51. FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-ONE
Alex: I have resourced all means of communication with my boss, so I’m now forced to text you.
Alex: Please have him call me ASAP. It’s about Mr. Malone.
I put down my sketchbook so I have free range of motion and quickly text that I’d tell Hunter when he got back.
Alex: He isn’t there?!
Alex: Fml.
Alex: I’m forwarding my Botox bill to him at the end of this quarter. These stress lines are making me age fifty years.
I roll my eyes at his dramatics.
I’ll t3ll him?
I’ll tell him
Sorry. This k3yboard sucks.
KEYBOARd
Alex: For the love of David Bowie, stop.
Alex: I got it.
What a dick.
I toss the phone and pick up my sketchbook and pencil again.
Malone is Xavier’s last name. Maybe the guy is going to back off.
He dabbles in drugs and politics; he doesn’t need airplanes and whatever else OAT does.
This whole thing is because Hunter had One Tooth Ray arrested.
If it had been maybe Dan or someone higher up the payroll, he’d be more cutthroat.
I’m leaning towards this important message being just that.
Xavier is no longer interested now that he has made his point.
My hand cramps from drawing for so long, but I really want to get this picture right. The one I drew on Hunter’s body was awful. I’d kill for some paint and brushes, or even some more cans, so that I can be more creative, but this will have to do.
Most people prefer to go realistic with their art, especially if they want to be recognized or make any money off it. Or maybe that’s just what I assume.
I never got the chance to look into it as a career path; I only daydreamed about doing it. But my style fits me better.
My life has always been obscured and made no sense, so it only seems right to make my art the same way. I work on shading the plane's wing some more, and I'm not too worried for once when Hunter takes a while.
It can’t be easy dealing with what he does, but he promised me that whatever happens at his parents' house won’t change us. The fact that he even agreed to tell them eventually is huge.
I never really thought that I was a patient person, but I guess I am to an extent since I’m willing to compromise. At the end of the day, I don’t want to be away from Hunter.
I’m in love with him.
Thumping my head against the bay windowsill, I rub my strained eyes and slowly trail my hand down my chest. It beats harder and faster whenever I think about Hunter.
My face heats when I recall last night. Not just the sex part, but after.
How he cleaned me up and let me spoon him. How he told me I was perfect.
I’ve never been perfect before.
“Damn it,” I say with a sigh.
I’m so screwed.
As I glance down at the picture again, I trace the lines with my finger, careful not to smudge it, and daydream about the future.
Since I haven’t received any word on the jobs I applied for, I pretend I’ll get hired at the best paying one.
I think my parents would be proud of that.
They’d want me to make good money and be in love.
I wonder how much rings cost?
“No,” I tell myself before I Google it. “That’s just crazy.” But is it?
I’ve known for weeks now that I want Hunter. And I’ve known I’ve been falling for him since the beginning, despite fighting the urge to. It was unavoidable.
We are two magnets that had no hope of preventing a collision.
I’m not mad at it. And even though I have to wait, it’ll be worth it. We can stay in our little world where no one but us matters while I keep working to get my shit together.
It’ll be fucking worth it.
Banana bread makes everything better.
And it smells amazing.
I’m staring into the oven like a creep, waiting for the last minute until the timer goes off. Originally, I’d planned on making this with Hunter, but I guess my patience doesn’t extend to fantastic gooey bread.
Besides, no matter what happens, I’ll stuff him so full of the stuff he’ll have no choice but to feel better. I stand up, glancing at the timer, and see twenty seconds.
Giddy as all hell, I hurry to get the oversized oven mitts and slide them on my hands.
“Oh, I’m coming for you,” I tell the bread. “And you’re going to make my boyfriend happy.”
Is it too early to call him my boyfriend?
Fuck it. He’s mine.
I’ll get my name tattooed across his perfect ass so no one can go near it again.
Oddly obsessed with the idea, I envision it, smirking to myself. The timer goes off, and I spring into action. As I pop the oven open, I hear the crunch of sand and gravel outside.
Hunter is back.
Finally.
My heart does a little backflip, so I move faster to get these stupid mitts to grip the edge of the baking dish.
I’m unreasonably excited to try it—never been much of a cook. And if it tastes good, and Hunter likes it, all the better. Making him happy feels like an important job. One that I take pride in.
The front door opens, and I say fuck it and grab the dish awkwardly while holding my breath to make sure I don’t drop it. I turn around, glance up, and Hunter stands in the kitchen.
There are no smiles.
No swoony questions about what I made or how come it smells so good in the house.
Only hollow pits where his eyes used to be stare back at me.
My stomach sinks, and I fucking know.
“Gray,” he starts, voice flat and lifeless. “Gray, we need to talk.”
I drop the baking dish.
Glass shatters at my feet, chunks of scalding hot bread land on my bare toes. I take a step back, the oven mitts sliding off my hands. They were too big anyway. Hunter looks at the mess on the kitchen floor, then at my feet, where a line of blood forms over my left foot.
I take another step.
“I’ll…clean it up,” he says, raking his hand through his hair.
“No.”
“We just need to talk.”
“NO!” I scream. “No, we don’t need to talk, Hunter! We don’t need to talk about a fucking thing! I’ll clean up the mess!”
Something is cracking inside me, worse than the glass on the floor, worse than anything has cracked in a long time. I’m not ready for it.
The broom is inside the pantry, so I take it out, rip the dust pan off the pole, and hurry to start sweeping. My vision blurs, but I keep going.
He wants to talk .
No he wants to fucking kill me. That’s what he wants.
I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it. How many times did I tell myself this was temporary ? How many god damn times did I ignore the red flags? How fucking stupid was I to believe it?
“Please stop,” Hunter’s voice cracks, and I throw the dustpan at him.
“Fuck you!” I roar, my throat clenching with the bass I’m forcing into the scream. “Fuck you.” I toss the broom down and run out of the kitchen.
He follows me. “Gray, listen to me.”
I try to bolt for the front door, but he blocks my path. Growling in frustration, I turn on my heel and run for the stairs. My feet slap over the hardwood, sticky with sweat and blood. When I reach the top, he’s right behind me.
Can’t he see I’m just not fucking ready ?
Of all people, he should understand that. He should respect it. Let me gather the god damned bandages to tend to my fatal wounds.
“Just stop, Gray!” A hot, firm hand grabs the crook of my elbow and wheels me around just before I reach the main bedroom door.
I writhe in his hold, yelling and overall belligerent. I beat on his chest, spitting out every foul thing I can think of because he’s got me trapped in this fucked up corner with no way out. His other hand holds me by the bicep, restraining me.
I never fought before. As soon as I knew I couldn’t win, I gave up. I want to give up now. I want to just lie down and take it, but I can’t.
He doesn’t get to break his fucking promise.
So I spit in his face.
“What the hell? You aren’t letting me talk! No one lets me fucking talk!” he screams in my face before releasing me.
I stumble, fall backward, and land on my ass. “Don’t do it,” I beg, hating how I want to hurt him but can’t stand the way he’s looking at me.
His eyes say he’s heartbroken.
His eyes say he’s defeated.
His eyes say he finally picked who matters more, and it isn’t me.
“Stop,” I whimper and cover my head with my arms. “Stop.”
Everything I’ve chosen to ignore, the hands tearing at my clothes—my body—the broken bones and bruises, the starvation and thirst—it all comes back.
And it hurts so bad I can’t catch my breath.
I shiver like I did on so many cold nights.
I heave like my stomach has been empty for days.
“ What am I doing? ” I hear, but it sounds so far away. “ Gray, please, I’m sorry. ”
None of them are sorry.
Promises are very rarely ever kept.
Hope is for assholes.
Calm means complacency.
Don’t lose your edge, Gray. Keep one eye open and a knife at the ready. Stuff can be replaced, but your life can’t.
I try to breathe, but I can’t. I try to get out of my head, but I’m trapped there.
All the times I thought I hit the bottom, I never even took a single step off the ledge. Forever teetering, wondering when the time would come.
And this is it.
It’s time.
The best time for a predator to strike is when their prey is unaware they are even there.