Chapter 23 #2
Diego reaches out suddenly, swinging his hand so close, I feel the air it moves past the tip of my nose. Ian had been approaching a wall when I looked back at him, so there’s only so much farther we can maneuver to get out of reach. I have no choice: It’s going to have to be sabotage.
But with what? I have nothing on hand; my leggings don’t even have pockets. But Ian—he might have something! I scour my brain, keeping tabs on Diego’s proximity as I think. Car keys? Phone? Ah! His wallet!
I raise a hand, my index finger lifted in the universal—right?
—symbol of aha! to let him know I’ve had an idea.
It earns me a squeeze—which hijacks my brain for only a moment—and I change the position of my upraised hand, making a plucking motion before lifting my other hand, my two palms face-up, like a billfold.
In a last-ditch attempt at clarity, I fan my left hand over my right palm to mime “making it rain dollar money.”
He gets it, I think. He gives me a thumbs-up using the hand across my chest, so now, I need to make my way toward his wallet… but which pocket is it in?
While I feel that it reflects well on me as a modern woman of good taste who does not objectify her boss that the man’s posterior isn’t etched firmly enough into my memory that I can recall on which side he keeps his wallet, right now, it is an inconvenience.
I tap on his right leg, getting no response, then his left.
This gets me another thumbs-up, and I reach behind him.
For the sake of propriety, I make as little contact as I can, walking my fingers down to his waistline.
But I do not miss the way his grip stiffens as I edge toward my target.
When I get to the pocket, I pause, waiting for any final objection.
Another encouraging squeeze from Ian. In I go.
I try to maintain my minimal-contact spider fingers, but the fit over his well-formed posterior is too tight.
So it’s an open palm slide over firm, high glute for me.
Ian shudders, the left side of his body contracting against me, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
But then the very ends of my nails graze over something in his pocket.
I go deeper and curl my claws, the tips digging into the leather of his wallet just enough for grip, and I lift up.
It’s awkward going when I have to transition the wallet from my fingers to my palm, demanding a wriggling motion that results in some unavoidable prodding of Ian’s butt cheek, but then the wallet is securely in hand.
I free it from the pocket, the air of the room noticeably cooler outside the tush-warmed denim, and bring it in front of me.
There’s a sliver of candy wrapper stuck to it, the cellophane from one of the cinnamon things he’s always sucking on.
I scan the room, trying to determine the most effective spot to toss my plunder, when I notice that everyone not blindfolded is openly gawking at me.
Their eyes dart from me to the wallet, then past me, presumably, to Ian, and I realize that as far as they’re concerned, I molested the poor man, then pickpocketed him.
Heather even mouths, What the hell?, which is fair.
I raise the wallet, then make a tossing motion to demonstrate my intention, pointing at Diego with my empty hand for good measure.
The critical reception softens to understanding. But Grant’s head is still cocked.
“You’re gonna throw that at Diego?” he asks. Aloud.
“Grant!” Diego spins on his heels, and, in a moment of unexpected agility, leaps at Grant. Or would, if he had any traction. His legs fly out from beneath him, and for a heartbeat, the man is suspended in the air, arms outstretched, Superman-style, before he drops. Hard.
This would have been bad enough for Diego, but Mark had been edging behind him the moment the latter fellow spun around, and he ends up taking the bulk of Diego’s not insignificant mass. Mark lets out a squawk upon impact, as Diego grunts, guessing “Ellie’s man friend?” from his living landing pad.
The tension leaves the room in a whoosh of faintly hysterical collective laughter.
Ian collapses over me in relief. “When I guessed what you were going for, I didn’t expect it to be so…
thorough.” It’s murmured directly into the side of my neck, his lips shaping each word into the tender skin.
For half a second, my laughter becomes a breathy, almost moan. Jesus. My entire body is tingling.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, and he straightens, loosening his grip enough that I can turn to face him while still in the circle of his arms. “I tried not to make more contact than necessary.”
“You’re good.” He shakes his head. “But I think I lost consciousness the moment you cupped my ass.”
“You what?” I ask. He’s still holding me; my hands, one still brandishing his wallet, are high on his chest; and if not for the difference in our heights, we would be crotch-to-crotch. As it is, we’re currently crotch-to-belly.
“Ellie! You were going to throw something at me?” Diego asks. And while I’d still like clarification on Ian’s brief loss of consciousness, I face my downed roommate. Ian, ever the gentleman, keeps his arms around me.
Diego lies on his stomach. He’s shoved the blindfold onto his forehead, and the band has bunched his hair into a bobbing black dome that gets a giggle out of me as he peers up, wide eyes fixed on the wallet in my hand as though it were a mace.
“I wasn’t going to throw it at you,” I clarify. “I was going to throw it somewhere to redirect you. You were coming straight at me. I had to do something.”
“Ah.” Mollified, he turns and smiles at Mark, still partly under him, giving him a friendly pat on the knee. “Sorry for squishing you. Thank you for breaking my fall.”
We decide to end the game after Diego’s moment of flight, determining that it was as close to disaster as we were willing to get.
And in the spirit of avoiding potential disaster, I give Ian my leave to take the destitute trio out.
Ten minutes later, I’m still dazed. There was just so much of him all up against so much of me.
The press of his hands. The feeling of his butt beneath my fingers…
“Hey, horndog!” Heather snaps her fingers to get my attention. I come to to find her and Mark watching me, trying not to laugh.
Heather rolls her eyes, “We going to watch a movie, or should we spend the evening recapping whatever was going on with you and Beefcake Mountain?”
“My vote’s for Beefcake Mountain,” Mark chimes.
“You’re going to be thinking about it, anyway.”
“Probably.” I sigh. “That was so much contact! Hands on parts—”
“So many parts,” Mark agrees. “And when he wrapped his arms around you?” He fans himself. “Ellie, he got this look in his eye that was, like, I don’t know what! It was some me Tarzan, you Jane propriety. Big protective instinct. So hot.”
“So hot,” Heather echoes.
“And your face said that you were into it,” he says. “So why in the hell haven’t you shimmied up that tall tree of a man?”
“Is it because he’s your boss?” Heather asks, skeptically.
I wave that off. “The gym is a paycheck gig. I have zero concern for an imbalance of power. It’s just…”
I frown. If my attraction to Ian were just physical, a fling with him would be perfectly in line with my six-month scheme. But I’m well beyond the physical with him. “He doesn’t feel like ‘break’ material.”
“Huh,” says Mark. He shares a look with Heather, and I very much wish I’d chosen to turn on a movie earlier.
“Does he have to be break material?” Heather asks too carefully. “I know you’ve only known him a few weeks, but if you’re into him, and he’s into you, and he’s the kind of guy who would parade shirtless to intimidate your ex—”
“You make it sound like he was peeing in a circle around me.”
“Except that he wasn’t!” Mark interjects. “You told us he did it because he recognized that someone who treated you poorly was the kind of trash who would be intimidated by shirtless parading, and that speaks volumes.”
“He isn’t Cole,” Heather says. Her voice is hard and direct. “He’s not the kind to bail.”
“I know,” I say. But that’s the problem.
My mind goes to the family photo, framed and wrapped and at the bottom of my gym bag waiting for me to get up the nerve to give it to Ian.
I keep thinking about his mom and what she didn’t want for him.
I know that it wasn’t fair of her, but she didn’t want to burden him with something he couldn’t control.
I don’t want that for him, either. And if there’s a chance that what’s developing between us is more than physical for him, too, then telling him about my un-diagnosis will do exactly that.
That goes for everyone else I’ve invited into my “break” life.
It’s not just that I don’t want them to see me as broken.
I hate keeping this from them, but I’d hate it more if it weighed on them.
If I could go back and spare Heather and Mark and my parents, I would.
It’s hell knowing that the people I care about are worrying about me.
For anything with Ian to play out in real life, I’d have to let him in on this. It would weigh on him the same, impotent way. I refuse to do that.
Mark grins, wicked enough to pull me from my turbulent thoughts. “Twenty bucks says you don’t make it a week before you break.”
“Prepare to pony up, friend,” I say, and reach for the remote. “I am a pillar of restraint.”