Chapter Ten #2
Smooth. Delicate, one might say. Ryder touches me like I’m made of glass.
Maybe I am.
“Or something,” I say, my chest tightening.
And then I feel the rush of heat—like a fire unleashing inside of me, spreading to overtake me and my chest tightens, my breath catches and I am assaulted by a memory.
At least, I think it is a memory. Unless I have finally descended into madness…
I peek through my fingers at the television screen. I don’t like scary movies, but the little dark-haired girl next to me doesn’t seem as scared as I am.
“I don’t like this movie,” I say, watching as the man in the hockey mask chases down a woman with a machete.
“It’s not real,” the girl says, flashing her dark eyes at me.
Mama’s voice raises, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
We usually don’t go to other people’s houses, but when Mama came upstairs with the nice lady and the little girl, she said we were going to take them home.
When we got here, she told me to stay put on the couch, and the lady told the dark-haired girl to stay put, too. Then she turned the TV on and she and Mama went to the kitchen, where they’ve been for a while.
“It’s still scary,” I say weakly as the hockey mask man starts stabbing the woman. I close my eyes.
I blink, dispelling the weird thought—memory—away, realizing Ryder is looking at me in question.
My head hurts, and I think I’m getting a migraine. That’s probably what this is. Some weird migraine induced hallucination.
Which caffeine is bound to fix.
I pinch the space between my eyes. “Sorry, headache’s a bitch.”
I clear my throat, open my eyes and look Ryder in the eyes. He doesn’t look worried or concerned, or even judgmental. His blue eyes sparkle as he looks at me like I’ve got all the answers to the secrets of the universe.
No one’s ever looked at me like this.
I swallow, forcing the words out of my mouth, though they aren’t the ones I wish I could say. That I could find the courage to say…
“What do you have for me today?” I ask, clasping my hands together. My fingers cover up the 13 and my decayed rose. I don’t want to think about my father, or my fucked up shit right now. Not in his presence.
I just want to soak up the little bit of happiness I get when I come here, between the storms. I find his dark gaze and hold it. I watch as he bites his lip and pretends to think about his recommendation.
This is the game we play every Tuesday, Ryder and I.
I come here and tell him to make me something he thinks I’ll like. And every week, he takes his time to make my drink perfect, and we talk while I wait for my cinnamon bun.
Ryder glances from my mouth to my eyes and clears his throat as he says, “Well, we got this new syrup in—”
“Sounds good,” I say, pulling out my card.
“You don’t even know what the flavor is,” he says, twisting his lips, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “It could be tuna flavored.”
The smile that forms on my face is genuine as I let out a laugh.
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Ryder crosses his arms, his lips twitching as he holds my gaze rather petulantly.
I can’t say I hate it. In fact, I am tempted to push his buttons further, just to see if I can.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling my smile brighten. “This delicious new syrup you speak of?”
“Well, now I don’t want to tell you,” he says as he sticks his tongue out, which does nothing to quell the dirty thoughts that pervade my mind in his presence.
I’m half tempted to tell him if he sticks his tongue out at me again, I’ll punish him.
But I know I can’t do that. I can’t say things like that to people without an extensive discussion on limits and a contractual agreement.
Margie’s words reverberate in my brain. Do I want to serve him?
I can’t say the thought isn’t tempting, but I also know that despite his obvious flirtation, that doesn’t mean he’s into me, or that he’s into the lifestyle.
But even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help the words that escape me.
“I have ways of making people talk,” I tell him with a wink.
Though I mean the words to be light and carefree—which is how I try to keep our interactions—they come out much darker than I mean them to.
Though before I can apologize or smooth over my awkward blunder, I note Ryder’s cheeks turning the most lovely shade of scarlet I think I’ve ever seen.
“I bet you do,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away from me, flashing his gaze away. His long thick eyelashes stand out, and I find myself leaning against the counter, my cock hard; pressed against the counter.
Fuck!
I suck in a breath and let it out slowly as I try to think unsexy thoughts while Ryder starts to set up the things he needs to make me my mystery coffee.
Then I hear the familiar chatter of voices. Carter and Nash. I tense, turning around to look at them, or rather Carter. Who looks surprised to see me here this early before group.
Shit.
Nash comes up as Ryder focuses on the cup, avoiding my gaze.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Sir,” se says, his voice low and poised.
“Take your time,” Nash says as I move down to the end of the counter and Carter comes up beside me.
“You’re early,” is all I can say.
Carter smirks, and I don’t miss the glint of interest in his eyes.
“So, this is why you haven’t been drinking the coffee at group,” he says with a knowing look.
I avoid his gaze.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never drank that sludge to begin with.”
Carter laughs, shaking his head. “Right. Because you said you weren’t a coffee guy.”
There’s a strange silence between us; the tension not uncomfortable, but not quite comfortable either. I watch Ryder toss my cinnamon roll into the toaster oven with the tongs before taking Nash’s order.
“The coffee’s actually really good here,” I say. “And I highly recommend the cinnamon roll.”
Ryder comes over to us to hand me my coffee, and I don’t miss how Carter watches us, which makes me feel more anxious and nervous.
“Kane,” he says, offering me the cup. I know he’s trying to be cool; after all, this is his job, and he doesn’t know Carter or Nash like I do.
Calling out names is part of the gig—whether there’s a hundred people or three, or even just one.
But something about the look in his eye when he says my name, the tone of his voice as he says it, calls to me, and I don’t hesitate to take the cup from his hand, despite the heat radiating off of it. Or perhaps that’s just me.
My fingers graze his knuckles as I do so, that familiar touch soothing something deep inside me.
His skin is soft, warm. I want to feel it everywhere—on my hands, over my fingertips. On my cock, over the pulsing vein in my neck. In my beard, my hair. But I have to pull away. I have to let go, even though I don’t want to.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to keep my tone and behavior as normal as possible.
Which is not easy, given the circumstances, or my unrelenting cock which I nonchalantly shift to adjust, hoping Carter doesn’t notice. I don’t need him or Nash getting the wrong idea, and the last thing I want to explain is my new coffee fetish.
Ryder turns from me, and heads to the back counter to start prepping Nash’s order and I watch as he cleans out the espresso machine and puts fresh grounds in, watch as those warm, smooth hands pull down hard on the lever to pack it in.
I can’t take my gaze off him, heat spreading through me; and I know it isn’t just because of the coffee.
“You’re drooling,” Carter says, his voice full of humor.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say as I break my gaze and take a long sip of my coffee.
“There’s no crime in looking.”
Carter leans against the edge of the delivery counter.
“Uh-huh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a crush.”
I glare at him. “Good thing you know better.”
His grin widens as he looks at me with that knowing gaze.
Ryder hands me my cinnamon roll, and all the anxiety melts from me damn near instantly.
I gently take the bag, letting my touch linger over his for only a moment; and I swear when I stroke my finger over his soft skin, I hear him gasp and the sound goes straight to my dick, which does not help matters.
You’re supposed to be going down, not up! This is not the time or place!
I grunt out a sound of frustration as I turn to the side, if only to nonchalantly adjust my stupid dick; giving Carter, Nash, and a busy Ryder, my back.
I head off towards one of the tables in the lobby, not too far from the kiosk, but far enough I know Ryder won’t be able to hear our discussion.
Because I know Carter. He’s going to ask questions.
Questions I don’t necessarily have the answers to, but even so, I don’t need Ryder to hear how embarrassing and awkward I really am.
I’d like to preserve what little magic I get between five and five- fifty five every Tuesday.
I drop into the chair with a sigh as Carter chuckles.
“You like him,” he says the words solidly, and the irony is not lost on me.
“Maybe I do, so what? That means nothing. I like lots of people,” I grumble.
Carter shakes his head. “Name one person you like, Kane.”
“You,” I say, meaning to be a smart ass, but Carter just ignores me.
“I don’t count,” he says matter of factly as I note Nash off to the distance, with his and Carter’s order.
“It’s okay, you know,” he says calmly. I take a long sip of my coffee.
“To be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I huff out harshly. “That’s ridiculous.”
Nash comes up and sits beside Carter, sliding his coffee to him.
“What’s ridiculous?” Nash asks.
“Nothing,” Carter says, and though part of me is glad he at least knows better enough to keep my shit to himself, there’s also a part of me that sort of wants to know what Nash would say about all of this.
After all, I remember a time when Carter was scared to go after Nash.
So he of all people should understand my predicament.