’m putting square holes into round pegs. “Discover anything else?”

  “He’s still a Class-A jerk with a chip the size of a planet on his shoulder.” Colton pops a fry in his mouth. “And his band is still shit.” He wipes his hand on his napkin, eyeballing me. “You sure you’re not in trouble, dude? Because you know I’ve got your back.”

  “It’s not me.”

  A knowing look appears on his face. “Please don’t tell me Kennedy’s mixed up with that loser?”

  I retain my casual stance even as everything locks up inside me. “Why would you assume this is anything to do with Keats?”

  “I can count on one hand the guys you’re close to. Apart from me and Kennedy, and maybe Preston, I can’t see you sticking your neck out on a limb for anyone else.”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on,” I admit, finishing my chicken. “But I intend to find out.”

  We part ways, and my determination solidifies as I walk back to the apartment. I’m having it out with Keaton tonight. Whatever shit he’s gotten himself into, he needs to know he’s not in it alone.

  Sounds of conversation greet my ears as I enter the apartment, closing the door behind me. My sneakers squelch off the tile floor as I walk the length of the hallway. I slam to a halt the second I round the corner into our open-plan living space, staring in disbelief at the guy sitting on the leather sectional across from Keaton.

  Tugging a hand through his long dark hair, he stands, flashing me a megawatt grin. He’s wearing his signature ripped jeans, rocker tee, and scuffed boots ensemble, and it takes me back in time.

  “Hey, man,” Dax says, moving toward me because I’m rooted to the spot. “Long time no see.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I snap. And what the hell have you been telling my roomie?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Keaton

  Austen looks shell-shocked, and I’m thinking I made a mistake letting this guy into our place. When he said he was an old friend of Austen’s from Golden, I didn’t stop to think about whether it was true.

  Because I’m still a naïve idiot. Clearly.

  “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by,” Dax says. His gaze slowly peruses the length of Austen’s body, and he’s about as subtle as a fucking brick. My brain is going into meltdown mode.

  Who the fuck is this guy to Austen?

  “Bullshit,” Austen says, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. Austen is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected, and I’ve rarely seen him ruffled. But this guy has him ruffled, and I don’t like it one little bit. “And stop fucking looking at me like that.”

  Dax brings his eyes back to Austen’s face, cocking his head to one side. His expression turns more serious. “I just transferred here. I was chosen for the MFA program.”

  I already know this because he was telling me about the prestigious art program that only supports twelve students a year. He explained he graduated with an arts degree from the University of Denver last spring.

  Austen rocks back on his heels, and it’s clear the news is a big surprise. “Why here?” he asks in a clipped tone.

  “You know why, man.” Dax takes a step toward him before glancing briefly over his shoulder at me. Turning his attention back to Austen, he says, “Can we go somewhere private to talk? We have lots to discuss.”

  I level a stare at the back of his head, shooting invisible daggers into his skull, reversing my original opinion. I thought the guy was cool, but I take it back.

  “We have nothing to discuss.” Austen’s jaw is locked tight, and his eyes burn with anger.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Dax blurts, grabbing Austen’s arm. “I made a mistake, but I want to make it right.” He steps even closer until there’s barely breathing space between them.

  I want to yank him away from Austen, and scream at him to get the fuck out, but it’s not my place.

  Austen shoves Dax’s hand off him, and I silently cheer.

  “I know it’s bullshit with Gia,” Dax continues, oblivious to the hostility rolling off Austen in toxic waves. “I know you miss me as much as I miss you. I know—”

  “Not here,” Austen snaps, silencing him with a cutting look. “Follow me.”

  Wait? What? Why the fuck isn’t he throwing this douchebag out?

  Pain slices across my chest as I watch the guy I have feelings for lead another guy to his bedroom.

  Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, I knock half of it back while I try to figure this out. I need the distraction to stop me from eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Dax wasn’t subtle.

  You don’t say that shit in front of another guy unless it’s the truth.

  You don’t blatantly eye fuck another guy unless you’re confide
nt in your sexuality.

  Dax is gay or into dudes. That’s one hundred percent true. I’m sure of it. He clearly has feelings for Austen, and from the anger radiating from my roomie by the bucketload, it’s clear there is history between them.

  They had some kind of relationship.

  Does that mean Austen is gay? Or is he bi?

  I don’t actually give a fuck about the label if it means what I’ve begun to suspect—that Austen is into guys.

  Because that changes everything.

  Hope blossoms to life in my chest as I consider the possibilities. Maybe I haven’t been imagining the sexual tension between us. Maybe it isn’t all one-sided. Maybe Austen is attracted to me and there’s hope for a romantic relationship after all.

  Except he’s in a bedroom with his ex-boyfriend or ex-fuck buddy, and my initial burst of euphoria dies an immediate death.

  A loud crash echoes from the corridor leading to the bedrooms, and I’m racing there before I’ve consciously processed the action. Muffled shouts reverberate behind Austen’s closed door, and I plant my spine to the wall, heart beating frantically in my chest, as I strain my ears, hoping to hear what they’re arguing about. It goes quiet, and blood rushes to my head. As the silence lengthens, I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to ward off the images forming in my mind.

  My chest heaves painfully as a clear groan rings out from behind the door. I hang my head as intense pressure sits on my chest, making breathing difficult. Pain rampages through my body, laying siege to my heart, and I have never felt like this—like someone’s just yanked my beating heart out of my chest—any of the times I ended things with Melissa.

  Another groan rips through the air, and a messy ball of emotion clogs the back of my throat. Nausea churns in my gut, and I think I might puke when images of Austen and Dax fucking surface in my mind.

  I should move. Because standing outside Austen’s bedroom listening to him have sex with another guy is the worst form of torture, but I can’t make my limbs move.

  Breath stutters in my lungs as a loud thump is followed by fresh shouting. The door swings open unexpectedly, and I’m caught, like a deer in the headlights.

  Dax sneers, his gaze raking over me in a quick, derisory fashion. He deliberately shoulder checks me as he storms past, nostrils flaring and fists balled at his side. A minute later, the front door slams, and awkward silence descends.

  Austen appears in front of me like an apparition. His hair is messed up, his lips are swollen, and the top button on his jeans is undone.

  I swallow over the massive lump in my throat, ignoring the stinging pain behind my eyes, as I attempt to pull off a nonplussed expression.

  “Shit.” Austen walks toward me, smoothing out the longish strands of hair on top of his head.

  I’m rooted in place, unable to move for fear this swirling ball of tempestuous emotion gathering speed inside me will be unleashed.

  “I can explain,” he says, stopping in the doorway, pinning me with his tortured gaze.

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” I reply, my voice all choked up.

  He strides toward me, clasping my face in his large palms. “We both know I do.”

  I stare at him, feeling my eyes well up, which is ridiculous because Austen has done nothing wrong. We’re only friends. He’s free to fuck around with whomever he wants. Free to keep the knowledge of his sexuality to himself. It’s not like I’ve been forthcoming about my feelings or my sexuality.

  “Fuck, Keaton.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he stares into my eyes, and I don’t know what he’s reading there. Right now, I’m an open book, and I’m probably projecting everything.

  He releases my face, grasping my hand and leading me out into the living room. I let him steer me over to the couch and push me down.

  He walks off, and I try to get a grip while he grabs my half-finished beer from the kitchen. “You look like you need this,” he says, handing it to me. He sits beside me, so close our thighs are brushing, uncapping a bottle of water and chugging the whole thing back. I knock back a mouthful of beer, still dazed.

  Austen angles his body so we’re facing one another with our knees touching. He holds nothing back as he maintains eye contact with me. “Dax is my ex-boyfriend. I’m gay.”

  I can only stare at him. I’m unable to form words. This is something I’ve dreamed about—Austen being gay. Not the ex-boyfriend part, obviously.

  He cups one side of my face. “Cat got your tongue?” he teases, and I know it’s his way of breaking the stifling tension.

  “How long?” I rasp, staring into his eyes, trying to unravel the mysteries there.

  “How long have I known I was gay, or how long was he my boyfriend?”

  “Both.”

  Dropping his hand from my face, he settles back on the couch, gently pulling me with him so I’ve no choice but to relax my tense back muscles. We turn toward one another, our faces so close it wouldn’t take much to close the distance and plant one on him. “I came out when I was thirteen,” he explains. “Although I knew I was into guys way before that.” He maintains eye contact, giving me his full attention. “I dated a couple of guys in high school, much to my parents’ dismay, but it wasn’t serious until I hooked up with Dax.”

  My face scrunches into a scowl before I can school my features.

  His lips kick up ever so slightly. “You don’t like hearing that.”

  “Not one little bit,” I truthfully admit. There’s no point holding anything back now.

  “He was two years ahead of me, and we dated during his senior year.”

  It’s ironic both he and Gia were dating seniors when they were sophomores, and maybe that’s part of the reason why Austen agreed to fake date his bestie when things turned to shit.

  “It was intense,” Austen admits. “He’s an intense kind of guy.”

  I’ll bet he is. Jealousy coats my eyes in a red haze, and I totally regret letting that guy into our home. Not that it really matters. If Dax has come here for Austen, he won’t let anything stand in his way. I know I wouldn’t if I was lucky enough to ever call Austen mine.

  Austen threads his fingers through my hair, and butterflies swoop through my chest. “But it’s in the past. We split up just before he left for college.” His features soften as he toys with my hair. “This might hurt, but I never want to be anything less than truthful with you. No more lies. No more hiding shit.”

  I nod, prepared to give him my truths too.

  “I was in love with him,” he admits, and acid collects at the base of my throat. “But I was only sixteen, and he was my first proper relationship.”

  “Did you two—” I cut myself off, because it’s none of my business, and I’m not so sure I want or need to know the answer when it seems obvious.

  “Fuck?” he quietly says, staring into my eyes. “I lost my virginity to him,” he adds, and I fucking hate myself for not throwing a punch at that guy when I had a chance.

  “I had to ask.” My bitter laugh wraps around the heavy tension in the air.

  “Keats.” Austen clasps my cheeks again. “He doesn’t mean that to me anymore. I was brokenhearted when he left. I knew it had to happen, but I struggled to let go. I called and left messages.” He flinches before a smile smooths out his features. “Not my finest hour.” His jaw hardens and the smile slips off his face. “But I got the message loud and clear when he returned for Christmas with his new boyfriend. Especially when he paraded him around me, ensuring I understood it was well and truly over.”

  “That was cruel, but I can see that guy doing that,” I admit.

  “Now I’m older I see the entire relationship in a totally different light. Which is why him turning up here is such a mindfuck. I was someone to fuck around with, for him, while I had convinced myself I was in love. I know now it wasn’t that, and I have no desire to reconnect with him.”

  “Yet you just kissed him.” It pains me to say those words, and I drop my eyes, not wil
ling to let him see how much it has hurt me.

  “It was a lapse in judgment. He kissed me, and I—” He drops my face, leaning his head back on the headrest, sighing.

  I wait for him to gather his thoughts, resting my cheek against the leather.

  Austen reclaims my gaze while reaching for my hand. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. When I took him to my room, it was because I didn’t want you to discover the truth like that. Not from him. I told him to get lost, but he kissed me and grabbed my cock, and it’s been so fucking long since I had sex my body reacted on autopilot, and I forgot myself for a few minutes. When I woke the fuck up, I pushed him away and told him to get the fuck out.”

  “It’s okay.” I squeeze his hand even though it really isn’t. But he’s not at fault. “You don’t owe me any apologies. I’m just glad you didn’t fuck him. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have barged in there and dragged him off you.”

  Austen sits up straighter, his eyes flashing with heat. “How long have you been into guys, Keats?”

  I draw a brave breath before admitting something I’ve never told anyone. “All my life, man.”

  He moves in closer, trailing one hand up my body, before firmly clasping the back of my neck. His eyes drift to my mouth, and I stop breathing. His minty breath fans over my lips as he whispers. “How long have you been into me?”

  My hand gravitates to the back of his head, and I hold him as firmly as he’s holding me. “From the very first second I met you,” I admit, praying my thundering heart doesn’t find a way to escape my chest, because it would suck to die just as my greatest fantasy is coming to life.

  “It was the same for me, and that’s all I need to know,” Austen says, and I’ve no time to swoon or celebrate before his wicked mouth is on mine, and we’re kissing feverishly, devouring one another like we can’t get close enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHT