The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers, #1)(29)
Kit claps his hands together. “It’s your lucky day. I’ve been practicing my Magic Mike moves, and you won’t even have to pay me anything.”
Everyone retreats from the huddle and sits down on the couch except for Kit, who’s dragging a kitchen chair into the center of the living room. He extends an arm out and bows, and with a sigh, Fulton shuffles over and takes his new throne.
If I had walked into the room right now, with no context, I would’ve thought Fulton was involved in some sort of hostage situation. His hands are gripping the ever-loving life out of his seat, and his face has turned this sickly white color that looks strangely akin to a zombie bite victim.
“Please don’t get any of this on video,” he groans.
“Too late,” Gage says, already holding up his phone camera, flash on and everything.
And with a beat, the ridiculously raunchy music starts playing, and Kit begins to sway his hips from side to side. He sticks one leg out, then slowly rolls up, making an effort to wiggle his ass and push his chest out. Oh my God. It’s like I’ve been transported to a strip club in Las Vegas, but not a good one. A scary one. A very scary one.
I don’t think we’re a minute through the song—that’s how long and torturous this feels. This would be a good type of psychological torture for governments to employ wherever torture is even legal these days.
“I’m scared,” I mumble to Hayes.
“Really?”
I’m so close to Hayes’ body that I can feel his breath against my skin, can pick up on the exact moment the slow-burning desire in his steel-blue eyes kicks up.
“I don’t know. This is pretty hot,” he jokes, throwing an arm over my shoulder.
The contact alone has somehow launched my thoughts into the ozone layer, and my arousal is up there in orbit with all the secret things I fantasize about Hayes doing to me. He’s so pretty. The kind of pretty you never get tired of looking at. But I think he’d look a lot prettier with his head between my thig—
“Oh, no. He’s taken his shirt off,” I hear Hayes whisper, and my eyes snap up to find Kit, in fact, with his shirt off. Then I’m met with a lot of olive, inked skin. And abs. Abs stacked on abs. He’s whipping his shirt around his head like a lasso, simultaneously grinding on Fulton with an undulation of his hips.
I can’t hold back my laughter anymore.
“Take your pants off!” Gage shouts giddily, and his request is followed by some agreeable catcalls.
“Do not take your pants off!” Fulton yells, glaring at Kit.
Kit shushes him with a finger, then finishes off the number by bending down and twerking in his face.
I don’t even know what to say, but then the song fades out and Fulton claims his spot on the end of the couch. Wheezing laughter breaks out between Bristol and Casen, and the two are red in the face with each knee slap and windshield wiper chortle.
Kit slips his shirt back on, throws a few kisses to the crowd, then slumps down in the adjacent armchair. “That was fun, Fully. Same time next week?”
“If we’re doing this again, you better feel me up next time,” Fulton mutters.
Once Casen catches his breath and wipes the tears from his eyes, he stands up. “I’ll go.”
Each step is imbued with hesitancy as he approaches the cups, and he picks up the fate that lies in that plastic, red hole of doom. “Eat a raw egg or take a shot of ketchup,” he announces.
My face screws up in disgust.
“Yeah, no. That’s a big, fat no.” Casen downs his drink as quickly as he can, nearly sputtering when he comes back up for air. “Jesus. Is this straight tequila?”
“Yes, yes it is,” Kit replies with a proud nod.
Casen rolls his eyes before sitting back down, and Bristol jumps to the table, snatching a cup for himself. “Let your teammates go through your hidden camera roll and post something to your Instagram.”
“Ohhh, this is a good one,” Kit snickers.
Bristol hands his phone over to Hayes. “I’ll let Hayes choose one, with agreement from everyone. But it has to be appropriate, and it can’t get me in trouble with Coach or my agent,” he explains, armed with a dark look and an even deadlier scowl.
Everyone scrambles around Hayes, and some conspiratorial murmurs wend their way into the atmosphere. Hayes throws his head back, a raucous chuckle barging out of him. He’s picked the most horrifyingly unflattering picture of Bristol he could find. It’s a photo of him taken with one of those fisheye lenses, and he’s in nothing but a speedo, eating a banana, with his bare feet hogging the whole bottom half of the frame.
He shows the phone to Bristol. “Dude, why does this exist? Like, I get taking it for fun. But why would you keep it?”
“You’re not uploading that to the internet,” Bristol growls, grabbing the device out of Hayes’ hands.
“Twenty-four hours. After twenty-four hours, we’ll take it down,” Hayes negotiates, holding his arms up. Some of the guys have to hold back their laughter.
“It’s really not that bad,” I pipe up, biting back the inelegant chuckle that’s storming inside of me. I don’t know why Bristol didn’t delete that image the second he took it. A Navy SEAL team couldn’t waterboard that picture out of me.
After a minute of arguing from both sides, Bristol begrudgingly agrees to twelve hours, and the guys are losing their minds as all the likes start to flood in.