Chapter 49
Tristen
I’ve paced this side of the bathroom door for what feels like hours. Long enough that even Hatley got annoyed with me and left.
I don’t know what to do. Or say.
How do I not scare the shit out of him?
My stomach is in knots, my eyes burning thanks to how hard I’m staring at the floor.
I made him come.
It’s the thought that keeps hitting me like a semi, slamming into my subconscious with every step.
I’ve never … I mean I’ve been in the room before with Hatley and all, but it’s never been a thing that I made happen.
At least, not intentionally or knowingly, and yet here I am.
Like a lost puppy wandering around just beyond reach of Emmett with my heart in my throat and my stomach twisting so violently, it’s got to be rung dry by now.
Did he hate it?
The notion makes me feel even worse that he’s in there freaking out for the opposite reason I am.
I kissed him. I love kissing him.
I touched him. Fuck, I loved that, too.
So why won’t he open the fucking door?
Forcing myself to halt at the peeling laminate covering the door, I press a hand against it.
“I’m gonna leave these out here,” I whisper to the wood tint beneath the white facade with an all too familiar ache in my pounding chest.
I hate that he hides. I hate that he feels like he needs to. And more than anything?
I hate whatever made him this way.
With one last whisper of choppy breath, I drop the clean clothes on the worn carpet and tear myself away from the bathroom with a hand to my side.
My feet land heavy, my shoulders up near my ears, the familiar tingling prickling at the tips of my fingers.
The stairs are in sight, though they’re the last thing I want to see, when the click of the lock on the bathroom door echoes along the walls, making me jump.
He’s just getting the clothes. Keep walking.
I slow down even more at the sound of a creak. The one the door makes when it’s open more than halfway.
The pattering of feet has my breath catching, and I turn just in time for Emmett’s body to collide with mine.
We crash to the floor, his body landing on top of me, and I let out a startled yelp at the impact.
“What the hell, bubbles?” I wheeze out, my arms instinctively going around him, his forearm digging into my bruised rib.
Wide eyes meet mine, his pumping chest leaning into me, and I feel a sweat breaking out on my brow. “I’m sorry, I—”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips, drawing my sight.
Despite everything … like the pain in my chest and the turbulence to my gut, my cock thickens under his weight.
“I mean …” Sight dropping, he looks at me through his damp lashes, his sweet eyes bloodshot and his face flushed. “I-I’ll take it back.”
He pushes on my shoulders, and I hiss as he starts to make his way to his knees between mine.
But instead of getting his feet under him, he keeps moving down.
I blink, stunned, my ribs throbbing. “Wha-at—” I lick my lips and force a shallow breath, “—what’re you doing?”
“It’s okay,” he whispers thickly, like maybe he’s talking to himself instead of me.
“Emmett.”
His fingers curl around the waistband of my shorts, tugging slowly, all while whispering those same two words over and over.
It’s okay. It’s okay.
But nothing about this feels okay.
His hands are shaky. His shoulders stiff around his ears.
We’re in the fucking hallway.
His eyes … they’ve gone dull. Like he’s not even here. Not even looking at the fabric he’s pulling on.
“Emmett,” I murmur but that doesn’t stop him from freeing my cock.
I’m soft, laying limp on my nuts, and he manages to get the elastic just beneath my length.
“It’s okay,” he says louder this time, just barely above a whisper. “I deserve it.”
My heart pounds and my throat goes thick.
“Deserv—”
He dives forward, lips grazing me before I can wedge a hand between us and grip his chin.
“Red.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs again, and pushes against my hand, attempting to get closer.
My stomach is in my fucking throat, my cock receding into my body as his tears drip onto my wrist.
“I’ll be good and suck it back like the worthless boy that I am.”
He dives for me again, and God help me, I palm his neck and force him back.
“Emmett. Stop.”
Tears stain his lashes and leak down his cheeks as I sit up, putting more distance between me and his concerningly-eager mouth as I snap the elastic band back along my waist.
My chest grows hot, the throbbing dulled as something ugly rears up to steal my focus.
“What the fuck, Emmett?”
It comes out harsher than I intend, and I drop my grip from his throat.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” he cries and buries his face in his hands as I push to my feet.
“Sorry? What?” I fix the way my cock hangs in my shorts, my jaw flexing with its clench. “I don’t fucking get it.”
For a moment, he’s quiet, though his shoulders shake.
“I c-can take it back,” He whimpers and crawls closer. “It’s okay. Just let me have it back.” He claws at my shorts, yanking at the material I have to hold onto. “Just let me. It’ll be good, I promise.”
“I said no. Not like this.”
I slap his hands back when he won’t stop yanking, the sting radiating across my palm.
“Stop!” I shout, my chest pumping with my breath, my face red hot with anger.
He finally stills. Drops his hands.
Fucking … shakes.
And I come unglued.
“What the actual fuck, Emmett?” I grind out through gritted teeth. “I can’t touch your goddamned back, but you’re desperate to suck. Me. Off. In the fucking hallway? Like it’s no big deal? Like I didn’t say fucking no?”
He’s unmoving on the floor, just a lump of what I thought was a friend. Maybe even a boyfriend, if that’s what he’d eventually wanted.
Hell, I’d still give him any-fucking-thing if he’s just look at me.
Show me those eyes. The sweet ones full of fire and life.
Not this. Not like this.
I lace my hands behind my head and take another step away from him. The grip stings, his nail marks evident in my skin, and I squeeze them harder. At least then, I’d know that this started out well. That this was just as willing on his part at the beginning as it was on mine.
He said green. He said okay.
That’s the catch, though, isn’t it?
He was still saying okay while he was hovering over me, attempting to take something I didn’t give.
Why?
He remains unmoving. Silent on the floor. Still on his knees, his hands limp in his lap.
I force a breath and nearly cry out at the pain that lances through my torso.
It takes everything in me to hold down the dry sob that threatens the back of my throat.
Why?
Dropping my arms, I flex my hands against the tingle that takes them over. The center of my chest caves in and I nearly collapse.
Whywhywhywhy.
“I can’t stay here,” I choke out, turning away from him.
I fucking run.
Down the stairs. Into Hatley’s room. Throwing on the nearest thing, I shove my feet into boots.
I’m shaking when I make it to the living room in search of my go-bag, my alarm blaring somewhere on the couch and making my ears ring.
Too loud. Too much.
“Please,” I hear him mutter once the room falls silent. “Don’t.”
I swallow hard and slowly turn to face him with my heart pounding a mile a minute behind the strap across it.
“I have to go to work.”
He stiffens and I ignore the tear tracks down his cheeks. The redness to his eyes. The splotches on his cheek washing out the faded freckles I bet would come out in the sunlight.
“Don’t … don’t go,” he cries and reaches for me.
It feels forced. Artificial.
He doesn’t reach for me.
It’s always me reaching for him. Asking for him. Starting this fucking mess of shit that he’s clearly not okay with.
This is all my fault.
“I can’t,” I say back just as quietly and grab his sleeves to plant his hands back at his sides. “I … I have to go.”
“But Tristen …”
I halt at the door, my hand on the knob in a death grip and my jaw gritted tight. “It’s okay, bub.”
His head shakes, more tears flowing from his eyes. “No! It’s not. I’m sorry!”
The second alarm, the one telling me I need to leave now, blares from my pocket and my eye twitches.
I ignore the urge to bolt and silence the thing with a press of the button through my pants.
The air is thick between us, his shining eyes searching for mine and I can’t. I can’t hold his gaze.
All the space. The unknown. The fucking pain looking back at me.
It’s unbearable.
It fucking hurts.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Em,” I manage to choke out with burning eyes.
And I leave.
Make sure the door is locked behind me.
Climb into the cab of the truck that smells like him—us—and I lose it.