Chapter 11 #3
I start moving through the crowd—and I’m careful now not to look directly at anybody.
People are clearing away the blankets and throw pillows to make more room for dancing.
I don’t know any of the songs they’re playing, but the beat makes me think of the music they play in clubs—at least, what they play in clubs on those CW shows.
And while some of the dancing is clearly about having fun, some of it is…
not. Guys are taking their shirts off. They’re grinding on each other.
Kissing. Making out. The night is cool, but that doesn’t stop anyone, and I don’t know where to look except the ground, risking a glance now and then so I don’t crash into anyone.
Finally, I find Gray with a crowd of college-aged kids.
No Orion. Nobody who could possibly be an alumni philanthropist. They’re all boys, and they’re all pretty, and the ones who don’t have their shirts off are wearing tops so sheer they’re practically translucent.
They’re all laughing at something Gray said.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “There you are.”
“Oh,” Gray says. “Sorry. Got sidetracked.”
I honestly have no idea what to say—I mean, the whole point of coming here was to do this kind of outreach. Somehow, I come up with “Do you need a drink or anything?”
“I’m good.”
And then I really don’t know what to say.
It doesn’t matter, though, because one of the pretty boys raises an eyebrow, and now I recognize him—Robin, who’s kind of Gray’s secretary or assistant or something at WISP. “Are you bored?” he asks, and he sounds like somebody pretending to be concerned. “Do you want to go home?”
“Oh shit,” Gray says. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say, “I’m not bored.”
“Good,” Robin says. He skips forward and loops his arm through Gray’s. “Rowan and Tanner will hang with you. Gray, you’ve got to help us move this keg. It’s way too heavy for any of us.”
I almost laugh. Almost. Because I’m thinking about that line about tops and telling them they have big arms, and I’m sure Gray is thinking about it too. But Gray doesn’t laugh. He grins at me as he lets Robin pull him away, and then two very gay sharks start circling me.
One of them looks like he should be on Instagram, his hair in that broccoli cut so many of those guys have. He’s already shirtless, and the tight pair of jeans rides low enough on his hips to show the top of his jock and the pale skin of his ass.
The other is going for the college bro vibe. He’s got on a hat that says HURTIN FOR A SQUIRTIN, and he’s wearing a tight white tee I can see his nipples through. He looks like he spends a lot of time on his hair. And probably taking pictures of his dick.
“Are you really Gray’s boyfriend?” Broccoli Cut asks.
“Yeah.”
“What’s his cock like?” College Bro says.
I don’t say anything to that.
“Are you, like, one of those gay guys who hates fags?” Broccoli Cut asks.
“Yeah,” College Bro says. “Why’d you even come here if you hate it so much?”
“Excuse me,” I say.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Broccoli Cut says.
“We just want to talk to you,” College Bro says.
But I’m already working my way through the crowd, trying not to collide with any of the dancers.
Somehow, I make it to the edge of the courtyard and find a place along the wall.
I take a few deep breaths. The bricks are solid against my back, and the cold is starting to filter through my jacket.
I don’t know why, but I feel embarrassed.
Like I said something I shouldn’t have. Or did something I shouldn’t have.
Or like I totally missed what was going on.
Not that it would be anything new; a lot of the time, I miss what’s going on.
And if I were a few years younger, I’d probably do something stupid right now. I’d find somebody to latch on to. I’d try to be whatever I thought they wanted me to be. Nothing else would matter except fitting in. And fitting in only mattered so I could disappear.
Instead, I take out my phone to get an Uber. Gray’s having a good time, and I’m ready for bed. That pretty much sums us up, I think.
Only as I unlock my phone, I glance up, and I see him.
Gray is laughing at something Robin has said, shaking his head, backing away.
Robin is grinning, but there’s a lot of determination in that grin.
A lot of resolve. Because Robin knows what he wants.
As I watch, Robin lunges forward and takes Gray’s hand.
Gray’s still laughing and trying to shake him off, but not too hard, and he lets Robin draw him in. And then they’re dancing.
It’s obvious that Gray is trying to keep things light.
He moves with Robin, and they’re both smiling and laughing, but every time Robin tries to close the gap between them, Gray manages to move, keeping his distance.
And even though Robin must be frustrated, it doesn’t show on his face—he’s beaming.
Because this is what he wants. Or close enough, anyway.
Phone forgotten, I can’t help but watch.
Gray looks happy. Like he’s in his element. Which he is, I realize. This is part of who he is—the party, the guys, the attention that he thrives on. He’s grinning even when he has to keep Robin from getting a hand down the back of his jeans. I’d be running for the hills, but Gray’s having fun.
He’s so good at this, I think. And I don’t even know what this is. Being himself, I guess. He makes it look so easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like anybody could be themselves, and it wouldn’t be hard at all. And there’s something beautiful about how happy he is.
I try to remind myself: he’s trouble. He can be an asshole sometimes. He runs his mouth pretty much constantly, and don’t forget that crack about having Gran cut a switch. But it doesn’t help. I look at him, and I think, He’s wild. He’s so wildly himself. And he’s mine.
Or he’s supposed to be, anyway.
For tonight.
I’m moving through the crowd, pocketing my phone, pushing between dancers.
When I reach them, Robin notices me first, and he draws back slightly.
Gray still hasn’t noticed. Doesn’t look until I take his wrist, turn him away from Robin, and say over his shoulder—into the sudden flash of viciousness on Robin’s face—“You don’t mind if I dance with my boyfriend, do you? ”
Then the expression on Gray’s face catches my eye, and I forget about Robin. Startled. A little confused. I put his arms around my neck, put my hands on his hips. It’s like he’s waking up, and he cocks his head, and he has a little smile.
“I was kind of bluffing,” I say. I’m painfully aware of how his body feels under my hands: the roughness of the denim, the dense muscle and bone underneath. I’m pretty much holding his ass, but saying his hips sounds a lot better. “You’ll have to show me.”
He’s going to make some kind of crack. He’s definitely going to make a joke.
I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t. His face smooths out—not a smile anymore, but not anything I can read either.
He drops his arms from around my neck, but before I can even start worrying about that, he adjusts my hands.
I’m really holding his ass now, and he moves in toward me.
Then his arms are back around my neck, and he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne and whatever he uses in his hair and a hint of sweat.
His end-of-the-day stubble scrapes me because we’re cheek to cheek now, and he’s almost whispering as he says, “Like this.”
He moves, and at first he’s guiding me. After a few minutes, I get the hang of it—enough, anyway—to move with him.
It’s not dirty, not exactly. He’s not humping my leg or drilling into me with his dick like some of the guys around us.
But it’s not…not dirty either. Because our bodies seem to touch everywhere, and every inch of friction seems to work its way through my body and up my spinal column and set my brain on fire.
Gran has an old sampler she made when she was Methodist, and it says He judgeth the quick and the dead, and when I was six or seven, she’d had to tell me that quick meant alive, but it was an old way of saying it.
And now, right now, I understand, because every part of me feels quick.
Every part of me is moving faster than it’s ever moved before, and it’s like I’ve been living my life in slow-motion until now.
His arms are a weight around my neck, keeping me from floating off the ground.
His breath is warm on my cheek. If I turned my head, we’d be kissing.
It’s a wave of heat at first. The way it feels sometimes when I know I’ve tripped on my own dick and made a jackass out of myself in front of everybody.
But this feels good, not bad, and it’s my whole body, wave after wave of it, and my brain still feels like it’s on fire.
There’s this part of me that thinks this is what Gran used to talk about when she was having her hot flashes.
And then, somehow, it’s even worse, because I know what this is, what I’m feeling, how every inch of skin feels like it’s electrified, how my body seems to be turning into light from the inside out.
Gran’s fucking tingle.
The thought is so disorienting that I lose a couple of seconds. My body keeps moving, and I’m trying to catch up with my feet, and then I lose the rhythm and we’re both about to fall.
Gray catches us. Keeps us upright.
He’s laughing, but in a sweet way, and his arms tighten around my neck. He’s speaking so low it’s barely more than a vibration moving from his lips to my ear.
“Relax, Sammy. I got you.”