Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Derek
Well, this is the stupidest thing I’ve done in a while, but I was not expecting Xander to show up while I was dancing half-naked in a cage. It’s the first time I’ve seen him outside of the pharmacy, and apparently, I wasn’t prepared, and my mouth got carried away.
But we’re celebrating. We can have one drink. For … my birthday? That we’re seeing each other during a time when he doesn’t think he’s dying?
Whatever feeble excuse there is, I’ll find it. I have one chance to enjoy being in his presence, so I’m going to shamelessly take it.
I grab our drinks and turn to hand Xander his, keeping my eyes firmly on his face. Not that it helps. Xander is an inhumanly pretty guy.
He’s got some kind of white, glittery powder over his cheeks, his dark blue hair is messily styled, and his pink lips give an illusion of innocence, but I’ve heard some biting remarks fly from them.
Those same lips curl into a smile, head tilted back slightly to look up at me. “See? You don’t see me like this much, but I’m normal most of the time.”
“I’m not a therapist, but I’m confident you’re not supposed to talk about yourself that way.”
Irritation flits across his face. “I can talk about myself however I want. I can’t hurt my own feelings.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
His purple eyes take on that slightly deadened look they get when the conversation isn’t something he wants to be talking about, and I remind myself that it isn’t my place. Xander isn’t my responsibility, no matter how I might have rearranged my life for him, and if he wants to get help, he will. Constantly pushing it when I’m practically nobody to him isn’t going to do a thing.
“But enough about that,” I say before he can get annoyed. I tap my glass against the one he’s holding and force myself to meet him on a level he’s comfortable with. “To normal .”
He lights up from the inside out. “To normal.”
I take a long sip of my water, realizing that I’m not sure what to say. We’ve never had a conversation outside of work, and there’s so much about him that I don’t know and so much I want to know. Honestly, it’s probably for the best that nothing changes.
I’ve never been good at doing what’s best for me though, so here I go, walking into a brick wall.
“You’re an artist, aren’t you? You do paintings?”
“Primarily.” He turns the glass in his hands. “But I play with a lot of different mediums. I’m not good at any of them though. I’ve been lucky.”
“What do you mean, lucky? ”
“I sell enough to get by. Have some savings. Nothing special.”
Savings? I chuckle. “In this economy, that does sound special.”
He scowls, and it’s a skill how quickly he yo-yos between annoyed or frustrated and sweetly happy. “There are people way more talented than I am, but for some reason, the algorithm pushed my stuff, and it turns out people like horrible art. Who knew?”
“Considering I haven’t seen any of it, I’ll have to take you at your word that it’s horrible.”
“Smart.”
“How did you get started with this horrible art?”
He shrugs, and it draws my attention to his shoulders—which is a whole neck lower than my gaze is supposed to go. “I always had that itch. When I’m creating, I’m not thinking about anything else. It helps when … it just helps. I’m self-taught, which is why my work isn’t great.”
I’m sure that’s not correct at all, but I let it go. Talking to him is like a minefield. “How do you self-learn something like that?”
“Practice. Sketching. Art books from the library. YouTube.”
“I could do all of those things and still barely draw a stick figure.”
A glimpse of a real smile crosses his face. “Everyone can draw a stick figure. You seem like the kind of guy who can do anything.”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I wish that was even close to being true.”
“Aww, are you getting all shy on me now?”
“Not shy. Just making sure you manage your expectations.” It would be awesome to tell him that I can do anything, but there’s something very cool about being human too. I’m not perfect, and that’s okay. Fuck, this conversation is enough to drive home that point. “What do you do other than paint?”
Xander hesitates, then changes the subject. “I’m boring. Let’s talk about you.”
If there’s one word I could use to describe Xander, last on that list would be boring. I want to know more about him, but here in a crowded and loud club, while his roommates linger on the periphery, probably isn’t the place to get into anything personal.
I shouldn’t be getting into anything personal at all . No matter how much I talk around the issue, my attraction to Xander is inappropriate.
“You know, it’s really hard to hear in here,” I reply. Plus, talking about me is a dangerous fork in the road where I can either confess to my life suddenly centering around him, or I can direct the conversation to bugs.
I love my bugs. Not many other people do though, and I’m not sure I want Xander knowing about that side of me. I’m better off calling it quits, finding Constantine, and getting the hell out of here. I never should have agreed to this drink.
“I’m okay,” Xander says quickly, stepping in closer. His big purple eyes hit mine, and a wave of lust sweeps through me.
There’s no doubt in my mind that if Xander and I had met any other way, I would have asked him out already. My body responds to him on a primal level, but knowing the little that I do about his past has a softness building behind my ribs.
I might not have all the details, but I know enough that the urge to protect Xander never shifts. He deserves someone who will look after him, support him, hopefully get him the help he needs instead of being a prisoner in his own head.
I can’t be that guy. I can’t be the one who gives Xander what he needs, and I really have to remember my place.
Which is nearly impossible when he’s looking at me like this .
It’s my job to make sure lines aren’t crossed and expectations are clear, especially when the next time I see him, I’ll be clinically checking him over while I talk him back from a panic attack.
I’m unlucky that the first guy I’ve ever wanted is my patient, but if he wasn’t my patient, I never would have met him in the first place. It’s a vicious loop. I’m constantly at war with myself through every interaction.
“I think I’m getting tired,” I say reluctantly. Every cell is reaching toward him, begging to stay here and talk to him, get to know him better, but it’s a slippery slope, and I’ve already given him mixed signals by agreeing to be alone like this.
There’s fun and spontaneous, and then there’s reckless. Reckless isn’t something I want to be, especially not with someone like Xander.
He’s a strong man who’s been through a lot, but I can imagine that he lets himself get hurt way too easily.
“We can go and sit down somewhere,” he says, moving even closer again. “Or maybe go and get something to eat.”
“I had a big birthday dinner.”
“What did you have?”
I know I shouldn’t answer, but I can’t think of another way around it. “Burgers.”
“I love burgers.”
We sort of stare at each other a moment before I work out what I’m doing. “That’s because they’re delicious.” I fake a yawn. “I’m going to find my friend and head out though. It was nice seeing you.”
“Can we dance?” Xander blurts. “Just once. First. Before you go.”
No. We absolutely cannot dance. If we dance, I’ll touch him, and I’m not strong enough for that. He doesn’t make it easy to turn him down either, not with how hopeful his expression is, but I have to, so I do. Something fundamental in me dies with every word out of my mouth.
“Sorry. Really beat. That’s what happens when you turn thirty-five. You get old.”
“I didn’t know you were thirty-five.”
Hint, hint. Xander, I’m too old for you. I know he’s twenty-eight, but if I hadn’t been given that information, I would have assumed early twenties. Seven years is still too much of a gap. For us, anyway.
Xander links a delicate finger around one of the straps of my harness, and the feel of his skin against my midsection sends ripples over my body. It’s not like I’ve never touched him before, but he’s never touched me .
“One quick dance,” he pleads.
I deserve a fucking award for staying strong. “I really have to go.”
Xander snatches his hand away like he’s burned, and I hate that I’ve put that deadened look back in his eyes. “Fine. Go. There are plenty of other men who’ll want to dance with me.”
Looking like that? I have no doubt.
The thought of other guys dancing with him doesn’t sit right, but there’s literally nothing I can do about it. If this is Xander hitting on me, he’s going to have to deal with that rejection and find someone else to have fun with. There’s no way I’ll be able to look him in the eyes or not get overinvolved next time he’s having a panic attack if we hook up, and that’s if I forget the whole code of ethics I have as a nurse. Which I can’t.
So as much as I want to believe this is us hanging out and chatting, that the suggestion to dance is a friendly one, I’m getting the distinct impression that’s not what’s on his mind.
And when it comes right down to it, I can’t go there with someone I view as breakable. Vulnerable. I want to make everything right for him and protect him from his demons, but the real world doesn’t work that way.
Which is exactly why there are rules about medical professionals getting involved with patients.
No matter how many times I try to tell myself that it’s only triage and breathing exercises, that excuse doesn’t hold water. When he’s having an episode, I’m the one he seeks out.
And I always make sure I’m available for him.
In some ways, I’m enabling him more than his brothers do, but it was never supposed to be this way. It started and then … never stopped. So here we are, locked into an endless loop that’s getting worse instead of better.
I know what I need to do. The constant availability is giving him a crutch, and cutting off the supply—or at least stepping back gradually—needs to happen. The feeling has been sneaking up for a while now, but even after years of being at his beck and call, I can’t do it.
I’m a hypocrite.
I lecture his roommates about them not wanting to help him, and here’s me, also too weak to actually do what he needs. I keep telling myself I’m that last line. They have the power to help make sure Xander doesn’t get to the stage where he thinks he’s dying, but none of them will do it.
I don’t have a choice.
Which is bullshit because we all have choices.
I need to start making the right ones.