Chapter 15 Vincent #3
His hands move up, fingers skimming under my shirt.
He tugs it over my head in a single move, then runs his palms over my chest, down my ribs, up my sides. I shiver, and he grins into my mouth.
He breaks the kiss only to pull his own shirt off. For a second, I just stare at him, he’s got a runner’s body, all sharp edges and lean muscle, a tattoo in Chinese characters on his left shoulder blade.
I wonder if he knows what it actually means.
He pushes me back onto the couch, straddles my lap.
His hands stay on my face this time, fingers in my hair, thumbs stroking along my jaw.
He tastes like whiskey and some expensive cologne, but underneath it, there’s a salt tang, sweat or adrenaline or both.
His hips grind into mine, and I’m hard, so hard I actually gasp when he shifts his weight. He laughs, a low, throaty sound, and slides his hand down to cup me through my jeans.
“You’re easy,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “I like that.”
I want to say something, but my tongue is stuck. He unbuttons my jeans, slides them down with a practiced hand, and then kneels on the floor in front of me.
He looks up, eyes locked on mine, dark and unreadable as wet asphalt, as he pulls my boxers down with a practiced flick of his wrists.
The elastic catches briefly, then gives way. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and my cock springs free, already flushed and straining upward.
For a second, I can't breathe, my lungs frozen mid-inhale, throat tight with something between desire and panic.
Then he takes me in his mouth, slow at first, his lips cool and firm as they stretch around me.
His tongue swirls, deliberate, practiced circles that trace every ridge and vein, while his right hand grips the base with calculated pressure.
He sucks just hard enough to hollow his cheeks and make my hips jump involuntarily against the leather couch that squeaks beneath my sweat-dampened skin.
The sensation is electric, heat and pressure and the wet slick of his tongue.
He’s good at this, really good but what gets me isn’t the skill, it’s the way he never looks away, keeps his gaze locked on me the entire time.
It’s like he’s daring me to look away first.
I brace my hands on the couch, knuckles white, try to keep from making any noise, but it’s useless.
He goes deep, throat opening around me until I feel the back of it flutter, then pulls off with an obscene wet sound, his hand replacing his mouth with a twist that makes my vision blur at the edges.
Then he's back down again, lips stretched taut and glistening, cheeks hollowed into shadows, never breaking the metronome rhythm, never surrendering that calculated control that makes this feel more like a demonstration than desire.
I come faster than I want to, embarrassingly fast, my vision going white at the edges as my hips buck involuntarily against the leather.
My fingers dig into the cushions, knuckles blanched with effort.
He doesn't flinch, just takes it all, throat working methodically, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in one practiced motion.
He sits back on his heels, head tilted slightly, watching me with clinical interest as I struggle to catch my breath, chest heaving, skin prickling with cooling sweat.
It was all over in a flash.
“Good?” he says, and there’s that smile again.
I nod, still dizzy, and he climbs back onto the couch, sits next to me, arm around my shoulders.
He kisses me again, softer now, but it’s not comfort, it’s closure. A clean finish.
He stands, stretches, and says, “Want a shower?” like he’s offering dessert.
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t.
He leads me to the bathroom.
It’s as clinical as the rest of the place, white tile, nothing on the counters except a single bottle of body wash.
He turns on the water, waits for it to heat, then strips off the rest of his clothes.
I follow suit, folding my stuff into a neat pile because I don’t know what else to do.
In the shower, he’s even more efficient. He washes me, hands moving over my shoulders, my chest, down my back, around my ass.
Every touch is deliberate, a checklist, but I let him.
When he presses against me, hard again, I turn and let him push me against the tile.
He jerks himself with one hand while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave half-moon indentations from his nails.
His breath comes in short, controlled bursts against my neck, steam rising between our bodies in the shower's heat.
It takes less than a minute before he grunts, a single, restrained sound and shudders against me, his come hitting the shower floor in thick white ropes that swirl toward the drain in lazy spirals.
He pulls me close, water running over both of us, and for a second I think he’s going to say something real.
But he just kisses my neck, his lips leaving a cold spot when they pull away, then reaches behind me to shut off the tap with a decisive twist that makes the pipes groan once before falling silent.
We towel off in silence. I follow him back to the living room, where he pours another two drinks, hands me one.
He sits next to me, leans back, eyes closed.
After a minute, he says, “You can crash here if you want. I’ve got an early morning, but you can take the couch.”
I almost ask about the bed, but I don’t. I just nod.
He disappears into the bedroom, closes the door behind him.
I sit on the couch, naked except for the throw blanket, and sip the whiskey, letting it burn all the way down.
My skin is buzzing, every nerve lit up, but inside, it’s quiet. A dead channel.
I stare at the ceiling, at the perfect angles of the lighting, and wonder if this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
I think about Darius, about Alki Beach, about the way his hand trembled on my neck, about how careful he was, about how he waited for me to catch up, about how he never took more than I was willing to give.
I think about how it felt to be wanted, not just for what I could give, but for the empty space I left behind.
I finish the drink, curl up on the couch, and close my eyes.
When I wake, the sun is bleeding in through the glass, and the world is exactly the same.
———
The couch is not built for sleeping.
I wake with my neck at a right angle to my body, and for a second, I don’t remember where I am.
The city’s laid out beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, clouds stacked like bricks on the horizon.
The smell of fresh coffee is so strong it hurts.
I sit up, scrub my hands over my face, and try to get my bearings.
My clothes are folded neatly on the end table, right next to my phone, which is dead. Classic.
The apartment is even more sterile in daylight. The kitchen is a surgical suite, the counters so clean they reflect the light.
There’s a coffee maker that probably costs more than my car, a row of matching mugs, and a single bowl with a banana in it, perfectly yellow, no blemishes, like it was photoshopped into existence.
A laptop sits open on the table, surrounded by a fortress of identical black notebooks, each one lined up with military precision.
I resist the urge to peek.
There’s a weird hum in my chest, a mix of hunger and dread.
I can’t tell if it’s just a blood sugar crash or something worse.
Vincent emerges from the bedroom wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, hair perfectly messy, skin flawless.
He sees me awake and grins, “Morning. Did you sleep?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Couch is great.”
He pours a cup of coffee, brings it over, and sits on the arm of the sofa, just far enough away that we’re not actually touching.
I take the cup, burn my tongue on the first sip, but it’s better than speaking.
“Busy day?” I say, just to fill the space.
He shrugs. “Not really. I work from home most mornings. Keeps me ahead of the assholes.”
I nod, but my mind is somewhere else. I’m thinking about Darius, about how right now he’d be lacing up at the gym, about how by this hour we’d be three miles into a run and trash-talking each other about who looked worse in compression shorts.
I wonder if he slept at all. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or if he’s already moved on, erased the part of his brain where I used to fit.
Vincent notices the drift, and sets his cup down. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say again, but this time he narrows his eyes.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, voice softer than last night. “Nobody’s perfect at this.”
I almost ask, “At what?” but I know. At moving on. At making it look easy.
He stands, stretches, and says, “I can make eggs, if you want. Or I can call you a car.” It’s not rude. It’s efficient, like everything else about him.
“Eggs sound great,” I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say.
I watch him move around the kitchen, every motion smooth, like he’s practiced for an audience.
I wonder if he does this every weekend, if there’s a script, if I’m just the latest in a string of guys who sat here, hungover and lost, waiting for the world to decide what comes next.
He cracks eggs, whisks them, pours them into a pan, all without missing a beat. “You want cheese?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He plates the food, brings it over, and we eat in silence.
The eggs are perfect, fluffy and rich, but they taste like nothing.
I force half of it down, then give up.
He notices, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sips his coffee, watches me over the rim.
“So,” he says finally. “You want to do this again?”
I’m caught off guard. Not by the question, but by how much I want to say yes.
“Yeah,” I say, because I need it to be true. “I’d like that.”
He smiles, leans in, and kisses my cheek. “You’re cute when you’re not trying to be.”
I laugh, but it comes out hollow.
He checks his watch, then says, “I have to jump on a call in ten. You can stay as long as you want, just lock up when you go.”
“Okay.”
He stands, finishes his coffee, and disappears back into the bedroom.
I hear the water run, the door click, the rustle of clothes.
He re-emerges a few minutes later in a crisp dress shirt and tailored pants, every inch of him put together.
He grabs the laptop, the stack of notebooks, and gives me a quick nod before ducking into the study, where I hear his voice a minute later, calm, confident, making deals or breaking them, I can’t tell.
I finish my coffee, rinse the cup, and sit back on the couch.
My phone is still dead, so I plug it into the charger on the end table and wait.
When it finally boots, there are exactly zero new messages. Not from Darius, not from anyone.
I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over his name.
I want to text him, want to ask if he’s okay, if we’re okay, if last night was as much of a mistake as it feels right now.
Instead, I type out: “hey how’s your morning.”
I stare at it for a full minute before hitting send.
The reply is almost immediate. A thumbs-up emoji.
That’s it.
No words. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just a single, perfect thumb, like he’s saying, “I’m alive. That’s all you get.”
It lands like a punch.
I pull on my clothes, gather my stuff, and stand in the entryway for a long time, staring out at the empty hallway.
I want to scream, or run, or smash something, but instead I just breathe.
I unlock the door, step into the cold, and let it close behind me.
The city is waking up, but it feels like it’s moving in slow motion, every person I pass locked in their own orbit, perfectly sealed off.
I walk the two blocks to the light rail, hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched. I check my phone again, but there’s nothing new.
Not from Darius. Not from Vincent.
I get on the train, sit by the window, and watch the world slide by.
I think about the eggs, about the way Vincent kissed my cheek, about the way he never said “I like you” or “I want to see you again,” but just assumed it, built it into the next move like a chess game.
I think about Darius, about the silence, about the wall he built and how I ran straight into it.
I think about what comes next.
At my stop, I get off, walk home, and let myself into the empty apartment.
I drop my keys, toss my jacket, and collapse on the bed.
The Borges book is still on the nightstand, the ticket stub still marking the page.
I pick it up, flip it open, and try to read, but the words blur and slide off the page.
I close my eyes, press the book to my chest, and tell myself that this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
That it gets easier.
That tomorrow, maybe, the world will look a little less broken.
But right now, all I feel is the emptiness.
And the echo of a thumbs-up, telling me that being alive is the only win that matters.