Chapter Eight
Ryder
“How was work?” Claire calls out as I make it through the door.
I stomp the snow off my shoes before I take them off.
The house smells amazing, and I can’t deny I’m starving.
These twelve hour shifts are killing me, and I’m over the sugar crash from binging pastries to get through to the end of my shift.
“Fine,” I call back, heading down the hallway into the living room, only to be met by the deadly stare of Tori, who I can only describe as the physical embodiment of a black cat or a cursed crow.
When Claire offered for me to move in with her, I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea because of Tori. She doesn’t live here; but she’s here all the time.
Sometimes I think she’s got it out for me because my sister asked me to move in instead of her, but I can’t really prove that. Tori’s not the talkative type. Not like my sister.
“Tori,” I say, giving my best fake smile. I swear she can smell fear.
She gives me a suspicious glance. “Ryder.”
I swear I feel a bead of sweat break out as I slide past her, noting she’s got one of those true crime documentaries on again. It’s all she watches and listens to. Apparently that’s how she and my sister met—at the bookstore, in the true crime section.
I don’t know how they find that stuff so interesting, but then again, I guess my extracurricular activities aren’t any better.
I make my way into the kitchen, where Claire happily greets me by shoving a pan of uncooked lasagna at me.
I sigh, taking in the sight of the kitchen—which looks like a bomb went off in it.
Which isn’t uncommon, actually. There’s open containers and ingredients strewn about on every surface, and it’s hotter than hell in here because our kitchen’s tiny and the oven is like a furnace sometimes.
“How long?” I ask.
“Four-twenty-five, thirty minutes,” she says, dismissing me with a wave. I scoot past her as best I can and do as she asks, sliding the pan into the oven.
“Anything else you want me to do, your highness?” I tease her.
She smiles, her amber eyes glittering in the kitchenlight.
“Could you chop up the onions?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at me. “For the salad?”
I sigh and scan the kitchen for any sign of onions, and finally find them barely perched on the ledge of the kitchen table. I grab them before they can topple over in protest.
“Sure.”
As usual, Tori sticks to her beloved documentaries, while Claire and I work on getting dinner ready, which is fine with me. I’m not sure I trust her around the knives, even if they are dull.
“So, anything interesting happen today at the buzzing little beehive?”
She teases me as she swipes an olive from the cutting board where I’m working. I glare at her.
“Careful, or you’re going to lose a finger,” I warn her.
“Ryder, you’d have to saw my finger for hours with a butterknife to even cut through the surface,” she jokes.
“I don’t want to know how you know that,” I say, and it’s the truth.
I’d rather stay ignorant in case one day I have to appear in court. I think that’s a solid defense.
“Tori told me.”
Of course she did. Because on top of her serial killer obsession, she’s a med student and knows all kinds of weird shit that most people would find creepy. But my sister seems to be pretty into it, so I guess there’s a lid for every pot.
Every black cat needs their golden retriever.
Or in this case, I guess it would be an orange cat, technically. Which makes me chuckle a little.
“You two and your serial killers,” I mutter.
Claire brushes me off, instead asking, “Did you register for the speed dating thing yet?”
I sigh in defeat once more. Ever since I came here, with my damn tail between my legs, Claire has made it her sole mission in life to find me a “good man.” Problem is, I don’t think my sister and I have the same definition of what a good man is, and I’m not about to tell her what my definition is.
Coming out to my sister was easy, but telling her about all the kink stuff? Hard limit for sure.
“No,” I mutter in annoyance. “I told you I don’t think it’s—”
“A good idea, I know,” she tutts. “But you’ve got to let this Dylan thing go sometime, you know. I know you really liked him and all, but—” She plucks another olive from the cutting board, and I stop chopping all together and sigh.
“It’s not about Dylan…” I say, though it’s not entirely a lie, and she’s not wrong.
“Then what is it about, Ry?”
Claire lowers her gaze at me. I could tell her it’s about the fact that I have unreliable taste in men, or that I just want to take some time to be single and not be tied down, and those answers would probably be fine, but it wouldn’t be the truth. Not really.
The words that come out make my chest tight.
“I just… want more.” My voice falters and Claire scoots closer to me, appraising me with a soft, knowing look.
“I know,” she says with a deep sigh. “But you have to walk before you can run, Ry. And you can’t do that unless you put yourself out there…”
I know she’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse, I think.
“You never know who you’re going to meet at these things.”
I roll my eyes. “Not the love of my life, I’ll tell you that.”
Claire waves me off as Tori comes into the kitchen, heading for the fridge, and I tense.
“What’s your problem?” she asks, her voice smooth like glass.
She pulls a water bottle from the fridge and opens it, taking a long sip before she finds her way next to Claire.
“Ryder doesn’t want to do the speed dating thing,” Claire says, as if I’m not sitting in front of them.
“I’m right here, you know!”
Tori ignores me, gazing into my sister’s eyes as she shrugs.
“So?”
“So?” Claire throws her arms up, blowing some blonde hair out of her face from the motion. “How else is he supposed to meet the man of his dreams?”
Tori, stone-faced and dead-eyed, looks at my sister and says, “Grindr. Like everyone else.”
Oh my fucking God…
I close my eyes as heat ransacks my body, overtaking me, and I know it’s not entirely because of the damn oven.
“Oh my God, now you’re embarrassing him,” Claire says as I feel her arms around me, but it doesn’t help.
“Oh, I’m the one embarrassing him?”
I move out of Claire’s hold, needing to get out of this sweltering kitchen, away from… whatever this is that’s happening right now.
I can feel my stomach twisting into knots the longer I stay.
“Just… don’t worry about me, Claire, okay? I’m fine, I don’t—”
Claire grabs my wrist, halting my movement.
“No, you’re not,” she says firmly. “You don’t have any friends, or—”
“Would you stop?” I say, yanking my hand back.
“I don’t think that’s helpful, baby,” Tori says, her smooth voice only pissing me off.
“Really? Since when do you know what’s helpful, Tori?”
I realize the moment I say it that it’s the wrong thing to say. Claire’s eyebrows furrow and she looks like I just told her I killed a kitten.
Though Tori doesn’t look phased in the least. I’m pretty sure her facial muscles are permanently frozen in resting bitch face mode.
“Ryder!” Claire snaps, and I feel like the biggest asshole. Tori doesn’t even blink, and I don’t know if that’s better or worse.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No you’re not,” Tori says, and I hate that she’s right.
“I should just…” I run a hand through my hair and take a step backward, towards the hallway.
“Ryder…” Claire’s voice softens, but it’s no use. I need to get out of here. I need air. I need—
I head for the coat rack, grabbing my coat and slipping on my boots as heavy footsteps sound down the hallway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Claire asks, her voice shaking.
“Out,” I say sharply. “To meet people and make friends,” I say with more venom than I mean to, but I can’t deny something about Tori’s apathy, about Claire’s helicopter-sistering… suddenly I feel like our tiny ass apartment is suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with size.
“Just let him go, baby,” Tori says, her voice betraying no emotion, as usual.
Right now, I wish I could be that cold. It would be better than feeling like a broken toy that won’t work right.
The oven timer buzzes loudly as I stare at Claire and Tori.
I could take one step forward and tell Claire I changed my mind.
That I’ll go to the stupid speed dating thing if it will shut her up and make her happy and get her to stop pressuring me to move on from something she doesn’t even understand or know about.
It would be the smart thing to do.
The reasonable thing to do.
It’s what a good brother would do.
But I guess I’m not a very smart or a very good brother, because I don’t take that step towards her like I know I should.
Instead, I settle my hand on the doorknob, my heart in my throat as silence breeds between us; thick and suffocating.
“Hope the lasagna’s as good as it smells,” I say, slipping out the door and shutting it before I can change my mind.
I stand there in the cold hallway, my heart in my throat for what feels like eternity until I manage to start walking, and once I find the movement, my feet pick up; faster and faster.
I don’t think, I just walk. I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is the snow is coming down, and I should be in there, where it’s warm; with my sister and Wednesday Addams listening to creepy crime docs and eating cheesy pasta.
But instead, I’m out here, alone, again. Tears form in my eyes, and I fight to push them back. It’s too cold, and I fear they’ll turn to ice, just like the rest of me.
Because I know for certain Claire is right.
I’m not fine.
I’m tired of being alone, of putting myself out there and getting my damn heart broken, even if I know it’s going to happen. Just once, I want to be wrong.
I don’t know how long I stay on the snowy, cold bench, but when I think I’m in danger of frostbite, I get up and make my way back home.
Despite the weather, there are a few places still open along the way.
I tell myself I’m just going in to get warmed up.
One drink and then I’ll head back home and apologize to Claire and Tori.
I’ll go to the speed dating thing and be miserable as I pretend to be someone I’m not to try and find someone who will never understand or appreciate me the way I need them to.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“Whiskey, double,” I say without thinking.
I watch as he pours my drink, the amber liquid glittering from the low incandescent lights above us. I check out the bartender—his backwards hat, his bulging biceps, his chunky diamond earring, and the way he chews the toothpick in his mouth.
He slides me my drink and I glance at his fingers. Bare, tan.
“No tattoos?” I ask, taking a sip of my whiskey. It burns down my throat, but it’s a welcome burn. One that feels better than it should.
The bartender shakes his head. “Nah. Not much for needles, man.”
I let out a chuckle as I think about someone else’s fingers, someone else’s tattoos.
“Blank canvas, huh?” I say, taking another long pull of my drink. Too long.
I set the glass back down on the counter, reveling in the sting the whiskey leaves in my throat; the way it warms my entire body from the inside out, and I let out a low breath.
The bartender chuckles before he heads down the bar to grab someone else’s order, and I slowly bring out my phone and unlock it.
I swipe to the left, knowing precisely what I’m looking for.
Tori wasn’t completely off base with her comment; though, I don’t think she knows how close to the truth she was. And that alone is unsettling in a way it shouldn’t be.
I stare at the black and red button, the red cursive K that’s brighter beneath the lights of the bar. Calling to me like a siren.
“Another?” The other bartender—a woman with thick eyelashes and pouty lips asks, angling herself and her boobs towards me.
I nod, breaking her gaze and tap the button. The screen goes black; little red numbers circling to tell me the app’s updating, and I wait.
A moment later, my profile page loads, andI feel a sense of relief as the bartender fills up my glass, and my phone dings; the red dot alerting me that I’ve got a message already.
I swallow hard.
That didn’t take long.
I pull up my inbox to see the message from some guy with the username C0ckDaddy4EverX.
All it is, is two words.
Wanna play?
I look up, and that’s when I see him. At the other end of the bar, raising his glass and smirking at me.
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I have to fight them because that raised glass is sharper than any knife.
I grab my whiskey, shoot it, and toss a few twenties on the counter before I make my way over to him, knowing precisely how this ends, and that’s a good enough reason for me to say, “Yes, Sir.”
Because at least for tonight, I won’t be alone.