I’m shocked at what had just happened. I was panting, my chest heaving with ragged breaths as I fought to bring reality back into focus around me. This was not at all how I had guessed tonight would turn out. I certainly hadn’t planned on breaking my years-long celibacy to fuck my sworn enemy and professional opponent in the back of his luxury SUV. Panic and confusion flooded through every cell in my brain, alarm bells sounding in the back of my head like the wailing of police sirens. Just repeatedly telling me that this was wrong, this was stupid, this was a mistake. I knew, logically, Rod and I had just made a gigantic mess of things-- and not just in the physical sense.

Our already tenuous dynamic had been shifted from the more comfortable and reasonable category of courtroom enemies to the much shakier and confounding label of ‘fuck buddies.’ Or maybe just friends with benefits. Only we weren’t exactly friends either. So, what did that make us? Enemies with benefits?

I swallowed hard, my anxiety bubbling up inside my chest as I hurriedly whipped off the condom. I looked around frantically for somewhere to dispose of it, and Rod must’ve noticed my deer-in-the-headlights look because he calmly took it from me and put it in the Velcro garbage bag attached to the back of the front passenger seat along with the other condom.

“Th-thanks,” I stammered out, rushing to grab my underwear and yank them on. Rod was perched on the seat beside me, emanating a very different energy than mine. He seemed calm. Totally at ease with the bizarre unpredictability of our situation here. It didn’t seem to fluster him one bit that we had just crossed that most momentous boundary all the way past the point of no return. There was no going back now. There was no pretending it didn’t just happen, even though part of my mind was still struggling to come to terms with it.

I had just had Rodney Barrington’s glorious, massive cock inside me. I had let him manhandle me and use my body, finessing me and giving me the kind of pleasure I never expected to find in my lifetime. I guess that somewhere underneath the layers and layers of denial, I had understood on some shallow level that one day it was likely, or at least possible, that I’d have a sexual dalliance with a man again. I mean, I certainly was not at all interested in fucking women-- I’d known deep inside that I was gay since I was in middle school.

There were no doubts left in my mind about that by now. I had long since accepted who I was, even if I still felt uncomfortable and unsafe being totally out just yet. It wasn’t shame; it was just me being cautious. I was pragmatic about the whole thing. One day, of course, it would all come to light, and the people who truly mattered, like my mother and Penelope and most of my colleagues in the business would be accepting. The others didn’t matter. I knew that. It was the same pep talk I had given countless gay friends over the years. And yet, for some reason, I still felt it impractical and even unnecessary to come out openly myself.

At least, not so soon after my father’s gigantic sex scandal. I still remembered so clearly, so viscerally, what it was like in those first days. The media had swarmed my parents’ property, reporters and news crews flocking to the street outside like hungry seagulls angling for something to eat. The calls had flooded our work phones and even, strangely enough, my personal cell number.

Article after article was printed about how Chauncey North, founder of a famous law firm and notorious millionaire playboy, had betrayed his beautiful but aging pageant queen wife, leaving her for ‘a ditzy, trashy fame whore’ as one headline so repulsively reported. To be quite honest, I didn’t blame Tiffany at all for getting together with my father. I knew better than to blame her.

I had grown up with Chauncey North. I knew exactly what he was like. And now, the whole world knew it, too. They had suspected, of course, that he’d carried out numerous sleazy affairs over the decades he was married to Mom, but the revelation of his entanglement with Tiffany clinched the idea.

I knew that the media probably assumed I was either gay and deeply in the closet (half-true) or just such a roving womanizer that I never entertained a relationship long enough to make headlines. Being the only son of Chauncey North was both a blessing and a curse, but often, it felt much more like a curse.

In an attempt to be exactly the opposite of my father, I had worked hard to push away any gossip that might implicate anything at all about my love life-- or rather, the lack thereof. I wanted to be known for my work, not for my personal struggles or shortcomings. I craved respect and validation, and I worried that if I came out, all the media would care about is my sexuality rather than my talent and dedication to my career.

But now I had crossed the line. I was no longer just teetering on the edge of a major mistake; I had taken a free fall right off the cliff and into the back seat of Rod’s SUV, right outside the bar where we were most likely seen talking together by some nosy person who would alert the media and-

“Hey, you okay?” Rodney was asking, snapping his fingers in front of my face. There was genuine concern in his deep blue eyes, and that made my heart surge with-- what? Affection? Appreciation? My mind was too muddled up to make sense of what I felt.

I forced a quick, unconvincing smile and nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I’m fine,” I muttered.

“You don’t seem fine,” he replied, quirking an eyebrow. “You want to talk about it?”

I hardened my face and fought to gain back some damn composure. “No. I definitely do not want to talk about it. Or anything at all, actually. I-I need to get out of here,” I insisted.

“Get out of here? What do you mean? What’s the rush?” he asked, frowning at me.

“I don’t-- I can’t-- oh, don’t worry about it. Never mind. This was a mistake, Rodney, and you know it,” I groaned, reaching to tug on my jeans and shirt.

Suddenly, it felt utterly imperative that I get out of this vehicle. I had a tight, uncomfortable feeling in my chest, like my lungs were constricting down in size. The back seat felt totally claustrophobic, and I couldn’t breathe. Rod moved to try and grab my arm to stop me, but I quickly yanked away from him. It broke my heart a little to see the hurt look on his face.

“Hudson, don’t be like this. Come on,” he pleaded.

I shook my head, suddenly dizzy and confused. “I just need to get some air, okay? Let me go. I-I’ll call you or something,” I lied. Before Rod could try anything else, I fumbled for the door handle and popped the door open, my body basically spilling out onto the sidewalk. I hurriedly slammed it shut behind me and darted away, back toward the bar. My heart was racing at top speed, my eyes darting around nervously, scanning for passersby or nosy onlookers who might have caught us in the act.

How reckless and stupid could I be? Crawling into the back seat to fuck my sworn enemy? Not only that, but in a public place! And Rod wasn’t just an old grudge from college; no, it was more serious than that. We would have to face each other again in court. What we just did together was the very definition of a conflict of interest. It was wrong. It was stupid. And I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to have to pay sorely for it at some point.

And was I really so lonely and pathetic that I would immediately rush to sleep with the first guy who was assertive with me in a while? Was I so starved for intimacy and excitement that I was willing, even eager, to sleep with the enemy?

I was deeply disgusted with myself.

“Damn it, Hud. You really fucked it all up this time,” I murmured under my breath as I walked briskly back into the bar, trying to look nonchalant. My senses were instantly overloaded with the smell of booze and bar food, the sounds of raucous laughter, heated debate, and the strains of an eighties song filtering out of the jukebox in the corner. People were here just enjoying their time off, relaxing after a long day, relishing each other’s company. Living out honest, open lives in a way that seemed totally foreign and impossible to me. I envied them, all of them, for getting to live their lives how they wanted to.

Meanwhile, I was beating myself up over the fact that I had finally shattered my painful years of celibacy and loneliness for an admittedly fantastic roll in the hay with Rodney Barrington. I was a fool, and I would have to pay the price for that. But for now, I was mostly just focused on paying my tab.

After I cleaned up in the bathroom, of course. I rushed through the crowds of happy, laughing people, making a beeline for the men’s restroom. A guy in a rhinestone-studded cowboy hat gave me a wink as he passed me coming out of the bathroom, and even in my state of distress, I felt a twinge of appreciation. Good old Vegas. It’s never boring, at least I’ll give it that. I nodded to him politely and slipped into the bathroom, walking straight up to the bathroom sink to wash my hands and stare at my solemn, regretful face in shame.

I heaved a sigh, shaking my head at my own reflection.

“Hudson North, you are one massive idiot,” I mumbled aloud. Then I glanced around to make sure nobody was here to have heard me. To my relief, the bathroom seemed empty. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face, already dreading going home to lie awake in my bed, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the Greatest Hits album of my biggest mistakes. With this mistake at the very top of the list.

When I was done, I hurried out of the bathroom, wiping my hands on my pants, and weaved through the crowds of dancers and flirting patrons to the bar counter. I took out my wallet and gave the bartender a meaningful glance, to which he replied with a curt nod of recognition. But for the moment, he was pretty tied up, surrounded by what looked to be a throng of overly-excited young women in little black dresses and tiaras.

Ah, I thought, as it dawned on me, a bachelorette party. And sure enough, a moment later, a pretty girl wearing a sparkly sash and stiletto heels came wobbling up to the group, who all let out an ear-piercing collective squeal of delight. The bride-to-be looked utterly smashed, like she had probably been pregaming since noon. I smiled in spite of my own sour mood. It was always nice to see joyous occasions like this happening. At heart, I really was a romantic, even if I was pretty damn sure that nothing so lovely would ever happen to me.

As I waited for the bartender to help me tab out, I absentmindedly eavesdropped on the various snippets of conversation happening all around me. There was a debate about religion taking place a few stools down. That was a little too spicy for my tastes. I heard a girl behind me telling her undoubtedly sober friend a roundabout story about-- well, it was difficult to even tell. And beyond that, I could hear a slightly familiar, smarmy voice talking loudly and semi-drunkenly from a booth just several feet away.

“You ladies look like you exclusively date millionaires, am I right?” the man’s familiar voice sneered. I heard two women groan and giggle, clearly not taking him seriously.

“Uh, actually, we’re more interested in billionaires,” said one of them sardonically.

“Well, then you’re in luck, because I’m going to rake in some seriously big bucks very soon. And when I do, you two are going to be first on the guest list to the party I throw,” he added. It was obvious that he was shitfaced, not that that was an excuse for how he was talking to these girls.

“Are you now?” said one of the girls dubiously.

“Hell yeah, baby doll. I’ve got condos up in the mountains and a beach house in San Diego. There’s this Rolls Royce I’ve had my eye on lately, too. Just waiting for my windfall to come through, and then I’ll be ready to spend,” he bragged. I could almost feel the women rolling their eyes, but the guy was unflappable.

“Hmm. And where exactly is this money coming from?” scoffed one of the women.

“Oh, now that’s the beautiful part!” he exclaimed, then lowered his voice to a still-loud stage whisper. “I’m working with this bank, right? And they’ve got this massive scheme for a payout that nobody suspects. We’ve covered all our tracks, and everything is going to plan.”

“What? Fraud or something?” said the second girl, sounding bored.

“Call it whatever you want, I don’t care. All I know is that Southwestern First Bank is about to throw more money at me than I’ll know what to do with,” he gloated. “And if you want to hitch a ride on the gravy train, well, here’s my business card.”

At just that moment, the bartender finally worked his way over to me. “Tabbing out?” he asked, peering at me sidelong. I nodded and he ran my card. I was still listening to the guy with the familiar voice leering at his unfortunate female companions as I signed the receipt and left the bartender a big tip. He thanked me and moved on, and I tucked my card back in my wallet.

I had an inkling that I knew who it was I heard chatting about Southwestern First Bank, but I needed to be sure. I slowly rose to leave, casting a subtle glance over at the booth as I passed it, and my heart thudded when I realized that the man leaning back between the two uncomfortable-looking women was, in fact, Mark Delaney.

I walked out of the bar, feeling numb and tingly all over. My mind was going into maximum overload. Not only had I rocked my own world by sleeping with Rod, but now I had a hunch that the two of us were getting jerked around. Mark Delaney was a career con man, and we had both gotten roped into his latest money-making scheme. If I was right, then there was much more than just my personal privacy at stake here; my career and Rodney’s were on the line now, too.