Chapter 7 The Plank #3
His eyes widen for a brief second before he lets out a soft, “Oh. Yeah.” His cheeks darken. “You’re welcome. Will you finish my hair?” he asks, seeming shyer with clothes on than when he was half-naked. But still not really all that shy.
“I will.” Tristan with pants on is much more manageable than without.
He walks back over to me, and I put my hands on his shoulders, turning him away. He doesn’t say anything. Several seconds pass without either of us speaking, and I miss our conversation.
“You’re being too quiet,” I finally say as I move his hair around to find where I left off. “Run out of things to say?”
“I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night.”
“You and me both.”
“Can we sit?” he asks. “I’m a little light-headed.”
“Uh…yeah. Sure. Can I get you some water?”
“Nope. Just need to sit.”
I drop the lock of hair I’m holding and watch him sink to the floor.
I kneel at first, but I need to be lower to see what I’m doing.
I sit down behind him. He’s sitting with his legs crossed, his back straight.
To get close enough, I have to practically straddle him—in the most gentlemanly sense of the word.
Okay, maybe I’m not such a gentleman. But I do have to get closer. So, with my legs bent, and my feet planted on the floor beneath his knees, I get close enough. Thank God for baggy jeans.
It’s intimate in a way I can’t even talk about. If he weren’t my brother’s best friend…
Shit, this is going from difficult to impossible. I breathe as well as I can and try to even out his haircut. “Does Connor really hate his room?”
Tristan sighs. “Let’s not talk about Connor right now.”
I shut my mouth.
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t talk at all,” he says after a few seconds.
I almost laugh. “You’re not making it easy.”
“Sorry. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”
That ship sailed awhile back but saying that won’t help. “I’m fine. Are you uncomfortable?”
“Not like how you mean.”
“What do I mean?” I ask, wondering.
“You mean like—do you make me nervous. Like whether I feel safe or not.”
He’s right.
“And?” I ask.
“I do feel safe. And nervous. But I’m not uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t expecting that detailed of an answer. I feel like I should revise mine.”
“You can if you want,” he says.
“Ask me again.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, his voice lower, the words nearly whispered. Our unusual connection plunges its hooks into me. I want him so much, I’m suffocating.
“Very.”
“Why?”
My desire—my need—is a very real thing between us now.
I’m still rock hard. Baggy jeans not withstanding, he’s shifted since I sat down.
Now, his body is tucked into mine so completely, the slight pressure of his lower back on my erection has me pulsing.
There’s no mistaking it. I take a deep breath.
“I think you might already know the answer to that.”
With a measured hesitation, he asks, “Should I go back to bed?”
I know how to answer that, but I don’t want to say it. I do anyway. “You should.”
In another world—some parallel universe, he gets up and walks away.
But in my kitchen, in this universe, tonight, his body melts back into mine.
The pressure is now everywhere. My gut, my heart, my head, my cock.
I put down the scissors, and my arms wrap around him like it’s nothing.
Like it’s what they’ve been meant for all along.
“Tristan…” I say, but it’s less word than it is a breath.
“Yeah?”
The world and all the rest of my thoughts fall away. In this universe, right now, it’s him, and it’s me, and we’re all that matters. “Can I take you out sometime?”
“Connor’s my best friend. And I’m moving to Houston in a few days,” he whispers.
“Just friends?” I ask because I guess I need an update.
“Yeah. Always. Archer…is this really happening?”
“Apparently not. Still seemed like it was worth asking.”
His head turns until his cheek is against my nose. I could kiss his face.
“You’re gay?” he asks.
“Bi.”
“Oh,” he says softly. “I didn’t know. I mean, I wasn’t sure. Still, it’s not a good idea.”
“I’ve had worse.”
I can feel him smile, the stretch of his skin against mine. My eyes close.
Is he safe?
I have no clue.
“One day, maybe?” I ask.
His answer is another whisper. “Promise?”
“I will if you will.”
“I swear.”
Letting my mouth graze his chin, I murmur my response. “Me too.”
His head tilts—it falls against mine. And I fall too—into the deep water of him. Into the rising tide. The plank isn’t the problem anymore. The water is the problem. The depth of it. The inevitability of it.
I touch my lips to his cheek—not quite a kiss, just my mouth on his smooth skin. But then he turns, and our lips meet. Pure fire lights my veins, and I slide a hand into his hair, readjusting, needing this—him. Just once before he’s gone.
At that exact moment, there’s a cough from the other side of the house. Connor.
Tristan startles and pulls away.
It startles me too. Into reality.
It’s a slap in the face, but I need it. To wake me the fuck up.
He turns, rising to his knees, his eyes full of alarm, his body tense and rigid. “I'm sorry. I’m so sorry. For making such a mess.”
I avoid his eyes as well as I can and say, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, just tell me where your broom is.” He glances around at all his fallen hair.
“I don't have a broom.”
“Your vacuum then.”
I shake my head. I don’t have one of those yet, either, but it’s on the list.
“Dustbuster?” he asks, and he sounds desperate.
“Tristan, I’m sorry,” I say, meaning for my lack of a Dustbuster and my hands and my mouth and for everything—the mess I’ve made.
“Archer, I—Fuck.” He sighs. He gives up. “Goodnight.” He stands, and he’s gone.
I put my head into my hands again. Rationalizing.
Trying to make sense of the existence of someone like him in my world.
Am I really supposed to let him go? If I am, then why? Why was he just right here?
Because sometimes it’s so fucking hard…
Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s right from what you’ll regret forever.