Chapter Five #3
Seb grabs my face, silencing me. “You have never, in the history of our relationship, been too much for me, Orok. Never. Getting to be loved by you is a privilege, and if Alexo doesn’t see it that way, that’s on him.
But he should at least get the chance to decide.
” He smiles, shifting from intense to light in a flash.
“As someone very wise once told me, you like the guy. So talk to him. That’s it. Sounds simple to me.”
A memory pops up—back in college, when Seb was struggling with his feelings for Thio. I told him something similar. You like the guy. That’s what it is. Simple.
Simple.
I’ve been clawing my way toward simple, easy, fine for weeks. Been sacrificing pieces of my sanity and soul to stay in these strict little boxes so I didn’t explode in a confetti cannon of too much. Too obsessive. Too fixated. Too consuming.
But he’s leaving with that guy.
And I can’t take it anymore.
So fucking weak.
I yank Seb in, kiss his forehead, and punch Thio on the shoulder. “Thanks. Sorry to flake on tonight, but I’ll call you later, I promise.”
Thio’s eyes burst wide. “Wait, you really shouldn’t follow him—”
But I’m taking off across the parking lot already.
Thankfully, I got a pretty close spot before the game, and I’m yanking open the door to my car, chucking my bag in the back seat, and peeling out of the spot while Alexo’s car is just leaving the exit.
I clock which direction it turns and snake my way to the exit, too, and by the time I’m allowed to leave, I spot them stuck in stadium traffic at a red light.
My phone rings. I answer, and Seb’s voice fills my car. “You’re insane.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve since been informed of the tactlessness of my initial suggestion and have been encouraged to dissuade you from this current path,” Seb says, clearly reciting what Thio told him.
“Not,” he adds, “that I think you’re in any way being too much; it’s just, ya know, not a good look to stalk anyone. ”
“I’m not stalking him,” I say.
As the light changes and I follow them onto the highway.
Where I keep a few car lengths between us.
So that guy doesn’t realize I’m following them.
“Okay, mildly stalking,” I amend. “I’m going to make sure he gets home okay. And that that asshole doesn’t touch him.”
Seb’s silent for a beat. Then he chirps “Hey!” like Thio pinched him.
Rustling. Thio’s muffled voice.
Seb comes back with an exasperated, flat, “Orok. Stop. Turn back. Oh, dearest friend of mine, rethink your poor life choices, lest you—ow! I am not being purposefully melodramatic! Well, excuuuuse me for thinking he should actually go after Alexo. No, you know what? I rescind my rescinding. Because I want to know what’s up with him!
And it’s a romantic gesture! It’s not creepy. ” A pause. “It’s a little creepy. But—”
Alexo’s car gets off the highway in the middle of Seb’s one-sided conversation with Thio, and I tail them into a neighborhood that makes me grimace, my brows pulling together.
“Seb,” I cut him off. “I gotta go.”
“Get your man, babe. Give it to him raw.” In the background, Thio makes a long, drawn-out moan, and Seb goes, “Because they met through rawball! Oh come on, it’s a little funny.”
But no. It’s suddenly not funny.
Not as I hang up and Alexo’s car twists down a few side streets lined with dilapidated houses and apartments surrounded by chain-link fences, the one-lane roads packed with old cars.
This neighborhood is one of the many we were warned off during freshman orientation in college so we wouldn’t get swept up in the crime and danger. As if it’s some sucking whirlpool that couldn’t be fixed with better funding and oversight.
Alexo’s car pulls into a gravel lot beside a two-story brick townhome.
The engine cuts off, and I keep going, driving around the block until I find a spot to park.
Most of the streetlights aren’t working, so illumination comes from light pollution, but my car is still very, very visible.
It isn’t a sore thumb; it’s a whole hand waving for attention, and I’m pretty sure when I come back from whatever it is I’m going to do, I’ll find a few less parts on it.
I won’t be that long, though. I’m going to … fuck if I know at this point. Rationalizing went out the window the moment I left the stadium. That echoing, growling voice of mine, mine, mine is overtaking me, obliterating the last feeble strangleholds I had on my self-control.
This is me at the point of no return, the parts I’m always fighting so hard to keep from showing. But instead of being disgusted with myself or horrified at what I’m doing, I feel …
Like I can breathe.
I walk at a quick clip around the block, my shoes swishing on the cracked sidewalk, overgrown weeds on the pavement turned to ink-black tendrils in the night. This late, most people are locked up in their homes, but a few lights are on in rooms here and there.
Back at the townhouse, the parking lot is quiet, the street and buildings around it silent and empty.
They probably went into the townhouse, but it could be a few different apartments or one complete place, so I don’t—
A light comes on in the second-floor window, the one facing the street.
I tuck myself against a broken streetlight, leaning on the splintered wood pole, breath caught in my throat. The room looks like a kitchen; I see a sink from this angle, a vinyl chair.
That guy comes into view. He’s waving his arms, stabbing for emphasis, yelling. The window muffles the actual words, but I can hear his volume even all the way out here, down two floors and on the sidewalk.
I fold my arms over my chest. Watching.
Watching that guy yell, and yell, and then Alexo walks past the window, fiddling with the sink. He comes up with a glass of water and says something to it, eyes downcast. That guy pushes right up behind him, yelling, and spittle flies. Alexo curls over his water glass, small.
That’s it.
I shove off the streetlight and angle for the front door when the guy stomps away from Alexo. The curtain over the window moves in a gust of air—a door opened?
Sure enough, two seconds later, that guy’s racing out the main door and down the front stoop.
I sink back against the streetlight, holding myself in the shadows, but he doesn’t notice me. Doesn’t even scan the street for threats or do anything but mutter angrily to himself, march to his car, punch it on, and drive off.
Leaving Alexo upstairs, still bent over the sink, alone.
He puts down the glass and cups his hands over his face.
I’m in motion again, body hot and twisted and desperate. I can’t leave him like this, alone, scared, upset, and that’s where the whole of my drive is focused, on him.
I vault the front steps and open the main door. It isn’t locked, thankfully, but it itches down my spine that anyone could waltz right into his building.
Sickly yellow lights flicker over the lower floor, showing three numbered doors off a main hallway with a staircase that loops upward.
I take the stairs two at a time and find an identical layout.
But I know which apartment is his, so I approach, pace slowing, heart going rapid fire against my sternum to the point I can feel it in my throat.
I stop cold.
What am I doing.
I’m standing outside Alexo’s apartment. I followed him home.
Oh my gods. Seb was right. Well, not Seb—Thio was right. This was such a bad idea. I wanted to make sure he got home okay, and he did. That guy even left; maybe he won’t come back.
Walk away, Orok.
Turn around, and walk away.
I stare at his apartment door. And I can’t make myself leave. Leave him, here. Upset.
Any chance of escaping this situation with my dignity intact evaporates when the door groans open.
Alexo’s there, a full trash bag in one hand. He startles backward when he sees me skulking here, and he makes a frantic noise of alarm as he thrusts the garbage bag out in defense.
“Alexo,” I say. “I—”
“Orok?” He doesn’t lower the bag. Doesn’t relax, his whole body wound so tense I can see the muscles straining in his arms, the tendons bulging in his neck. His eyes are wide, highlighted still by his makeup, and as he holds in place, frozen, they go glassy with tears.
“Oh my gods,” he gasps, chest rising and falling in too-fast breaths. “Oh my gods—”
It’s what happened with Treva all over again. Only several thousand times worse, because I knew I was doing something wrong this time.
I stumble backward, trying like hell to make myself as unthreatening as possible. My size against his feels stark now; he barely comes up to my pecs.
“I’m so sorry. This was exceedingly dumb. I shouldn’t have followed you, and I … oh fuck. I’m sorry.”
He still doesn’t move, doesn’t drop the bag, doesn’t let go of the half-open door. But his terror is a little more pinched now, more like anger, and he glares at me as I fumble my way through the shittiest of shit apologies.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” I tell him.
“That isn’t an excuse. Just an explanation.
That’s the only reason I’m here. I wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, because honestly?
That guy, whoever he is, he better watch himself with the way he treats you.
I don’t know what’s going on with you two or what situation you’re in, but …
if he’s dangerous. If you’re not safe. I can—I want to—”
I wilt even more, eyes rolling shut.
This moment is proof that my god’s as fed up with me as I am with him, because if he gave a single remaining shit about me, he’d strike me down dead in mercy.
“That’s why you’re here?”
My eyes fly open.
Alexo’s lowered the bag. He still looks livid.
I nod. “To check on you? Yeah.”
“That’s it? You didn’t … come for me?”
Come for him? Yes, but—
My brow furrows. “Yeah? Oh—oh, fuck.” He doesn’t mean …
“I wouldn’t, I would never do anything like—holy shit.
I’m leaving. Now. I’m so sorry.” I turn for the stairs, stop, pivot back.
“If you want to call off this PR thing because of me being exponentially stupid, say the word, and I’ll take care of it so you’re not at fault for anything.
I’ll make sure you keep your place on the team and Urzoth’s patronage. Again, I’m so—”
Alexo steps into the hall. He slams the door shut—seems like he has to, in order to get it to close properly, and my teeth grind at the security risk—but his eyes stay on me.
His anger is gone. It’s like he’s decided something.
Whatever it is, he’s studying me again in that searching, wondering way, and I go immobile.
“You’ve been kind of an ass recently,” he says, point-blank.
I bellow a laugh.
Calling me on my shit is way better than him being scared of me.
“I think that’s part of why I came here,” I admit.
“Because I hated how things were between us. Hate how they are between us. None of this—the whole PR bullshit, the fake dates, the pretend interactions, none of it is what I want with you, and it’s—” Go for honesty.
Go for broke. “It’s killing me. You deserve better, and I want better. With you.”
No matter what he decides, I won’t be able to keep pretending this isn’t real for me. That every time we touch or have our interactions isn’t the highlight of my day.
He doesn’t say anything.
“But if you want this to stay a PR front,” I continue, “it can. It’s your choice, Alexo.” What the hell; at this point, just say it: “I want you to be happy.”
His head tips.
One corner of his mouth lifts in the barest seed of a smile that, quite frankly, I don’t deserve. The upper hallway’s few grainy bulbs cast us in more of that sick interrogation-room yellow, but he’s still the most stunning person I’ve ever seen, all fire and passion trapped in a small body.
He holds the garbage bag out. “Carry this for me?”
I take it instantly. Wait—is this a dismissal? Is he saying he wants me to take out the trash as I take out the trash, i.e., chuck myself out of his building?
But he jerks his head for me to follow and starts up the hall, and I hurry after him like an infatuated sap.