34. Calm Emotions
Chapter thirty-four
Calm Emotions
Dex
Everything is good.
That's the problem.
Not a problem.
The problem.
Chicago was good.
The songs are good.
Austin keeps texting me like I am now apparently a person who has professional conversations with Austin fucking Fletcher about bridges and publishing splits and whether somebody in Los Angeles might want a demo I wrote at three in the morning because I couldn't sleep.
Grave Intentions is good.
My first shift back at the bar was normal enough that by hour three I was already considering faking my own death to avoid cutting more limes.
Cami is good.
Extremely good.
Potentially terrifying now.
Micah is… well…
Micah is Micah.
Micah welcomed me home thoroughly enough that I spent part of yesterday morning discovering muscles I didn't know could be sore.
So.
Good.
Everything is fucking good.
Which means there is absolutely no reason for me to be standing in the kitchen reorganizing the spice cabinet that Cami clearly wants to be alphabetized, even though everyone else disregards her organization.
“This one is alphabetical,” I tell Micah.
He is sitting at the island with a glass of water.
He has not asked.
Ronan is at the other end of the counter reading something on his tablet.
Also has not asked.
“The other shelf is by use frequency.”
Micah looks at the cabinet. “Okay.”
“But cumin is a problem.”
“Why?”
“Because alphabetically it goes with C, obviously, but functionally it belongs closer to paprika, but then there’s the chili powder.”
“Dex.”
“And garlic powder is technically used more often, but if I'm going by use frequency it should be closest to the front, except then onion powder—”
“Dex.”
“What?”
Micah watches me.
That look.
The one where his face barely changes, and somehow I know he's been paying attention for longer than I realized.
I close the cabinet.
Open it again.
Move the cumin.
Put it back.
“I'm fine.”
Neither of them says anything.
“Which is rude, actually.”
Ronan lowers his tablet. “What is rude?”
“The silence.”
“You just informed us you're fine.”
“I am.”
“Then there is nothing to respond to.”
I point at him. “That. That thing you do.”
“Use words accurately?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds difficult for you.”
Micah snorts.
I glare at both of them.
Then open the fridge.
Nothing new has appeared since four minutes ago.
Close it.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it.
Email.
Someone Austin introduced me to.
Subject line: Songwriting Availability - June/July
My heart kicks.
More good.
It’s something else that’s fucking good.
I don't open it.
I put the phone facedown on the counter.
Pick it back up.
Open it.
Read two lines.
Close it.
“What if I say yes to too much?”
Micah's expression changes.
There.
Apparently we're doing this.
“I mean—not that I have anything to say yes to yet, except maybe this, and Austin wants two more demos, and Grave Intentions has those May dates, and I told Trent I'd cover next Saturday because his kid has a tournament, and I should probably talk to somebody about an actual publishing attorney because Griffin is going to kill me if I sign anything without one, and Cami has that thing next week, and—”
Micah cuts me off. “Dex.”
“I was gone for a month.”
“I know.”
“And it was good.”
“I know.”
“I really fucking liked it.”
Micah nods.
“And I really fucking like being here.”
“I know.”
“What if those things don't fit?”
His eyebrows pull together. “They already do.”
“No, they did. Once. For four weeks. That's different.”
Ronan is watching me now too.
Great.
Two therapists, neither licensed.
I start pacing.
Kitchen island.
Sink.
Fridge.
Island again.
“What if I start doing sessions in L.A.? Or Nashville? Austin said Nashville like it's a normal place to casually fly to for three days, which I guess for him it is because he has a fucking plane—”
“He does not own the plane,” Ronan says.
I stop. “That's your contribution?”
“You have said that three times. He charters it.”
“Thank fuck you're here.”
“You're welcome.”
I pace again.
“And what if I say no because I'm scared to leave and then ten years from now I'm still pouring tequila for twenty-two-year-olds who call me sir and I want to fucking die?”
Micah stands up straight.
My chest is tight.
Not panic.
I don't think.
Maybe.
No.
Too much caffeine?
I had one coffee today.
Two?
Three?
Fuck.
“My brain keeps rolling Perception checks for traps in a room with no enemies. And everybody keeps telling me this is good and I know it's good, and I am happy, so why does my brain keep acting like somebody put twelve fucking browser tabs on autoplay?”
“Because you're trying to solve all of them tonight,” Ronan says.
“I know that.”
“Then stop.”
I stare at him. “Oh, excellent. Have you considered writing a book?”
His face doesn't change.
Micah's does.
Tiny.
Warning.
I drag both hands through my hair. “Sorry.”
Ronan sets down the tablet. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“Cool.”
I pace again.
Three steps.
Turn.
Three steps.
Turn.
My skin feels wrong.
Too tight.
My thoughts feel louder because I'm trying not to say them.
Which means now I'm thinking about thinking.
Which is fan-fucking-tastic.
I stop in the middle of the kitchen.
Look at Micah.
Then Ronan.
And something in me just… breaks.
“Will one of you please just shut me up?”
Silence.
I laugh once.
No humor in it.
“Seriously. Shut me the fuck up. Shut my brain up too. I don't care how. I am so fucking tired of hearing myself think.”
Micah goes very still.
Ronan tilts his head. “Are you asking to be gagged?”
I stare at him.
Micah makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“I—”
Jesus.
“Maybe?”
Ronan waits.
“I don't fucking know. I mean—no. Yes. Maybe. That's not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I don't want to decide anything.”
That comes out quieter.
There.
Fuck.
“I don't want to decide what job I take or what song I write or where I go next or whether cumin belongs with paprika. I don't want to figure out what happens in five minutes.”
Ronan's expression changes.
Barely.
But I see it.
“I just want somebody else to make my brain stop trying to be ahead of everything.”
Micah looks at Ronan.
Ronan tilts his head at Micah. “Whatever you're about to suggest.”
“You don't know what I'm about to suggest.”
“I generally do.”
Micah folds his arms. “I think you know how to give him what he's asking for.”
Ronan doesn't answer.
My pulse kicks harder.
Oh.
Micah continues, “And I think you might need it too.”
Ronan's jaw tightens. “What exactly do you think I need?”
“To stop being weird about wanting him.”
I blink.
Ronan stares at Micah.
Micah stares back.
Apparently I have become scenery.
“You've been wound tight since he left,” Micah says. “Maybe longer.”
“I am not wound tight.”
I laugh.
Both of them look at me.
“Sorry.”
Ronan's eyes narrow.
Micah's mouth twitches.
Then he looks at me. “You want Dex?”
I swallow.
Look at Ronan.
He doesn't look away.
“Yes,” Ronan finally answers.
Micah nods once.
Then reaches for me.
His hand comes around the back of my neck, and he pulls me into a kiss.
Deep enough to ground me.
When he pulls back, his forehead touches mine. “Let him.”
My throat tightens. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Something passes over his face.
Not jealousy.
Maybe a little sadness.
Maybe just the same thing Micah has done since before any of us knew what we were building.
Make room.
Even when it costs him something.
I hate that about him sometimes.
Love it too.
“Go,” he says softly.
I look at Ronan.
Ronan stands. “Basement.”
Well.
Fuck.
The basement is quieter than the rest of the house.
It shouldn't be.
Same HVAC.
Same pipes.
Same occasional floorboard creak overhead.
But the second the door closes behind us, the world feels smaller.
Ronan turns on the low lamp beside the bondage table instead of the overhead lights.
I stare at it.
Everyone except Griffin has seen that table used now.
In various combinations.
Tonight it looks different.
Because it's for me.
Ronan stands several feet away.
He doesn't touch me.
“You can still change your mind.”
“I know.”
“You are asking me to take control because you're stressed and overthinking.”
“Yes.”
“That means I will be more conservative about interpreting consent, not less.”
Something in my chest loosens.
“Okay.”
“If you become unsure, we stop.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want sex?”
My brain tries to answer six things at once.
He holds up one hand.
“Simple yes or no question.”
Right. “Yes.”
“Do you want pain?”
“No.”
“Do you want to have choices?”
Fuck.
“No.”
His eyes sharpen. “Good.”
One word.
My shoulders drop an inch.
“Take your clothes off.”
I do.
I don’t joke about it.
Jeans.
Shirt.
Boxers.
Ronan watches without pretending he isn't.
My body reacts to that too.
Obviously.
He comes closer when I'm naked.
His hand rests on my shoulder for just a moment.
“Get on the table.”
I climb onto it.
“On your back.”
Yes.
Easy.
One instruction at a time.
One thing to think about.
He positions me differently than Cami.
Arms strapped down tight, but loose enough that my shoulders stay comfortable.
Wrists into the familiar soft cuffs I’ve seen on her.
Ankles secured too, but with room.
Enough that I can shift a little.
Not enough to go anywhere.
The first pull against my wrist happens automatically.
The cuff holds.
Another.
Still there.
My heart jumps.
Ronan rests his palm flat against my chest. “Color?”
“Green.”
“Good.”
Fuck.
He walks around the table checking everything.
I try to watch.
Left.
Right.
What's he doing?
What's next?
“Dex.”
My eyes find him.
“You're already trying to anticipate.”
“I know.”
“Stop.”
“I don't know how.”
“You don't have to know how.”
That makes no fucking sense.
Apparently my face says so.
“I will tell you what matters,” he says. “If I have not told you to solve something, it is not your problem.”
My breathing catches. “That sounds fake.”
“It is not.”
“What about—”
“No.” He steps closer. “Your only job right now is to answer me when I ask a question.”
I stare at him.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good brat.”
Ooookay.
My dick twitches.
Ronan notices.
His mouth curves.
Barely.
“Interesting.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
That’s fair.
He is in charge.