CHAPTER 6 #4
Leaning forward, he squints at a street sign up ahead. “Turn left in two blocks.”
Our surroundings look familiar. When I make the turn he requested, we pass the bar that we just came from. Did he…accept our ride to keep me around longer, or is he just disoriented?
“What would you have done?” he asks.
“What?”
“You said you called to see if I needed anything.”
“Oh.”
“What would you have done if I’d answered and said I needed you?”
Anything is the first word that comes to mind.
“I…I’d have done whatever I could have, I suppose. I was back in school, working on my doctorate at the time, so I don’t know—”
“Stop!” he barks out.
I flinch, wondering what I said to set him off. Does he have some type of mental illness that I didn’t realize?
“Sorry.”
“No, stop the car. You just passed it.”
“Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
I back up to where he’s pointing and then turn down the street to the house on the corner he’s indicating.
It’s a white one-story home in the revival style I’ve admired, offset by a large front yard with a beautiful walk-up of paver stones.
It’s not as large as some of the loftier houses in the Monte Vista neighborhood, but it’s idyllic and would likely fetch a much greater price than the one I just bought.
I’m glad the price he paid for football got him something.
“Well,” I sigh, knowing our time has come to an end.
This is so awkward. Would it be weird if I asked for his number? Do I even want his number? Of course I do; I just don’t know what I’d do with it. Type and delete a bunch of messages.
He opens the door and starts to get out, splashing me with a wave of foolishness. I guess all we had left between us were a few flirtatious moments. Maybe he only doled them out as payment for a ride home.
“Um, goodnight. It was nice see—”
“If you come in, you can meet Gale,” he interrupts, motioning with his head toward his house before closing his door.
What? Unfounded jealousy seizes my lungs as I stare after him and whisper maniacally,
“Gale? Who the fuck is Gale?”
◆◆◆
After hesitating up a path of beautiful mosaic paver stones and landscaping that puts my neglected yard to shame, I follow Chris inside and stop short at a skittering sound.
Gale turns out to be the most adorable Rottweiler I’ve ever seen in my life.
Stocky, broad-shouldered, and slightly well-fed like her handsome owner, whose cheek she’s currently peppering with doggie kisses while he rubs her belly. In short, I want to be Gale.
With each rumbly croon of “Did you miss me? Did you miss me?” I can’t stop myself from silently shouting, yes. Maybe I’m just overjoyed at learning Gale didn’t turn out to be a wife or girlfriend.
Tearing my gaze away from his bent-over backside, my eyes adjust to the dim light coming from a lamp in his living room.
The first thing I notice is an oversized brown leather recliner.
Given all the controls on the arm of it, my guess is that it’s not just a piece of furniture, but a much-needed form of therapy.
The cluttered end table next to it speaks volumes.
Its top is littered with menthol gels, creams, and even a discarded ice pack.
There’s a stack of Sports Illustrated, too, and several remote controls, telling me his massage chair is the lucky recipient of many hours housing Chris’ ass.
When he straightens up, a soft grunt leaves his lips as he sends Gale on her way.
She trots over to the couch next to the recliner expectantly, as though to ask if he’s settling in for their usual routine.
It paints a picture without the need to ask questions.
My greedy eyes capture a few more details as I hedge deeper into the room behind him.
The floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall extends all the way to the front of the room, where a big-screen TV sits on a stand.
It’s filled from top to bottom with what looks to be a heavier dose of nonfiction than fiction.
Books on football, no surprise, but also on every other sport.
What’s peculiar is that there are biographies of famous people from all walks of life, history books, some on accounting, auto mechanics, masonry, cooking, and… pottery?
“What do you read?” I ask when I catch him looking at me.
Brow pinching, he glances at the shelf as though it’s merely a decoration and shrugs. “Things I should have learned years ago. Things I’ll never use.”
“I see you still keep up with the local games.” I nod toward the newspaper on a desk, open to the sports section.
“I have to. I cover them for the SA Times.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
He’s a reporter? He majored in journalism, but I always saw it as an afterthought.
Hands stuffed in his pockets, I notice now that he took his shoes off.
I still can’t believe I found him, let alone am in his home.
His house smells like him. I never want to leave.
Would it be too weird to ask him if I can bottle up some of the air to take with me?
That might be easier than figuring out what comes next and if it will have life-altering consequences.
“Do you want a drink?” He motions with his head to his kitchen. “I think I have a beer in the fridge.”
“No, I’d better not. I’ve got to drive back.”
Smirking, he takes a step closer. “That’s why I walk to the bar.”
Maybe I should be embarrassed hearing that I was duped, but instead, I laugh. “Smart.”
He stops a mere foot away from me. If I were a candle, I’d have melted to this spot without my wick even being lit.
“Long time, huh?” he asks, voice low, but it’s not a question.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat when the word comes out in a near whisper.
He gives me a slow perusal from head to toe, easing his hand out of his pocket.
Is this it—the part where I’m supposed to leap head-first into Jamie’s terrible advice?
If so, how come I find myself backing up a step and bumping into the wall?
It’s difficult to discern if I moved at all because Chris is still as close as he was a moment ago, closer in fact.
He reaches up, making my pulse skitter. When his palm rests on the wall next to my head, I want to laugh at myself for being so spun up.
I haven’t felt like this since…him. I didn’t think it was possible.
He leans in, his gaze scanning my face mere inches away from his. There’s a pleased curve to his mouth as he utters my name in wonder, as though he still can’t believe that we’ve found each other again, either.
“Remy.”
“Chris,” I whisper, my voice drunk to my ears.
His chest presses against mine, and all the air floods out of my lungs along with a desperate little sound.
He makes a noise that sounds like relief, and the next thing I know, his lips are on mine.
Soft and hard. Both hungry and appreciative at the same time.
I grip onto him so I don’t slide down the wall and make a puddle on the floor.
He’s solid and warm as his bittersweet flavor bursts across my tongue when he silently asks to taste my mouth.
I keen and feel my eyes rolling back in my head.
Kissing—why did he have to start with kissing?
He lets out a moan like someone who’s starving, which makes my head spin, squeezing my arm and then sliding his hand down to my side.
I’m practically hanging onto him, my fingers gripping the back of his shirt in two tight handfuls.
The kiss goes on and on, even as I try to prepare myself emotionally for it to be over.
With each slant of his mouth and brush of his tongue, it feels as though the world is spinning.
It’s Chris. My Chris. I want to celebrate the return of this piece of me that I thought I’d never get back, and yet, at the same time, the arousal in me feels foreign, as though it’s being stoked by a stranger, a Chris imposter.
Breaking away for air, I hope the flood of oxygen will help me untangle this swirl of conflict.
Chris smirks and takes a step back, peeling his shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor.
I gape at the expanse of exposed skin as he reaches for me and slips his fingers under the hem of my shirt.
The brush of his fingertips makes the flesh on my stomach go taut and my cock tingle.
Yet, the bubble of panic expands in my chest. It’s like we’re in a time machine, right back in my old room.
I know what happens when we’re done, and I don’t think I can live with that anymore.
It’s just sex, some horny part of me reminds. The me who’s been learning how to spend quiet nights alone at home, becoming a man who doesn’t depend on the consistency of a relationship, however, cautions that this will disrupt the shred of peace I’ve found.
I believe Jamie’s exact words were that I should do this to exorcise my demons.
That it would be cathartic. For the life of me, I don’t think I have any demons about our past. I was young and enamored.
And then maybe I let those feelings become a standard I strived to achieve in other relationships.
Maybe a prolonged fizzle isn’t possible, but fucking Chris right now…
I don’t see how that’s going to change anything.
Sex can’t change me or wipe my memories.
Did Jamie mean I wouldn’t see Chris the same way that I used to if I had sex with him? Because I don’t need to do the deed to know that. I can tell he’s different. Hell, I’m different. That’s what life and age do to people.
There’s an edge about him and scars on his torso and by his eye that weren’t there before.
If either of us has demons, it’s him, not me.
I don’t want him to be my catharsis any more than I want to be his.
I think I just want what I always have—to know all of him.
And I get the feeling, he’s not willing to be that naked. Frankly, I don’t know if I am either.