Chapter 17 Trapped
TRAPPED
Capitol Hill at seven p.m. is a microdose of hell, all neon and wind and bodies pressed so close they could suffocate you before you even make it to the entrance.
Vincent is already waiting at the host stand, running his finger along the seam of a black Moleskine, eyes laser-focused on the maitre d’ like he’s negotiating a hostage release.
The place is called “Murmur”, lowercase, no sign, just a street number stenciled on a frosted window but the inside is louder than a playoff crowd and twice as desperate.
He sees me and waves, one of those low-key, palm-down gestures that doesn’t draw a crowd but does make you feel instantly like a delivery guy with the wrong address.
I nod, push through the glass, and immediately regret every part of this plan.
Vincent stands, smooths his shirt, then leans in for a cheek kiss. It’s not European, not friendly, just a brush of skin to say I’m in his world now and it’s best if I play along.
He smells like cedar and black pepper and some chemical top note that could strip paint. The hug is nothing, just two slabs of meat pressed together and then pulled apart.
The host walks us to a two-top against the back wall, right under a pipe leaking condensation onto the cement.
Vincent takes the inside seat, back to the wall, the better to watch everything. He’s in a suit jacket, no tie, dress shirt open just enough to show collarbone.
I’m in a hoodie and jeans, because that’s all I own that doesn’t smell like sweat or defeat.
Menus arrive, and so does water, and within twenty seconds Vincent is talking about the wine list, about how the owner used to be a sommelier at some place in Madrid, and how “these are the only deviled eggs I’ve ever respected.”
He orders for both of us, which should piss me off, but honestly, it’s a relief not to have to perform interest in anything.
I zone out for the first few minutes, focusing on the way the table wobbles if you rest your arms a certain way, or how the candle in the cheap glass holder is just about to burn out but no one’s noticed.
Vincent’s voice slides up and down, soft, unctuous, then biting when he’s making a point.
He leans in, eyes on mine. “So,” he says, “tell me how a guy goes from sub to first star overnight.”
I choke on the water, cough, wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “Luck? Mostly I just show up.”
He laughs, real and loud, and people actually turn. “Bullshit,” he says, and for a second, I almost like him. “Nobody just shows up. There’s always a reason.”
I could tell him the truth, that the reason is trauma, that the reason is watching four guys die on the ice and stepping over your captain's body to survive, that the reason is sometimes just inertia, but that sounds like an after-school special. So I shrug.
He doesn’t let it go. “Was it always hockey?” he says. “Were you one of those kids who slept with a stick in your bed?”
I think about Darius, about our first team sleepover, about how the only thing I wanted in bed was to be held long enough to believe it was possible. I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say. “Started early. Couldn’t quit.”
Vincent steeples his fingers, still watching. “What about after the shooting?” He says it softly, almost like he’s sorry. “You ever think about walking away?”
That one lands harder than I expect. I feel my jaw twitch, just for a second, then I clamp down. “All the time,” I say. “But what would I do? Open a vape shop?”
He grins, pleased at the comeback, and the conversation shifts.
He tells a story about the worst team in the Ivy League, how they used to haze the freshmen by making them eat a whole wheel of brie before practice, and I laugh at the right part, but I’m not there. Not really.
My hand is under the table, clutching my phone, thumb flicking the screen on and off, hoping to see a name that’s not coming.
Vincent watches me do it, and his smile changes, goes a little sharper, a little more hungry. “You waiting on someone?” he says.
I put the phone away. “No. Just… habit.”
He reaches over, covers my hand with his.
His skin is warm, dry, and it should be comforting but all I feel is the microtexture of his palm and the way the tips of his fingers seem to press down a little harder than they need to.
I leave my hand there, not because I want to, but because it’s easier than pulling away and making a scene.
The food comes.
It’s six tiny plates, none of them recognizable, everything covered in microgreens and little smears of sauce. Vincent eats with focus, cutting each bite to exact size, never letting a single drop hit his lips.
I pick at mine, chewing slow, tasting nothing. I could be eating raw insulation for all I notice.
He talks about journalism, about deadlines, about how the only thing worse than being a benchwarmer is being a “content farm slave.” He drops names I don’t recognize and laughs when I don’t catch the references.
He asks about my family, about Tacoma, about the bakery, and I answer in sentences as short as possible, because the only thing I have left is the ability to avoid.
When the check comes, he snatches it before I can blink. “Let me,” he says, and I nod, grateful. The place is still roaring, but it feels like a fish tank and I’m out of air.
Outside, the night is colder than I expected.
Vincent pulls his jacket tighter, then steps into my space, close enough that I can see the shine on his teeth.
He glances around, sees that the sidewalk is empty, then pushes me back against the fender of a parked Subaru.
His hand goes to the back of my neck, fingers splayed, gentle but in control. He kisses me, hard, the kind of kiss you do for the cameras even if there are no cameras.
His mouth is cold from the wine, but his breath is hot, and he doesn’t hesitate, not for a second.
I kiss him back, but it’s all technique and no feeling. Like shaking hands at a funeral. My lips move, my tongue flicks, but my head is miles away, running every possible scenario where Darius sees us and doesn’t care.
Vincent pulls back, not breaking eye contact. He breathes out, and the smell of cologne and whiskey and aftershave is so strong it makes me want to sneeze.
“Want to come over?” he says.
The right answer is “no.” The right answer is “I’m not ready,” or “I have practice in the morning,” or “my body is currently occupied by the ghost of someone else.” But I say “sure,” because that’s what you do when you want to forget.
He grins, the kind of smile that means he already won, and leads me to his car, his hand never leaving my neck.
Inside, it’s warm. He puts a playlist on, something with thumping bass and vocals so soft they’re just a suggestion.
His hand drops to my thigh, squeezes, and I feel my heart rate spike, but it’s not excitement, it’s survival mode.
He doesn’t talk on the drive. I watch the city pass, all the familiar places warped by the reflection in the glass.
We stop at a light and he looks over, his hand now parked just above my knee.
“You good?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not.
He drives with the efficiency of someone who knows the route by heart. The whole time, I keep my hands folded in my lap, watching my own knuckles turn white.
The apartment building is new, faceless, glass and steel and not a single scrap of personality. We take an elevator up, and he unlocks the door with a swipe of his phone.
Inside, everything is perfect. Minimalist.
The only splash of color is a print of some hockey arena, but it’s hung crooked, which is maybe the most honest thing I’ve seen all night.
He offers me a drink. “I’ve got scotch, if you’re feeling dangerous,” he says. I say, “Whatever you’re having.” He pours two, neat, and hands me one.
We sit on the couch. The music is softer now, almost background, and I wonder if he does this every weekend. I wonder if he’s ever had to work this hard.
He slides closer, his knee against mine. He runs his hand through my hair, gentle, then trails his fingers down the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone like he’s cataloging a detail for later.
He kisses me again, this time slower, but still with that edge of “I’m in charge here.” His hands are everywhere, tracing my shoulders, my arms, then slipping under the hem of my shirt. I let him.
I let him do anything he wants, because I want to want it, even if it’s never going to feel the way I need.
He breaks the kiss, catches his breath, and says, “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
I nod, and it’s true. Maybe not him, but something. Anything to drown out the other thing.
He stands, leads me by the hand to the bedroom. It’s as spotless as the rest, bed made, sheets tight, one pillow with a crease that says it’s never been used.
He pulls off his shirt, drops it to the floor, then steps in, unzips my hoodie, pulls it off slow, like he’s unwrapping a present.
His mouth goes to my neck, teeth nipping just enough to leave a mark, and his hands are already on my belt, working it open with the skill of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
I close my eyes, let him move me where he wants, let him push me down onto the bed and climb on top.
His body is lean, wiry, but strong.
He holds my wrists down, kisses my jaw, then bites my earlobe, all of it practiced, but not unpleasant. I’m hard, but it feels like it’s happening to someone else.
He grinds against me, his breath speeding up, his hand sliding down to cup me through my jeans. I arch up, give him what he wants, and he moans, the sound half-laugh, half-growl.
He undresses me with surgical precision, peeling off layers, always keeping at least one hand on my skin, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
Naked, I feel cold and exposed, but he covers me with his body, his mouth finding every spot that will make me gasp. He’s good at this. Too good.
He sucks me off with relentless focus, never looking away, his eyes locked on mine the whole time. I want to close them, but I can’t. Not when he’s watching.