Chapter 6 Andrew #2
“And how exactly do you think I look at you?” Andrew questions, prevented from dying of embarrassment by his own needless curiosity.
“Like you wonder what I look like naked.”
“Oh.” Andrew laughs, thinking of just how much he’s seen on Nicki’s social media. “I don’t have to wonder. I’ve seen your photo shoots.”
“Then you like what you see,” Nicki simpers, as if Andrew admitting he’s attractive is some kind of victory and not simply a fact. Which is strange because Nicki clearly knows he’s sexy. Why it matters if Andrew thinks so is beyond him.
“Don’t take it too personally. I also enjoy the way an alphabetized spice cabinet or a perfectly balanced bank account look. There are a lot of things I find pleasing to the eye, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It always means something.”
“It doesn’t,” Andrew challenges.
“It does.”
“It really doesn’t,” Andrew insists, crossing his arms.
“Everyone who looks at me like you do wants to fuck me.”
“Were you born just saying everything you think, or was that a side effect of being raised a rich, cis white man?” Andrew asks.
“Fuck you,” Nicki grunts.
Relief settles in Andrew’s gut at the familiar barb.
This is fine. Nicki is just, well—being Nicki.
He flirts and he fucks, and he seemingly has little regard for the destruction he leaves in his wake knowing money can fix any problem he creates.
His behavior towards Andrew is nothing more than his attempt to regain his own perceived loss of control.
If he needs to huff and puff and feel like a big man Andrew can let him. Maybe then he’ll tire himself out and go home and leave Andrew in peace.
“You ready?” Nicki asks, nodding his head towards John who is waiting in the corner for them with an array of safety gear.
“I would be more ready if you’d told me what we were doing tonight so I could’ve researched what to do.”
“You break shit.”
“I did surmise that much. I still would’ve preferred to know exactly what to do.”
“What else is there to know?” Nicki balks. “You wear the required safety gear, and you break as much as possible until your time is up or you feel better, whichever comes first.”
“Which usually comes first for you?” Andrew questions.
“Are you making fun of me?” Nicki asks with an unusual air of curiosity.
“No,” Andrew answers, softening his tone. “I just get the feeling you’ve been here before.”
“Yeah.” Nicki nods, turning his gaze on the far wall. “I come here when I don’t want to think.”
“So you must be here a lot then.”
Nicki’s expression remains defiant as ever, and there’s something in his tone that has Andrew relaxing just slightly. He’s figuring out Nicki’s tells, learning to read him already, and that makes Andrew a little less tense.
“Now you’re fucking teasing me.”
“Just a little,” Andrew confirms, fighting off a smile when Nicki grumbles about khaki wearing assholes.
“I wanna break shit,” Nicki huffs. “Let’s go.”
“Far be it from me to stop you,” Andrew replies, falling into step with Nicki as they cross the room towards John, still waiting quietly and patiently for them.
While John goes over the reason for each piece of gear he’s holding, Andrew removes his watch and stows it in the provided locker along with his cell phone, listening to the entire safety briefing before he begins putting on his own gear.
Nicki, clearly used to coming here, is completely ready to go while Andrew is still struggling with pulling on his coveralls.
“I look ridiculous,” Andrew sighs, not at all a fan of the shoe covers and coveralls, or the goggles he puts on last.
“At least you’ll be safe when you break stuff.”
“I notice you didn’t deny I look ridiculous,” Andrew sighs, unsure how the addition of the gear just makes Nicki seem more badass while making Andrew feel like he should be mopping the floor. Maybe it’s the tattoos. He’d probably make a garbage bag look good.
“Well, you did tell me not to lie.”
Andrew’s mouth falls open. “You fucker.”
Nicki laughs, not a derisive or smug laugh, but something short and sharp that echoes through Andrew’s chest. “Your face.”
“Oh, shut up.”
This makes Nicki laugh harder until he’s bent in half, wheezing as he points at Andrew. He should maybe feel self-conscious or anxious, but only feels mildly amused at how little it took to crack Nicki’s shell. Maybe he’s not such a hard ass after all.
“You know,” Nicki says once he’s managed to stop laughing, “you could star in silent movies with that face of yours.”
“You couldn’t,” Andrew counters, “since you never shut up.”
“Touché, highness.”
Fighting off a smile, Andrew falters when he realizes John is still standing there watching them.
He doesn’t get the chance to get caught in his head overthinking because Nicki nods towards the back door, guiding Andrew into their designated rage room.
The lights are on, but dimmer than the main room, and obnoxiously loud rock music blares in the background.
Andrew’s not entirely sure what he expected, maybe something that looked straight out of a dystopian novel with graffiti and trash. That’s the only version of a rage room he’s ever seen on social media.
That mental image is nothing like what he walks into—an eerily good replica of a living room.
Sure, the walls have seen better days, and it’s clear there has been a lot of repaired damage, but there’s also a couch and a dining table.
There are weathered books on a shelf, along with a few empty frames and a vase of roses sits on the coffee table.
There’s a television on the wall opposite the couch, clearly broken yet just intact enough to add to the air of this as someone’s house.
Without hesitation, Nicki picks up a baseball bat and takes it to the wall, hitting it with such force, Andrew can feel the echoing vibrations in his chest as the wall splinters.
He knew Nicki was strong, not only because he’s a professional athlete but because he can see it in the shape of his body—the muscles in his arms and chest are defined and strong.
Yet seeing the ease with which he slams a hole into the wall with his second hit gives Andrew a new appreciation for the things Nicki’s body is clearly capable of.
Oddly mesmerized by the sight, he finds himself frozen to the spot, watching with rapt attention as Nicki takes out a seemingly endless amount of aggression on the same spot.
It’s only after he’s taken the bat to a vase in a spectacular mess of shattering ceramic that Nicki turns his gaze on Andrew and frowns.
He says something, but with the blaring music Andrew can’t understand the words, though the meaning becomes more clear when Nicki retrieves a second bat and tries to pass it to Andrew.
“No thanks.”
“Take it.”
“I don’t need to break anything,” Andrew tells him, having to yell to be heard.
“No one fucking needs to break shit. We do it because it feels good.”
“I’m good now,” Andrew insists, struggling to imagine breaking anything in here, even things meant to be broken.
“Take the fucking bat.”
“I don’t need it, Nicki.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t,” Andrew yells.
“Yes,” Nicki says, poking Andrew in the chest with the handle of the bat. “You do.”
Frustration simmers close enough to the surface that Andrew’s mask slips. “No.”
“You look pissed off, highness.” His tone is equal parts goading and assessing. “Break something.”
Andrew grabs the bat if only so Nicki will stop, but instead of hitting something he merely wraps his fingers around the handle and lets it fall to his side, trying to breathe deep enough to will away his rising agitation.
“Why do you do that?” Nicki asks.
“Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t get mad.” Nicki crowds into his personal space, pushing his goggles up on top of his head before doing the same to Andrew who feels oddly bereft without the pressure of them on his face.
Nicki is breathing hard, the exertion of his aggression evident in the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“I’m not mad,” Andrew insists.
“Everyone gets mad,” Nicki counters.
“Well, I don’t.”
“Then try it. Get mad. Get pissed off.”
“I don’t want to,” Andrew protests, trying to ignore the sudden tingle of anxiety in his arms.
This situation is so far outside of Andrew’s control, he can’t fathom how to get it back.
“Why?” Nicki demands. “Why don’t you want to be angry?”
“Because people won’t like me,” Andrew screams, caught off guard by the intensity of the statement. His heart thunders in his chest while he waits for Nicki to laugh at him or poke fun.
“You care too much what people think.”
“Maybe I care the right amount,” Andrew counters, clenching his jaw to keep it from quivering.
“Do you care if I like you?”
“What?”
“Do you care if I like you?” Nicki repeats, lifting the bat still in Andrew’s hands so it’s held high. “You don’t, do you?”
Does he? Andrew isn’t sure. He wants Nicki to like him insomuch as he wants everyone to like him, but it’s not the same pressure he feels with his friends or family, or at his job.
He needs them to like him, to tolerate him even when he’s difficult.
It doesn’t really matter if Nicki does because this arrangement of theirs is both transactional and limited.
When it’s over, Nicki isn’t going to stick around, so it won’t matter what he thinks of Andrew in the end.
“Yes,” Andrew answers, taking a steadying breath before adding, “but also no.”
Nicki’s answering smile is delighted and dangerous, and he tightens Andrew’s hold on the baseball bat before reaffixing Andrew’s safety goggles then doing the same to his own.
“Let me see you get angry. Fuck shit up. Show me what you’ve got, highness”
Tentatively, Andrew walks towards the coffee table. It’s an ugly vase, chipped with peeling paint, but there are white roses inside that are so perfect it almost hurts. Sometimes Andrew is tired of trying to be perfect.