Chapter 43
Will
“It’s not that I’m happy he felt bad, obviously,” Mat says again. “It’s just that it’s so wonderful he cares, you know? ‘Cause he must, right? He must care if it bothered him that we were together without him, right?”
“Ugh,” I say. It’s the best I can manage. It’s early. We’re sitting on my bed, leaning against the headboard, having our first coffee. I’m under the covers, and Mat is on top of them. It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation. More like the tenth.
“D’you think he feels okay now?”
“Yeah, Mat. I think the talk we had really helped.”
When he was here on Sunday afternoon, Mat and I told Trouble we won’t mess around again unless he is here, and Trouble has agreed to make sure he’s here a lot more than once a week. Mat’s deliriously happy about it. Seriously, he’s off his face and can’t even pretend to be cool about it.
I’m happy too, to be honest.
Trouble stayed over on Sunday night, and we ordered takeout and watched something on TV that wasn’t True Blood.
Neither of us even had to ask him to stay.
He just didn’t leave. Mat’s face was a picture as it got later and later.
I could tell he was watching the clock, and it was taking everything he had not to ask Trouble if he was staying or leaving.
At bedtime, Trouble used the toothbrush Mat bought for him a few weeks ago.
He used it and hardly rolled his eyes at all.
Just the tiniest flick of blue upward. So small and so quick you’d be forgiven for missing it.
Mat’s been in seventh heaven all week, skipping the gym, sleeping in, listening to corny-as-hell music, and not flinching or changing the song when I tease him.
Truth be told, I’ve skipped the gym a few times this week too.
I’m not sorry about it. Right now, Whatsapp-ing Trouble on our group chat to ask how he slept seems much more pressing than getting pumped.
Me: How’d you sleep, Trouble?
Mat: We missed you last night.
Mat: We’re missing you this morning too.
Three dots pop up and flash on our screens.
Mat beats him to it.
Mat: So happy it’s Thursday! Can’t wait to see you tonight.
The dots disappear and then start up again.
Trouble: I need a raincheck for tonight.
Mat looks at his screen in horror, and his face drops. “Oh fuck. What’s wrong? Have we done something to upset him?”
“Of course not. Everything’s fine. He probably has something going on.”
Mat: No! Whyyyyy?
When no more dots pop up, Mat starts to panic. “Tell him we haven’t messed around without him, Will. Tell him. He might be feeling upset again. Tell him to come over right now. Tell him we’ll skip work and talk about it.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. Mat is a lost cause.
His hair is a wild mess of curls and his lips are still puffy from sleep, and for some crazy reason, I find all of it so fucking adorable it’s taking everything I have not to lean over and kiss him.
“I’m not texting him shit, Mattie. Everything’s fine.
He probably has something going on. Let’s try to remember that Trouble is a normal person with normal responsibilities. ”
Mat looks at me like I’m insane. “Normal. Normal? There’s nothing even vaguely normal about Trouble!”
My phone pings. I show Mat the screen.
Trouble: I’ll make it up to you. Promise.
“See?” I say.
Trouble: Tomorrow night. Be ready at eight. I’m sending a car for you.
Mat’s beside himself. “He’s taking us out? He’s planned something for us? What’d you think it is? Do you think he’s taking us to the thing he always has on Fridays and Saturdays?”
I sigh. “I’m sure the thing he has is work. He probably has the night off tomorrow, and he’s probably taking us somewhere for dinner. We met him on a Saturday, remember? He must get a night off now and then.”
“Where do you think he’s taking us? Do you think we’re going out or somewhere where we can…?”
“Oh my God, Mattie.” I laugh. “You’re out of control.
You’re so fucking whipped. You can’t go more than a few seconds without thinking about boning him.
” I tackle him onto the bed, holding one of his wrists down and jabbing him in the side with the other, making him thrash and shriek with laughter.
My dick, which was showing signs of interest simply from being close to Mat and getting messages from Trouble, leaps to full attention, thickening so hard and fast I forget what I’m doing.
I stop tickling him, and our laughter comes to an abrupt stop.
“Not just him,” whispers Mat.
“Huh?”
“It’s not just Trouble I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Fuck,” I wheeze. “Trouble needs to get over here. He needs to be here a lot. He needs to stop not being here.”
“He needs to be here a lot, a lot,” Mat agrees. “Like all the time, a lot.”
“Yeah,” I say softly when I realize what we’re both thinking. “He needs to be here all the time.”
I think of our conversation incessantly throughout the day.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I know, objectively, it’s crazy.
Anyone could tell you that. It’s factually crazy to move in with someone when you’ve only known them for a couple of months.
Certifiable. Especially when they’re cagey as hell, hardly tell you anything, and you don’t even know what their profession is.
Especially when you don’t even know their real name.
Anyone could tell you that kind of thing is completely insane.
You could walk up to ten people on the street right now and ask them if it’s a good idea, and ten out of ten of them would laugh in your face. That’s just a fact.
The thing is, though, the apartment has started to feel so empty when Trouble isn’t here. The other day Mat said, “I wonder if we need a rug or something to warm the living room up.”
I knew a rug wouldn’t do a damn thing to help.
Nothing would. The space feels echoey and cold now, even when Mat and I are both home.
It never used to feel like that. It used to feel complete.
Like comfort and home. When the front door was closed and we were both inside, it felt like everything was as it should be.
Now it feels like something is missing. Something big.
Something beautiful. Something with glossy black hair and Bette Davis blue eyes.
Eyes that dance in amusement as often as they spark in lust. Pillowy lips that turn toward Mat and me of their own volition in the mornings nowadays.
Offering themselves for sweet kisses as well as dirty open-mouth ones.
A smokin’ hot body and a massive cock that’s so goddamn attractive I can’t stop thinking about it, no matter what I do.
“For the love of God, stop changing your shirt,” I grumble.
We have no idea where Trouble is taking us or what he has planned, so we don’t know the dress code. When Mat texted Trouble to ask about it, Trouble simply replied with a smiling face with horns emoji.
So far, Mat’s tried white linen and thrown that on the floor for being too creased.
In fairness, linen is a real bitch to iron.
He’s tried and discarded a fine light-blue stripe for unknown reasons, and he’s currently shoving his arms and head into a still-mostly-buttoned faded-blue chambray.
He pulls it on and looks at me expectantly.
It’s not a color he usually wears, and it sets off his coloring in a way that makes him look different from how he usually looks.
It highlights streaks of gold in his hair where the light overhead hits it. It lights his eyes up too.
When and how the fuck did his eyes start looking like that?
Never-ending. Infinite. Light flecks of amber so painfully familiar and so scarily new it makes it hard for me to look away.
He looks so fucking hot that there isn’t a single part of me that knows how to make sense of the fact I’ve known him my whole life, but I’ve only started kissing him recently.
“That one,” I say softly. “You should wear that one.”
“This one?”
He does up a button, and I find myself captivated by the sight of his hands working the tiny object through the gap in the fabric.
His neck and a V of his chest are still exposed.
His skin looks pale, creamy, and smooth.
As I look, I have a sudden flash of how he looks when he comes.
His neck strains and arches back and a pink bloom spreads across his neck and up his cheeks.
A deep, heavy ache rolls through me. So much so that I can’t speak, so I simply nod once.
“You look good, Will.” He smiles shyly, stroking his bottom lip thoughtfully, sucking it on one side and gnawing on it. “Not just good. Hot. You look hot.”
Fucking hell.
“Do you think Trouble’s taking us somewhere public? Do you think we’re going to his place? Maybe he’s going to cook for us or something. Do you think we’ll be around other people?”
Mat laughs and swats my arm lightly.
Trouble: Car’s downstairs. Hurry.
“Where are we headed?” I ask the driver as we get into the car.
The driver shrugs and says, “I’m under strict instructions not to say.”
“Are we being kidnapped?” Mat asks hopefully.