CHAPTER 9
Easton
Steam rolls out of the shower as I step out and towel off my hair. It’s like it’s chasing after me and knows I’m not yet healed from the effects of last night. I swear my eyelids are scraping my eyeballs. I can only imagine how Wolf must feel right now, no doubt still passed out on my couch. That’s what he gets for being a serial boyfriend.
Blow-up number fifty-seven with Melissa. And who gets to do damage control? Me and my liver. Maybe someday he’ll learn his lesson and stop dreaming of white picket fences. I don’t have the heart to tell him that his quest to be married with two point five kids likely stems from his issues with his mom. He’s a big boy. He needs to figure that shit out on his own.
The towel fibers caress my skin as I wrap the fabric around my waist and my stomach lets out a growl. My alcohol is starting to beg for food. Great. It’s always fun trying to peel Wolf off the couch after one of his relationship drinking binges. I got him drunk enough that he shut up about it and had a good time, though, so he should at least take me out for breakfast. Fair is fair. I’ll give him exactly ten minutes to rejoin the living.
Pulling open the bathroom door, I bask in the way the temperature change in my bedroom makes my skin go taut. Tromping across the carpet, I step out into the kitchen and living area, prepared to make a beeline toward the counter for some pot-banging practice. That should wake Sleeping Beauty, except… he’s not on the couch. He’s talking to someone by my front door. Who the fuck is…
That looks like…
No.
The sight before me is like colliding with a brick wall.
Aaron Manicki.
Fucking. Aaron Manicki. In my living room.
An eight years older, eight times more handsome, Aaron Manicki.
My heart gallops like a herd of elephants, drinking him in; the same solid build, that chestnut hair combed less severely, and those stupid, jade-green eyes that drove my teenage heart crazy. Damn it to hell. He’s still drop-dead gorgeous.
I fucking hate him for it.
What… the hell… is he doing here?
The flicker of his gaze and his parted lips as he and Wolf notice me let me know he’s not the only one sizing up an old acquaintance. My stomach squirms, watching his shocked expression as he takes in my ink-covered body.
Why do I feel self-conscious? I never give a damn what a guy thinks of me. Let him get his fill. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, so I stand seemingly unaffected as those eyes rake over me from head to toe.
Yeah. That’s right, Manicki. I’m not the boy you left behind.
His expression and that dorky-ass sweater with a dress shirt underneath couldn’t say more plainly that I don’t run in his circles. Inhaling, I straighten up, out of spite or maybe self-preservation. I’m bigger than when he last saw me, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
Why did I give this man so much power over my psyche? Why am I still?
“Easton,” he says with a puff of breath. It’s like he can’t believe it’s me. “It’s good to see you.”
Why am I trembling? What in the hell is going on? It’s just Aaron Fucking Manicki. He is not tremble-worthy.
Shit. I’m just standing here like a mute in front of the man who single-handedly taught me to speak again.
I don’t know what the hell to say to him, and I sure as shit have no desire to subject myself to his reaction over my voice, even if I could find words. Mute… That suddenly seems like a stellar idea.
I tilt my chin, the universal sign for what’s up. Seems appropriate since he came here unannounced, and I’m standing here in nothing but a towel like we’re old bros.
“I’m back at Hampton Hills and saw that you… never finished your program, so I… I thought I’d check in on you.”
Wow. How cute. I’m suddenly seventeen again and need him to document my well-being.
Did he think I ceased to evolve after he left? That I couldn’t possibly take care of myself without guidance from him or Hampton?
The nerve of this guy. How did I miss his arrogance all those years ago? He’s good at burying it under layers of polite good intentions.
Holding my towel with my left hand, I smirk and sign with my right, ignoring the helpless memories the communication method stirs inside me now that it’s for someone other than Wolf. With Wolf, it’s our own secret language. For Aaron, it’s just… torture.
Hampton has you making house calls now?
He blinks, watching my hand even after I drop it. The crestfallen look in his expression twists something in my chest. I shouldn’t feel like I’ve failed him, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction—or maybe even the disappointment—of hearing me. I shouldn’t care what he’d think of my gravelly baritone, but it’s like one of those notes kids pin on your back to mock you.
He starts to raise his hand to sign back but drops it. Yeah. I’m not deaf, asshole. That says right there how well he remembers me. I can’t believe I ever pined for this guy.
“No. I just, uh, moved back last month to take Dr. Norton’s old job at Hampton and got to wondering how you were doing.”
A month. It took him a month to remember me? With a tight-lipped smile, I extend my palms to indicate my flat, gloating over how it shows off more of my ink for his widened eyes.
I’m doing all right , I sign, downplaying my status. I’ve never been so grateful that my flat is as messy as it is right now. The satisfaction of allowing him to think I’m some tatted, speech-impaired ruffian is sheer gold. I didn’t know disappointing someone could be so rewarding.
Wolf steps forward hesitantly, as though my signing is a traffic-control signal that will crash a plane if he gets too close. I nearly forgot he was still here, hovering in the background, watching this awkward show.
The concerned look on his face tamps down my agitation. He knows me well enough to know when I’m annoyed, unlike the self-centered speech pathologist pretending he gives a damn. He also knows I have no love lost for Hampton Hills or anyone associated with it.
“Hey, man. I’m gonna take off,” he says. With his back to Aaron, he signs for my eyes only. You cool here?
Over Wolf’s shoulder, I can see we’ve captured Aaron’s attention, the odd man out, desperate for knowledge. A wicked idea curls around my brain. This is going to be awkward, but fuck it. I don’t have any other tricks up my sleeve at the moment.
Wrapping my hand around the back of Wolf’s neck, I tug him to me and crash my mouth onto his. Yup. Totally awkward. He grunts as I slant and make purposeful smacking noises with my lips, creating a naughty sensory effect. It’s all I can do not to bust up laughing at his what-the-fuck expression as he grips my shoulder to keep his balance. Perfect. I hope it makes him look like he’s embracing me.
Pulling back, the smile I flash him is genuine over my quick thinking. I run my hand down his arm, like a lover who just delivered a parting kiss. When I take a peek at Aaron, who’s studying my floor, I can tell by the color in his prissy cheeks and the way he’s shifting his stance that he caught the whole thing.
“O-kay,” Wolf says, clearing his throat and wiping his mouth. He’s discombobulated, but God bless him. His gaze shifts to Aaron and then back like he gets that I’m up to something. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later, then?”
I sink my teeth into my lower lip like he’s a tasty morsel that I can’t wait until ‘later’ to have and nod. The eye roll he flashes me says he’s going to kill me for this, but I don’t care. When he turns, I swat his ass, making him jolt. Aaron flinches. The look on his face is priceless, cheeks and ears bright red.
Wolf lets out a nervous laugh, sparing me a glance, then musters a smile for Aaron. “Nice to meet you.”
“Y-yeah. You too,” Aaron replies, hands stuffed into his khakis like if he closes in on himself it will protect him from the ambiance of vulgarity I’ve set into motion.
“Bye… lover,” Wolf says at the door, practically glaring at me.
I’m going to have to work a lot of overtime or go to more festivals. Fuck.
When the door clicks shut, it’s just me and Aaron Manicki, alone in a room together for the first time in eight years. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the building, but then I notice his mouth is still open, floundering in surprise.
Right. That was one thing we never established during our sessions.
Yeah , I want to tell him. You’re not the only one who kisses men. Didn’t stick around long enough to find that out. Did you ?
I’m doing an admirable job of maintaining a sated air, a ruse of a man who experienced an evening of debauchery. Still high on the satisfaction over his discomfort, I casually tousle my damp hair with one hand and sign with the other.
You need me to sign papers or something? Proof of life for your report?
“What?” His face crumples in confusion. “N-no. I…There’s no report. This was more of a social call. I came because… because I wanted to make sure you were okay…just for my own peace of mind.”
Aw, how sweet. I focus on the selfish part of his statement—for his peace of mind. The memories of foolish teenage fantasies and pitiful feelings of abandonment and betrayal churn inside me. I sign carelessly, narrowing my eyes at the window like something in the view is holding my interest.
Cool. I’ve got to get ready for work. Thanks for stopping by. Just show yourself out. Okay?
With a tight smile, I throw a nod toward the door and then stride back to my bedroom. Every step away from him makes my lungs ache. Which is fucking absurd. Deep down, I know I have no right to be pissed off at him. I didn’t have to believe all his bullshit. And I’m the one who chose to play mute just now.
Fuck! Why did he come here? It’s been eight years—why do I still want his approval?
Stopping at my nightstand, I let out a breath and try to wipe the tension from my face with my hands. Where is my satisfaction? Would I feel better if I’d taken a different approach and bragged about my successes? The thought of hearing him praise me for them like a puppy that just took its first shit outside makes my skin crawl. My hang-ups over him are like a damn sickness.
The floor creaks behind me, making my heart skip a beat. The loose board by my bedroom doorway—he followed me.
Trembling, incapable of speech—as if I haven’t already lost all my senses—my cock twitches at the thought of Aaron in my bedroom. I hate how it means he still owns a part of me, something broken and needy deep inside. Except, my fantasies aren’t the same as they were eight years ago. The one flashing through my head right now involves me grabbing two fistfuls of his sweater and tossing him on the bed, rumpling his buttoned-up exterior. Crashing my lips hard onto his mouth, eating his soul with my tongue. Plowing my fingers through his perfect hair. Ripping off buttons, leaving little bite marks on his flawless skin. Hearing him moan, watching him writhe beneath me, begging me to fuck him as I tease him until he loses his mind. Turning him into the wild animal I’ve let him think I’ve become.
But I don’t do any of that.
The most resourceful thing I’ve taught myself is to not give in to impulse. I hook my thumb under my towel and let it drop to the floor. The sound of his gasp sends a tremor through me, rushing blood to my groin and causing a burst of victory to explode in my chest.
Sweeping my hair back, I turn toward him as though I didn’t know I had an intruder and meet his gaze, or rather I attempt to. His eyes travel up the length of me, starting at my heavy cock, not erect but no longer flaccid under his perusal. Hand to his stomach, he gapes when he meets my eyes.
“I…I…”
Like what you see? I smirk and stride toward my dresser.
“Sorry. Shit! I’m so sorry,” he mutters, turning away. “I just… wanted to ask you if we could talk sometime.”
Retrieving a pair of jeans, I consider a pair of underwear for a second, but decide forgoing them will portray a better image, one of a wild man who goes commando. Slipping my legs into my pants, I leisurely pull them on, bending over so my ass is on full display. I’ve never felt so exposed in front of a man before, nor felt like my body could be a weapon.
Turning around, I’m pleased to find his eyes meeting mine. He looked. He might not like the ink on my front, but there’s not a drop on my back—it’s all untouched male physique. A wicked part of me hopes I outshine that husband of his he ran off with and maybe even tempt him from his precious vows. It’d serve him right for carelessly instilling visions of grandeur in kids who have nothing.
What do you want to talk about?
“I…well, it’s a little surreal to see you again,” he laughs breathlessly. “I mean, it’s great to see you out on your own. You…you have a nice place here.”
Thanks . What I really mean, though, is fuck you; I don’t need your approval.
“I saw in your file you got placement about a month after I left.”
My ire crawls up my spine, hearing how he has access to details of my life like a spy while I know shit about him and what he’s done over the last eight years. If he expects a response to that, he can hold his breath and die waiting. He doesn’t deserve to hear about Nancy—someone who kept her promises.
“So, you work downstairs?”
My decision to appear sub-standard wavers under his curious, file-snooping gaze. Pride is such a bitch.
Yeah. Me and my friend own it.
More shock.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you, Aaron! Why is it so difficult to believe I could own a business?
“Oh,” he chuckles. “Wow. That’s great, Easton. That’s…amazing.”
How is it amazing? I worked my ass off.
“Do you…how is your speech doing?”
And there it is. The crux of the visit. He came to hear his prodigy.
It’s beautiful , I sign, uncaring that my sarcasm is written all over my face as I cart a T-shirt and socks over to my bed.
“Do you…strictly rely on signing now?”
This freaking guy. Rely is not a word in my vocabulary these days and never will be again.
I talk when I need to, and let it rest when I don’t need to.
“Oh.”
The disappointment in that single syllable shouldn’t make me feel like I’ve let him down. Keep it together, Easton. This is so fucking stupid. What do you care? He’s just a stranger, a stranger who never meant a damn thing.
“There’s been some new strengthening techniques they’ve tried since we last met,” he adds with an annoying optimism. “I…if you need help or want to try working through anything, I’m here.”
My lungs are itching for a blast of fresh air on my bike, my skin for a cold swim in the bay. The water makes my bones ache, always giving me a pleasant reminder of what I’ve endured to get to where I am. Sitting on the bed, I take a pause from stuffing my feet into my socks.
Not necessary.
His expression falls. I know I’m being difficult, but can’t he take a hint? When did he get so pushy?
“It’s just that…we used to talk…a lot.”
No shit. It took him eight years to remember that? Cry me a fucking river.
Focusing on donning my boots, I don’t miss him stepping forward. I couldn’t miss a move of even one of his muscles, apparently.
“Um, I brought you something.” He flips open that dorky messenger bag he’s toting, retrieving a little device no bigger than an electric shaver. I tense, recognizing instantly what it is.
No. He did not. Really?
Holding up an electrolarynx, I hate the pontificating smile on his face. “I don’t know if you have one of these, but we get samples of the newest upgrades. I wasn’t sure if you’d even need it, but if you’re still struggling with vocal function, it might be a useful tool to have when you’re around people who can’t sign.”
Nostrils flaring, I wish I could melt the device with my eyes, wish I could melt him into a pile of ashes. Did he hit his fucking head? Was he in a coma for the last eight years? How can he stand there and talk to me like I’m still a teenager who just got discharged from Hampton?
No, thanks. I’m good.
“No, really, we got more in than we can use,” he assures me, stepping closer, holding out the damn electrolarynx. “We won’t even miss it. Here.”
Pressing my palm against his closed hand to refuse, I tremble at the contact of skin on skin. I didn’t need a reminder of how many times I yearned to know what that touch would feel like. I was stupid then and I’m just as stupid now.
All I can muster is a shake of my head, standing here like that frustrated kid I was, the one with a tsunami of pent-up emotions. He sees me as a patient, or even worse, an inadequate child, a project that needs fixing. This guy was never my friend, never worth crushing on.
Lines of disappointment mar his forehead. I grind my teeth at the desire they give me to be compliant.
“Easton, it’s really no big deal,” he says in that soft, understanding tone that suckered me years ago. “Lots of people use them. It’s just something nice to have in case you ever have a bad day.”
Cupping my hand, he tries to turn it like he’s going to place the damned thing in my palm. Bad days ? What the fuck does he know about bad days? I remember every story about his privileged life, but apparently, he remembers fuck all about mine.
Snatching the electrolarynx, I whip it across the room, sending it ricocheting off the wall. He jumps back, watching the body of the device split open and fall to the floor. The way he gapes at me like he can’t fathom the reason for my outburst is just another wedge in the proverbial distance between us. I’ve never felt so petulant in my life, and it only increases my shame and anger twofold.
The new model looks a little faulty, I sign with as much indifference in my expression as I can. I think it’s time for you to go .
“Easton, I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… wanted to help.”
It takes everything in me not to use my voice, not to scream at him. Gripping a handful of his shirt, I tell him with my other hand what I think of his offering of help as I drag him out of my room and toward the door.
Are you fucking deaf? Maybe you’re the one who needs therapy. I asked you to fucking leave.
I release my grip on him unceremoniously, and he staggers to a stop in the hallway. Breathless, sweater rumpled, face flushed—he looks like he just saw the boogeyman. He still has that youthful innocence about him and that annoying do-good spirit, as though all the world is shiny. His face says I’ve just taken a big old dump on it.
Well, I’m not a fucking fairy godmother. I am the fucking boogeyman, and he stepped into this pile of shit willingly. I didn’t ask for him to come calling. I remember what happened to me and I got over it. He needs to get over whatever the fuck brought him back to memory lane.
His hand trembles as he brings it up to smooth out his collar. The morning light glints off his wedding band, assaulting me with images of him being devoured by Jason Reider on his desk all those years ago. Three weeks later, he’d up and run off to Seattle to move in with the guy. One of the nurses told me they got married about two minutes later. He never said a word about it, and I didn’t get so much as a fare-thee-well.
I know he didn’t need to, but damn. I guess his whole art program recommendation for me hadn’t been as high on his priority list as he’d made it sound. The time I stewed over that is too humiliating to acknowledge.
Right now. I could fucking care less. I did fine without his charity. I was young and dumb then. The fact I let him get under my skin today makes me a dumb adult. I’m actually glad he stopped by. It’s good that I got this closure. Apparently, I needed it.
But I’m done. So fucking done.
Slamming the door shut, I know I’ll feel better in a few minutes. Aaron Manicki…or Aaron Reider—whoever the fuck he is—won’t even be a memory anymore.