11-22-2016, 08:42 PM
Link laughed in that deep, rumbling way of his. "No, I was not in trouble. I was negotiating with your manager over Fife's freedom." He draped his arm over the back of Bryce's seat, watching him carefully, while also surveying the room.
Who were the rest of these pricks in his entourage? They might have been part of Bryce's image problem in the first place. Rowdy friends caused trouble, which drew the attention of the paparazzi, and ended in a rock star's tarnished image.
"I am not interested in being your bodyguard, Bryce," he said, beginning to look irritated, and even a little possessive, now that he was surrounded by all of Bryce's drunken pals. Part of him wondered if these were the type of friends to leave a passed out friend in the ditch outside some seedy night club.
His gaze whipped over at Link, hazel eyes cutting into him. "Nor am I interested in touching women. Some of the worst sex I've ever had was with women." He casually pushed aside Bryce's empty gin glass and ordered a bottle of water. "Drink this," he ordered, shoving it into Bryce's hand. "The least we can do is make your hangover a little less horrific tomorrow morning."
Fife laughed, a musical sound, one that had surely been put to flirtatious uses in the past. "'50 Shades of Grey?' Have you read that?" He laughed in vast amusement. "Someone snuck a copy into the compound once. Guys went nuts. I swear, it was like the entire barracks went into heat! You can't keep a bunch of Breeders celibate and then let them read a book like that. It was like a damn exploded! Three guys got pregnant!"
Their children were later sold into an adoption program, but Fife pushed that agonizing thought away when Samuel mentioned food.
"Finally!" he whooped triumphantly and headed into the living room to look at the delicacies that awaited. It was a far cry from the diet at the compound. He took a buttery bruschetta topped with roasted tomatoes and bit into it, moaning lewdly. "You know, the only time we get carbs at the compound is holidays. Bread makes you fat, and no one wants a fat Breeder."
He paused, now holding a square of brown bread smeared with butter and smoked salmon. "Wait, you bought me clothes? Seriously?! Can I go see them?!" He was standing clumsily now, wrenching off his shirt, giddy at the thought of something that actually belonged to him. Plus, he was curious as to what kind of clothes Samuel envisioned him in.
It seemed everything excited him: wine, food, clothes. The compound had been hell compared to this! And his bare chest and back bore the pink and white scars that the compound had given him.
He paused, though, when Samuel explained his past, fascinated to hear anything personal about him. He had a tumultuous past for such a frigid guy. He sat again, shirt bunched up on his lap, and reached for the food again.
"I'm sorry she got sick," he said, then frowned. "Three chances? Seriously? You took three shots at love and all three of them failed? That's shitty. They probably had no idea what they had when they had it. Trust me, some people can't spot a good man if he were lodged in their ass. You shouldn't give up on it, though. Smart, gorgeous guy like you? You'll find it somewhere. Probably when you least expect it."
He snorted bitterly. "I never took any shots at love. I've been sold to six different men, and none of them were interested in love. They mostly wanted my ass and birthing hips." He shrugged. "I'm a Breeder. I'm not allowed to expect love."
Who were the rest of these pricks in his entourage? They might have been part of Bryce's image problem in the first place. Rowdy friends caused trouble, which drew the attention of the paparazzi, and ended in a rock star's tarnished image.
"I am not interested in being your bodyguard, Bryce," he said, beginning to look irritated, and even a little possessive, now that he was surrounded by all of Bryce's drunken pals. Part of him wondered if these were the type of friends to leave a passed out friend in the ditch outside some seedy night club.
His gaze whipped over at Link, hazel eyes cutting into him. "Nor am I interested in touching women. Some of the worst sex I've ever had was with women." He casually pushed aside Bryce's empty gin glass and ordered a bottle of water. "Drink this," he ordered, shoving it into Bryce's hand. "The least we can do is make your hangover a little less horrific tomorrow morning."
Fife laughed, a musical sound, one that had surely been put to flirtatious uses in the past. "'50 Shades of Grey?' Have you read that?" He laughed in vast amusement. "Someone snuck a copy into the compound once. Guys went nuts. I swear, it was like the entire barracks went into heat! You can't keep a bunch of Breeders celibate and then let them read a book like that. It was like a damn exploded! Three guys got pregnant!"
Their children were later sold into an adoption program, but Fife pushed that agonizing thought away when Samuel mentioned food.
"Finally!" he whooped triumphantly and headed into the living room to look at the delicacies that awaited. It was a far cry from the diet at the compound. He took a buttery bruschetta topped with roasted tomatoes and bit into it, moaning lewdly. "You know, the only time we get carbs at the compound is holidays. Bread makes you fat, and no one wants a fat Breeder."
He paused, now holding a square of brown bread smeared with butter and smoked salmon. "Wait, you bought me clothes? Seriously?! Can I go see them?!" He was standing clumsily now, wrenching off his shirt, giddy at the thought of something that actually belonged to him. Plus, he was curious as to what kind of clothes Samuel envisioned him in.
It seemed everything excited him: wine, food, clothes. The compound had been hell compared to this! And his bare chest and back bore the pink and white scars that the compound had given him.
He paused, though, when Samuel explained his past, fascinated to hear anything personal about him. He had a tumultuous past for such a frigid guy. He sat again, shirt bunched up on his lap, and reached for the food again.
"I'm sorry she got sick," he said, then frowned. "Three chances? Seriously? You took three shots at love and all three of them failed? That's shitty. They probably had no idea what they had when they had it. Trust me, some people can't spot a good man if he were lodged in their ass. You shouldn't give up on it, though. Smart, gorgeous guy like you? You'll find it somewhere. Probably when you least expect it."
He snorted bitterly. "I never took any shots at love. I've been sold to six different men, and none of them were interested in love. They mostly wanted my ass and birthing hips." He shrugged. "I'm a Breeder. I'm not allowed to expect love."