Chapter Fifteen
Rowan
Iwatch Elijah hand the DJ the microphone he was using.
Fuck. Elijah on that stage… he looked and sounded just like Benjamin.
Last night I had a dream I haven’t had in a while—one where I’m standing in a crowded club as Benjamin stands on stage in some kind of hot gypsy costume.
He’s singing, and everyone around him is in love with him—but I know.
I know that as soon as he comes down, I’ll be taking him home and tearing him apart.
So when I woke up this morning, the idea for our date was very apparent. I had to see Elijah on stage; I had to know if it would be the same.
And of course it was. Of course.
He looked radiant up there. Eyes glimmering under the stage lights as he sang, his lean muscles flexing beneath that tight black shirt. So fucking beautiful and sweet.
Elijah looked just like the angel he is.
And I was fully convinced I had made the right choice in bringing him here. Well—I was until I realized that his jeans hang so low that his little back dimples are on complete display and every goddamn person in the bar is getting an eyeful.
Then there’s the DJ that was eye fucking him the entire time, even going as far as trying to send him a flirty wink when he got off the stage. Elijah didn’t seem to notice, but it pisses me off anyway.
He’s too handsome tonight, and everyone around us can see it. It makes me half hard and half irrationally irritated. Not necessarily at him—more at the fact that I can’t keep him locked up in a basement somewhere where no one else can get a peek at him.
I’m his long-lost lover—not any of you assholes!
Elijah suddenly appears in front of me.
His eyes are bright; his face flushed as perspiration beads slightly at his forehead. A few of his blond curls are damp from the sweat, and he pulls lightly at the collar of his tight little shirt.
“That was terrifying,” he says, giving me a shy grin. I watch as he climbs back onto his stool and takes a drink of his watered-down cocktail.
“You didn’t tell me you could sing,” I chastise, propping my cheek in my palm as I stare at him. He flushes further, his shoulders rising and falling.
“Not sucking and being good are two completely different ball games,” he insists, to which I just shake my head at him.
Elijah clearly has no idea that he has a knack for singing. I find it kind of adorable—that I know something about him that even he doesn’t know. Another piece of irrefutable evidence that I am, in fact, Aaron—and he is Benjamin.
“Here you guys go.” A basket of fried pickles with a small container of ranch is set on our table, and the elderly woman doesn’t wait for a response before she pushes through the crowd on her way back to the kitchen.
“Damn, took them long enough,” Elijah mutters, grabbing a piece and tossing it into his mouth. He’s not wrong—we ordered like an hour ago.
“Are they good?” I ask him, watching his jaw work as he chews. Everything he does is so fucking alluring I could cry.
“Yeah. They’re a bit hot though, so I’d give it a minute.”
“Okay.”
The flashing lights mixed with the dim backlighting of the bar are making Elijah glow next to me, and I find myself struggling to think around the weight of his presence .
What should I do? What should I say? How can I push him further toward my goal?
I need him to fall in love with me—I need to grab him before someone else does, and I’m stuck living in these memories alone. Suffering. Until I die.
“What?” Elijah asks, having caught me staring. I watch as he puts his straw on his tongue and then wraps those full lips around it.
“You look good enough to eat,” I tell him, and I mean to say that he’s beautiful—or maybe that I enjoy his company.
Something sweet and romantic. But the words leave me before I can stop them; I’m watching him suck on that straw, and I’m thinking nasty things.
It’s only natural that my words would reflect it.
Elijah chokes on his cocktail, eyes wide as I pat his back gently.
“Uh,” he starts once he can breathe properly again. “That was not what I thought you were going to say.”
“What did you think I’d say?” I grin.
“I don’t know—but definitely not that.” And then he watches me carefully, his own hazel eyes heating just slightly in the middle of this crowded bar. “Not that I’m complaining. You can eat me.”
Something hot shoots straight through me at his words. My entire body is balancing on a tightrope; I’m touching a live wire.
“Again,” I add, leaning into his space.
Elijah swallows harshly, eyes falling to stare at my lips openly. “Right. Again.”
About thirty minutes later, I’m at the bar ordering both of us a water. I don’t intend on drinking more than a single beer and then getting behind the wheel with precious cargo—I’m not an idiot—and Elijah set his limit at two for some reason.
Or maybe I’m not a complete idiot—but still kind of one—because I left Elijah alone at our table and as I turn to head back to him, I see that in doing so I gave that annoying DJ the perfect moment to swoop in.
As I approach, I watch the guy lean his side against the high-top, inching closer and closer into Elijah’s personal space.
He’s handsome with his black hair and defined features. Tall and lean. But I could most definitely knock his ass out if it came down to it.
Once I’m close enough, I begin to hear their semi-shouted conversation. The music is quite loud.
“What’s your number, sugar?”
“I’m not interested,” Elijah replies smoothly, and something warm blossoms in my chest.
“Aw, come on. What if you get all the way home and regret it? Maybe you’ll be interested tomorrow, or in a week from now.” This guy has no game.
“I am very positive that won’t be happening, Mr. DJ.” Elijah takes another drink from his cup, which is now just murky water from where the ice has completely melted.
“You’re not being very nice. For someone who looks so sweet, you’re kind of a—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, resting a hand on Elijah’s shoulder right as he begins to shift toward the man standing far too close to him.
“What?” the DJ snaps, clearly annoyed that I’m interrupting his verbal assault.
“He’s not interested. Why don’t you go find someone else to harass and stop trying to touch things that don’t belong to you?”
The words slip out naturally, as if I have every right to throw them around. I absolutely do not, and the way Elijah stiffens beneath me informs me that he agrees with that notion.
“Or what?” The man tries to look bigger than he is for a moment, but even then, I am significantly larger. But even if I wasn’t, I would still kick his dumbass.
“Or I’ll teach you how to keep your hands to yourself.”
He bristles, taking a step back. “I didn’t even touch him.”
“But you wanted to,” I counter, and the guy rolls his eyes.
“Whatever,” he mutters, and then he tucks his tail and walks away.
My hand slips from Elijah’s shoulder, and I take my seat next to him. He’s taken to grabbing one of the waters I sat on the table when I first approached, drinking it slowly.
I say nothing—I’m unsure what to say.
“Something that doesn’t belong to him, huh?” Elijah finally asks, and I sigh heavily, dropping my head into my hands.
“Can we forget that just happened? Please?” I damn near beg.
His sweet laugh fills the space around us, and I lift my head slowly to find him blushing, grinning down at his drink.
“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “It was far too hot to forget.”
Oh. He liked that?
A large part of me is incredibly relieved, because if I’m honest, Elijah is mine. If he were just some guy I met and really liked, things would be different. But when he’s Elijah and Benjamin and everything in between? Nope.
All mine—before birth until after death. In every second that ever was or ever will be, he is mine.
“In that case, you can remember it all you want,” I tell him, and Elijah’s grin widens.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything in my world just stops. This right here is the perfect moment—I am nothing if not one-hundred percent content.
Having him here, really knowing him—every horrible thing I’ve ever felt, every moment of isolation—it has all been worth it. It has had a purpose. I’ve never loved another man, and I never will.
There is only Elijah. There is only Benjamin. There is nothing but the two of us.
“Dance with me,” I suddenly say, and my own eyes widen at the demand.
Nobody is currently singing, so a popular pop song is being played over the speakers. The dance floor is decently crowded with couples and groups of friends laughing. Elijah looks over the crowd, then back at me.
“Sure.”
I was expecting more resistance—maybe some embarrassment—but Elijah jumps off of his stool and grabs my hand, dragging me to the dance floor.
Once we’ve pushed past a few groups of people and made ourselves comfortable in our own little spot on the hardwood, Elijah wraps his arms around my neck and peers up at me. Those big hazel eyes feign innocence, but I can see right through him.
His hips press forward into mine, and his lips tilt up slightly when I shiver against him. He’s loving this—he’s loving my reaction to his body. I can play this game too.
I grip Elijah’s hips and pull him flush against me, dipping my head to press our foreheads together. Rocking to the beat of the music, Elijah has begun to pant against me, and I have reason to believe it has nothing to do with exertion.
My fingers brush generously over those little dimples on his back. I saw them plenty in my dreams, on Benjamin, of course. Seeing them on Elijah is a whole new toxin for me to get drunk on.
I love seeing him in his little jeans, but I hate that everyone here can see a part of him that I’ve claimed with my mouth and my hands.
Should I claim them with my come? Would that make me feel better?
Maybe. But for now, I’ll touch them as much as I can in front of God and everybody—this way everyone knows who they belong to.