Free Wicked Hearts by Claire Thompson

hell"s been going on
    with you this past week, anyway?”
    “I don"t know what you"re talking about.”
    “No?” Hank eyed him again, but Reese offered nothing more. Still scowling, Hank
    held out his hand. “Okay. Whatever. Hand it over. You want your money, I get the
    goods.”

    Reese could feel the memory stick poking in his pocket. “You know, this is kind of
    lame…” he began, not sure himself where he was going with this.
    “What is?”
    “This whole betting thing. You know, it"s kind of sleazy when you think about it.”
    Hank stared at Reese for a few seconds, his expression blank. Then he began to
    laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? Isn"t it a little late for these kind of touchy-feely
    sentiments?” He made a show of looking under Reese"s chair and behind him. “Where"s
    the real Reese Armstrong, and who the hell are you?”
    “Shut up, Hank.” Reese looked away.
    “A bet"s a bet.” Hank"s voice was soft and dangerous. “Did you fuck him or not?
    Did you record it or not? If you did, what"s the big deal? Let"s watch it together. You
    can give me a blow by blow.” Hank sniggered and Reese hated him at that moment.
    “You"re afraid, that"s it. You haven"t got the balls to admit you didn"t make the
    grade. Maybe the great seducer of men has finally lost his touch? Who would have
    thought one lone geek could hold out against the great Reese Armstrong?”
    Goaded beyond toleration by Hank"s obnoxious taunting, Reese stood and pulled
    the memory stick from his pocket, tossing it on the table beside Hank. “There"s your
    proof.”
    Hank picked it up, turning it over and over in his hands, as if examining a precious
    jewel. He looked up at Reese, squinting into the sunlight. “You delicious bastard,” he
    said with a crocodile"s smile. “You had me fooled.” He laughed, the sound loud but
    hollow in Reese"s ears. “I should have known. No one escapes your net, not when you
    put your mind, and your cock, to it.” He laughed again. Reese did not laugh with him.
    Hank stood, fingering the memory stick. “Let"s go and watch it. We"ll use the big
    screen.”
    “No,” Reese said sharply, wishing he"d never come. If only he could rewind the last
    few minutes. He should have lied. He should have said he hadn"t succeeded. Fuck the
    money. Who gave a shit what Hank thought?
    Hank regarded him with half veiled eyes. “Fine,” he said, “I"ll watch it alone. When
    I see your dick up that geek"s ass, you"ll get your money.”
    “Hank. I"ve changed my mind. I don"t want—”
    “Oh, no you don"t. A bet"s a bet.” Pocketing the money envelope, Hank
    disappeared into the house. With a sigh, Reese followed him, trying and failing to
    ignore the sickening feeling that he"d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Chapter 6

    Monday morning managed to arrive at last and there Jeff sat in his space at Strata,
    trying to pretend he wasn"t waiting for Reese to appear. What a dumb move, to get
    involved with someone he worked with. How awkward if and when things didn"t work
    out. And for all he knew, their brief affair had already reached its end.
    Somehow Jeff had made it through the rest of the weekend. At least ten times, he
    nearly made the call, practicing in his head what he would say.
    Hey, I was just thinking of you. Thought I’d call and say hi. Want to go out for a beer or
    something?
    I was waiting for your call. Why didn’t you call?
    Hey, thanks for the incredibly hot sex. Want to do it again?
    Hi, Reese. It’s Jeff. You know, the geek you fucked last night. Oh, you don’t remember?
    Hi Reese. Sorry I left so early. I had to meet one of my many other lovers. I’m sure you
    understand.
    He checked his phone obsessively, making sure it was fully charged, the ringer on.
    No missed calls. No messages. What was the protocol in this kind of thing? Who should
    call first? Was Reese waiting for his call? Was he, too, wishing and wondering when Jeff
    would get in touch?
    Yeah, right. Jeff"s