Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Devon
Being bored is worse than being fucked up.
At least when I’m fucked up, there’s nothing in my head but quiet numbness filling the space between my ears. Boredom leaves me alone with my own thoughts.
Tossing the remote aside, I scrub a hand over my face with a sigh.
Nothing on TV catches my attention anymore.
I already spent way too long on my phone watching funny cat videos earlier, and my thumb aches from scrolling.
Christian left for California with Logan this morning—after a frosty goodbye despite waking up in bed together—and the apartment is empty. Nothing to do, no one to see.
This is usually the part where I'd throw my shoes on and disappear. Get lost somewhere, preferably high or drunk with a warm body, chasing away all the roiling thoughts inside my head. I can't do that anymore, though, not on probation and a rapidly approaching court date.
So instead, I pace. Clean up the apartment. Gather Christian’s dirty laundry and search for somewhere to wash them. Just as I'm looking up an address for a laundromat, a text flashes across my screen.
Hey, it's Owen. You busy? I'm bored.
I lean against the kitchen island and type out a response, instantly relieved to have someone to talk to.
How'd you get my number? I was just looking for a place to wash Christian’s clothes.
Logan gave it to me. And ick. Wanna go to a party with me?
Where?
New club downtown.
A club—with alcohol, dancing hotties, and drugs aplenty, no doubt. Surprisingly enough, my stomach churns at the prospect of being surrounded by inebriated strangers.
If I'm being honest with myself, I kind of wish Christian was here to… well, I don't know. Hang out feels too casual, even if he did suck my balls and stroke my cock last night with his bare ass. Which I absolutely jerked off to in the shower earlier.
Nah, not feeling very social today.
Ah, well. Have fun with Christian’s dirty underwear.
The thought of being left alone again to my own devices spikes a burst of panic in my chest, so I send him another quick text.
Can I do them at your place, actually? Kinda short on change. We can hang out or whatever.
Not a total lie. There's an old mini keg in Christian’s room full of loose coins that I was planning to use, but I'd rather not. And maybe a club full of people sounds awful, but kicking it with someone doesn't sound so bad.
Owen responds right away.
Sure. Parents are out of town for business anyway, so we get the place to ourselves. I'll send you an Uber.
Something uncoils in my chest and I blow out a deep breath. The apartment still feels heavily silent, but it's… manageable now. Temporary. I know distraction isn't a permanent fix for what's fucked up in my head, but at least doing laundry at Owen's is a less destructive path than going to a bar.
One step at a time.
Maybe Kingston Blake was right. I can get through this if I really do take it seriously.
Thirty minutes later, my Uber pulls up to one of the nicest houses I've ever seen. It’s not a mansion by any means, but definitely one of those new builds you always see in magazines—three stories, painted shudders, a wrap-around porch.
Even a freshly mowed lawn to match, and each house on the block looks more or less the same.
Some have Halloween decorations, some don't.
Owen opens a wood-paneled front door when I start up the beautifully landscaped walkway. “Cool, Uber found the place. Sometimes they get lost because this area's a new development.”
“Did you just move in?” I mumble, hauling a bag of dirty clothes through the entryway as I take in his appearance. Even dressed down in joggers and a sweater, he oozes money.
“Nah, but my folks built this place before the rest of the neighborhood existed. Used to be all dirt fields around here.” He leads me farther into the house, past a plush-looking living room and kitchen big enough to host Top Chef.
“My room's in the basement, along with the laundry. We can order pizza and watch horror movies if you want.”
The thought of a basement makes my stomach dip for half a second—old reflex. But I follow him anyway, because there's no way a house this nice could have anything other than a luxury apartment downstairs.
And I'm absolutely right.
It's not dark or dirty at all. This one's finished, with bright overhead lights, soft carpet, and a white sectional sofa.
One wall is lined with leather-bound books, while the other holds a massive flatscreen. The laundry room sits off to the side, neat and quiet, with cabinets and a full-sized bathroom—nothing like the basements I'm used to.
“Your parents must make bank,” I marvel as I step up to the washing machine. I don’t even need to add detergent; the thing does it automatically as I empty clothes into the drum. Jesus.
Owen leans against the wall with a shrug. “They do okay, I guess. They've both been lawyers since forever”
I fiddle with the buttons until it turns on. “That's cool. Do they know a Kingston Blake?”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Uh, yeah. That's my stepdad. How'd you know?”
His… oh, shit.
My lawyer is his dad. I'm in my lawyer's house. And he's married.
Juanita's gonna be so sad.
“Okay, so…” Licking my lips nervously, I eye Owen up and down. “Don't freak out, but your stepdad is kind of my public defender. For the drug shit.”
Owen gazes at me in surprise for half a second before bursting into laughter. “Oh my god, you look like you're going to puke. Why are you so scared? He's not here, remember?”
“Yeah, but… you're not gonna kick me out? Or anything? Isn't this like a conflict of interest? Will I get in trouble?”
Fuck, do I need to tell my PO that I'm here?
Owen pushes off the wall, laughter dying down. “Dev, relax,” he says quietly. “You’re not his client right now. You’re my guest. He doesn't know that I know, and we can keep it that way.”
I let out a slow breath as my shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Still. Small world. Of all the houses I could end up in.”
“Well, let's just put it to the back of our minds.” Spinning around, he marches over to the couch and plops onto a cushion. “Pepperoni sound good, or are you one of the weirdos with pineapple?”
I hesitate briefly before following him. “Pineapple on pizza is superior and those who don't like it are weak.”
“I don't trust anyone who mixes sweet and savory on purpose.”
“Yeah?” Taking up the spot beside him, I smirk, almost feeling like my old self again. “You know what pineapple does to cum, right?”
Owen winks playfully. “Your cum tasted just fine without it, at least the small amount I got before you ran away.”
An uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut, and I look away to watch him scroll through movies on the flat-screen. Awkward silence settles between us.
Logically, I know I should say something to make it less… weird, but I don't know how to address the elephant in the room.
He ends up doing it anyway, thank god.
“It's okay, you know,” he says, putting on some old zombie movie. “That you didn't want a blowjob from me. I'm not mad about it or anything.”
“So, like… How does this all work anyway? With you, Logan, and Salem? I've been curious.”
He doesn’t look away from the screen when he answers. “A lot of talking and trust. A lot of checking in. It's not as complicated as people assume.”
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans, processing his words. “So there’s, like… rules?”
“Oh, tons. Not in a controlling way, but more like… boundaries. What’s okay, what’s not. What needs to be shared. Everyone's boundaries are different in their dynamic.”
“And you’re cool with Logan being married?”
“Yeah,” he says easily, shrugging again. “None of it threatens what’s actually mine.”
That catches my attention. “Which is?”
“Logan chooses me every day. Even when he’s choosing Salem, too. Our relationships are separate, but no less important.”
“And you don’t get jealous?” The thought of someone I love giving more attention to someone else makes me feel physically ill.
Owen pulls up a food delivery app on his phone, seeming completely at ease with my questions. “Sometimes. Jealousy’s a manufactured response, though. It usually means I need reassurance, which Logan is quick to give. Everything balances out.”
It’s such an… odd concept to grasp. I mean, I get it—you can't put it all on one person to fulfill every single need and all that, but one person is all I want. There’s nothing against polyamory, I just don't think it's for me.
The movie drones on in the background, zombies shuffling through grainy streets, but my thoughts drift somewhere else entirely—to the tour last year when Christian was sharing Arya with whoever wanted to join in.
“What about you?” Owen eventually asks, his eyes on the side of my face. It takes me a moment to answer.
“I don’t think I could handle knowing the person I love is choosing someone else,” I admit. “Even if they chose me first. Or last. Or every day. I’d still feel like I was waiting to be… outgrown.”
“Monogamous couples grow apart, too,” he sighs, flopping down so that his head lands on my thigh. “Pretty sure my parents are gonna divorce at some point, but they keep hanging on even when they shouldn't. I think sometimes love can feel more like a cage when it's supposed to set you free.”
“Yeah, well.” Tugging Christian’s jacket tighter around me, I watch as some unsuspecting victim gets eaten alive on the screen. “Doesn't matter because who I want… I mean, what I want doesn't exist.”
Owen doesn’t miss my slip. He just smiles up at me knowingly. “I wouldn't be so sure. Maybe what you want just needs some time to figure themself out, is all.”
“You a therapist now?”
“I mean, I do have my bachelor's in psychology,” he snorts, acting like laying in my lap is normal for him. “Much to my stepdad's dismay. He's still offering to put me through Law School, but I can't do what he does. I'm too soft.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “I think the world could use more soft people.”
“And that's exactly what my mom says.”
Mom. What would it have been like, I wonder, to be raised by a woman like that? One who doesn't look at someone like Owen and see something that needs fixing? What kind of person could I have been?
Someone kinder, maybe. Not as rough around the edges.
Maybe if I'd been raised by my actual parents instead of my bigoted, bible-thumping grandparents, I might have felt safe enough to tell them about what was happening at summer camp instead of enduring it for years.
I mean, yeah, they're religious, but Logan seems to have turned out okay. Good for him. They chose him, at least.
We lose ourselves to the movie for a while, waiting for the pizza to arrive, but I hardly pay attention to the screen. Instead, my mind takes me on a journey through the last ten years of my life, which is exactly the opposite of what I wanted to happen tonight.
Everything comes to a head in my mind, all the bad decisions and choices that finally led up to the night last summer when I nearly lost my life—and my adopted brother’s—in the process. Then my absolute spiral into rock bottom over the last year, as if I could sink any farther.
By the time the doorbell rings upstairs, announcing our food delivery, I realize too late that I’ve basically spent the last ten minutes dragging my fingers through Owen’s hair.
“Sorry,” I mutter when he sits up. “Didn't realize what I was doing.”
He just smiles, getting to his feet. “Don't be, it felt nice. We can cuddle and not fuck each other, you know. Platonic love is important, too.”
My chest tightens in a way I don’t have a clever comeback for. “I know,” I say, staring at the screen.
Do I, though?
Platonic love. It seems like such a simple phrase, but it feels so heavy. No one ever taught me what that looked like. Growing up, affection was always transactional or came with expectations. To be honest, I can't even remember the last time someone hugged me without an ulterior motive.
Not even… Christian. To be honest, this shit with him is starting to fuck with my head.
Owen comes back down with the pizza box balanced on one hip. He sets it on the coffee table and drops back onto the couch with a hungry groan. “Still good?” he asks, already opening the box. Meaty, cheesy goodness floods my nostrils.
“Yeah,” I answer after a beat. “I am.”
And I realize it’s true. For whatever reason. Maybe it's the clarity of sobriety, or the fact that Owen seems to want nothing from me but my company. Which makes me question his sanity, honestly, because right now I feel about as fun to be around as wet sand. Still, though, I'll take it.
We eat in comfortable silence, our shoulders brushing as the movie resumes. And this time, I stay in the moment, refusing to let my brain take it for granted.
I don't think I've ever had a friend in my life who just wanted to… hang out without the presence of drugs, sex, or alcohol involved. It feels nice. Makes me realize that I'm worth more than what people taught me I am.
Maybe someone to have and to hold is a long way off my radar, but for now…
For tonight, platonic love is enough.