Chapter 12 Xavier
When I have the eviction notice in my hand and watch Fred, the building manager, walk away, something inside of me breaks.
I’ve got nothing left to give. I’ll either have to sleep in my car or on Jess’s couch, which is actually a loveseat.
I slide to the floor. What am I going to do now?
I think that if I ask for a rent extension, it will be okay.
I just need a week. Seven fucking days. I wish I could say it was the first time I asked for an extension, but it isn’t.
Declan lifts me off the floor and holds me.
I break even more. I know that I shouldn’t lean into his touch.
I should push him away. Both literally and figuratively, I need to stand on my own two feet, but I am too tired.
Is it so bad that I want someone to take care of me for a change, to give me comfort?
I want to believe him so badly when he says it will be okay.
So, I take the care and comfort he offers and cry, something I haven’t done in a long time.
I don’t even care that I don’t know where he’s taking me.
It doesn’t matter, not right now. I hear him speaking to someone when we reach the street.
He slips into a car with me still in his arms. He feels so warm and safe.
I know I’ll be cursing myself for this later.
Right now, I want the comfort. At some point during the ride, I fall asleep.
The gentle movement of the car and Declan rubbing my back and my head lull me to sleep.
Thankfully, the dreams that normally plague my sleep don’t come.
I wake to Declan still rubbing my head, but I no longer feel the motion of the car.
I’m still in his arms, but the safe, peaceful feeling is turning to panic.
Where are we? Why do I let myself give in to him?
Opening my eyes, I look around. We’re in a very spacious living room.
It’s decorated in neutral tones. It feels homey.
Is this Declan’s place? If it is, it’s not what I pictured.
I try to sit up, but Declan tightens his grip on me.
“You should sleep more. Something tells me you don’t get enough.” He’s right, but I’m not going to tell him that.
“I’m fine. Could you let me up, please?” Panic is starting to rise up inside of me. A moment of weakness has put me in another fucked up situation.
“Why? I like you just where you are.”
I huff and try again. This time, he lets me go.
I move to sit next to him on the couch. It’s a nice apartment with high ceilings and glossy hardwood floors.
It’s an open floor plan, with the kitchen to the right, with smooth marble countertops and rich, dark wood cabinetry.
Hell, the kitchen alone is the size of my whole apartment with room left over.
To my left is a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
We must be high up because there is a clear view of the city skyline.
The sun is low on the horizon. It was four when I got back to the apartment.
How long was I asleep? Did he hold me the entire time?
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost seven,” he answers. He just cradled me like a baby for close to two hours. I can’t imagine what he thinks of me right now. How weak I am, that a grown ass man breaks down and cries. I need to get back to my apartment and figure out what I am going to do and where I’m going to live.
“Thank you for everything. I’m sorry I broke down like that. Life has just been a lot lately.” Understatement of the century.
“I told you that it will be okay and that I’ll take care of things.
You need to trust me.” Trust him? I don’t even know him, so where am I supposed to find trust?
Other than Jess and maybe Blake, I don’t trust anyone.
No one has ever given me a reason to. Being openly gay in high school was a nightmare.
I was an outcast to start with, then add the car accident that took half of my family, and it basically made me a pariah.
College was better, the queer population was more widely accepted, and I met Jess there.
Unfortunately, in my senior year, I also met Mal.
My one serious relationship turned to shit within the first year we were together.
Trust is abstract to me—something real in theory, but just beyond comprehension.
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.
And you don’t know me enough to be doing all of this.
I’m grateful for you letting me cry on your shoulder, literally, but I need to go.
” I pat my pockets for my phone and don’t feel it.
I remember having it in my bedroom when I thought it was Jess at the door. Fuck how am I going to get home?
“No, you are not running away again, Xavier. Everything is being taken care of. But you do need to eat something. Come on, I have food for you in the kitchen.” He stands from the couch and grabs my hand to pull me up with him.
My stomach, the traitorous thing that it is, makes a sound loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
Honestly, it’s been hours since I had lunch at the café.
Maybe I can stay long enough to eat. My resolve melts away totally when we round the kitchen island, and he opens the oven door.
The rich smell of Italian food suddenly fills the air.
He pulls out two trays from the top oven of the double-oven set built into the cabinet beside the rangetop and sets them on the counter.
He takes a tray of what can only be garlic cheesy bread from the bottom.
“I didn’t know which you would prefer, so I got lasagna with meat sauce and Alfredo with chicken.
” He pulls the covers from both dishes. My mouth is watering at the prospect of the feast in front of me.
There is enough food to feed me for over a week.
He only adds to it when he pulls a salad from the refrigerator.
I wonder if he has any Tupperware I can use to take some of this home.
I snicker at the thought of this man, this heir to billions, packing leftovers into containers.
“Something funny?”
“Do you eat leftovers?” He looks puzzled at my question.
“I do. Doesn’t everyone?” I give a little laugh again. Maybe he isn’t as spoiled as I thought. In my head, I picture a personal chef on call, 24 hours a day, making him whatever his taste buds are in the mood for, and he never eats the same thing twice in a row.
“Do you cook?”
“I do, actually, I quite enjoy it.”
“I figured you would have a personal chef at your beck and call.”
“I don’t like people in my space. So, no, I don’t have a staff at my place. I do have a cleaning company that comes in every other week because who the fuck wants to dust and clean toilets.”
I laugh for real this time. The look on his face when he said the word “toilets” is hilarious. As he pulls out plates and cutlery, he turns to look at me with a smirk on his face.
“That’s a nice sound. You should laugh more often.” I don’t respond. How much more pathetic will I sound to him if I tell him that I don’t have much in my life to laugh about?
“Which would you like? Or would you like me to order something else?”
“No, this is great. Italian is one of my favorites. Could I have a little of both, please?”
“You can have anything you want. You name it, and I’ll get it for you.
” For some reason, I don’t doubt that he means that literally.
What I don’t understand is why, why me? Why is this stranger willing to do these things for me?
I’m a nobody. He can have anyone he wants, a model, an actress, or an heir to yet another obscene fortune.
Yet here we are, three days after our first meeting, and he is pursuing me.
Or at least I think he is pursuing me. It doesn’t compute in my head.
We eat in silence for a while. The food’s amazing.
It’s seasoned to perfection. But then again, since it’s been bought and paid for by a Murphy, why would I expect anything less?
Everything is still jumbled in my head. I need to make a plan and figure out my life.
They say everything comes in threes. I have my job loss, my eviction, and giving my mother the money that I need.
So, I should be good, right? I have a new job.
It doesn’t pay a lot, but the tips are decent.
I’m starting to spiral whenever a thought pops into my head, and it isn’t a pleasant one.
“You didn’t get me evicted, did you?” I don’t know what I’ll do if he says yes.
I know the Murphys run this city, and I doubt it would be hard for him to do it.
He says to trust him, and I know for a fact that if he answers the question with anything other than no, trust is totally off the table.
I feel sick, and the food that tasted wonderful just a few seconds ago sits heavily in my stomach.
“No. I had nothing to do with it. Although I do admit that it came at a great time.”
Say what now? A great time? That makes no sense to me. How can being kicked out of my home come at a good time? Something in my gut tells me he is lying, but I’m not going to call him out on it just yet. It all just seems too convenient.
“What?” Is all I manage to say.
“Well, this apartment is for you. Let’s call it part of your employment package for now.” I look around again at the luxury apartment.
“For me? This isn’t your place?”
“No, I live on the floor above this one. This is for you. It’s closer to the office and safer than where you were. I swear a blind man could pick your lock. There’s not even a deadbolt on it.”
“You expect me to live here?”
“Yes.” He stands and starts putting away the leftovers.
That’s all he says, and he acts as if the subject is closed.
I notice that when he opens the industrial-sized fridge, it is stocked with everything imaginable.
Bottles of water, various sodas and juices, and fresh fruits and veggies are neatly stacked and lined up.
“Why are you so determined to do all of this for me, this apartment, the job? It makes no sense to me.” Everything so far has felt like him trying to control me. Manipulate me to fall in line, but to what end? I have nothing to offer him, so why is he so persistent?
“It’s the way my brain works. I saw you and want you, want you with me.
I won’t take no for an answer, Xavier. You need to accept this.
Ask yourself, is what I am offering you such a bad deal?
You will have a high-paying job, a nice place to live, and you will want for nothing, ever.
” He takes another bite of his food. The absurdity of it all hangs between us.
Is it all because I told him no in the first place?
The excitement of the chase of something he was told he couldn’t have?
What happens when that excitement dies and he realizes his mistake?
“What happens when you get tired of me? You said you want me, want me with you, but you haven’t said what for?
What do you expect? I’m not going to fuck you just for material things.
I’m not a whore, and I’m not going to be one even for you.
” My foggy brain clears a little when I understand that everything points to me being his whore. His dirty little secret.
He wipes his hands off on a towel, keeping his hot gaze on me.
Rounding the island, he grips my leg and spins me to face him.
My back is against the cold marble countertop.
Suddenly, I find it hard to take in my next breath.
His face isn’t giving anything away. I feel his knee press against mine to spread my legs, and then he steps between them.
He places a firm but somehow gentle grip on my throat with his large hand.
“No, you’re not a whore. I never implied that you were.
But we will be having sex. That is what people do in a relationship.
And we will be having plenty of it.” His face is close enough to mine for me to feel his breath wash over mine.
“When I say I want you, I mean in every way possible. There is no escaping it, there is no saying no to it. There is no letting you go. I am not giving you up. I will, what’s the term my aunt used, court you, so you will be comfortable with it. But it’s happening.”
“Did you just say a relationship? With me? You can have anyone.” I barely whisper.
“But I want you.” For a moment, neither of us moves.
He leans in, making contact with my lips.
His touch is gentle at first, just a brush of his lips against mine.
The kiss is soft but exacting, and my chest tightens like I forgot how to breathe.
The feeling running through me is hard to explain.
Tender but dominant, maybe? The juxtaposition between his words and this kiss is dizzying.
I feel myself melting into it. When he cups my jaw with the hand not on my throat, he changes angles and deepens the kiss.
His tongue traces the entrance of my mouth, seeking entrance.
My brain screams that this is a terrible idea.
And, fuck me, I give in. Offering him what he is searching for.
I kiss him back, no longer content to be on the sidelines.
I run my hands up his muscular back. I feel along the dips and planes of his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.
After what seems like an eternity, he breaks the kiss, but doesn’t retreat.
He lays his forehead against mine, and we both try to take in much-needed oxygen.
I can’t lie to myself anymore. I want to be his—and everything that comes along with it.