13. Silas
13
SILAS
I shift on the barstool, unable to find a comfortable position after having my ass taken repeatedly last night by a Swedish businessman with a giant cock. He had almost no finesse, but a shit ton of stamina. I had to let Katia know afterwards to add to his à la carte charges. He’d wanted five hours of free use, and he got it—but free use can’t be pre-negotiated.
When I got a glimpse of what he was packing, though, I hadn’t hesitated. I’d needed to get my brains fucked out, and he’d taken some male enhancement drug that kept him hard as a rock almost the entire time I was in his hotel room.
I’m paying for my choices tonight as the guests for Christian’s party drink and mingle while I can’t decide something as simple as whether to stand or sit. A hand slides along my back, and I glance up to see Drew looking devastatingly handsome in a black henley and worn jeans. His dark blond hair is slicked back, his stubble is shaved, showing off the deep cleft in his chin. He’s even smiling—an uncommon occurrence. “Why’re you by yourself?”
My roommates don’t know about my third job, and I’m not exactly known for casual hook-ups, so I can’t tell him the real reason I’ve got my right ass cheek glued to a bar stool until I get enough liquor in me to ignore the burning ache, but even my digestive system feels rearranged. I keep breaking out in cold sweats as my gut cramps. I’m a mess, and Drew is looking at me like it’s obvious.
“Just getting warmed up,” I tell him.
“Silas! It’s been too long.” I turn to my other side to greet the beautiful Black woman with softly brown silky skin in a tight, white dress. Her mass of burnt caramel-colored hair is styled in thick twists and piled on top of her head, revealing a long, slender neck and a tattoo behind her right ear. She’s smiling wide, all bright teeth and dark, full red lips. Drew’s girlfriend, Jericho.
“Jesus, you look good,” I say, giving her a hug. “What vitamins are you taking? Damn.”
She laughs and gives Drew a cutting glance. “Not D.”
He sighs heavily, his good mood evaporating just like that.
“It’s overrated,” I assure her.
“I’m hoping he’s nice to me tonight since it’s our anniversary.”
“Two years.” I nod, remembering they met at another of Christian’s birthday parties. Then I look at Drew and say to Jericho, “You should dance with him. He’s terrible, but it’s usually good for a laugh.”
“Ouch,” he says, popping an olive into his mouth.
“Good idea. Let’s make a deal. If Madonna comes on, we hit the dance floor.”
“Why Madonna?” he asks.
“Because it’s the one thing I know for sure they’ll play,” she says.
In this place, she’s not wrong. I’m about to get off the bar stool and leave them to it when someone coming in the door catches my eye.
“Fuck.”
Drew follows my gaze. “Fuck,” he repeats.
“What the—did someone invite him?” I ask, as Ben’s blue eyes meet mine from across the room, and my stomach rearranges itself again.
“Isn’t he supposed to be in London?”
“Yeah—I…” I have no idea what the hell is going on. All I know is the ex who ran my heart through a shredder is headed straight for me.
“How do you feel about second chances?” Drew asks.
“I don’t believe in them,” I answer quickly.
“You need backup?”
“No. Let’s all go dance. ‘Like a Prayer’ is bound to come on eventually.” I turn my back on the incoming ex.
“Sy—wait.”
I retreat, flanked by Drew and Jericho, but when Ben says my name a second time, I freeze and face him.
Ben is taller than I am by a few inches. Bigger in general. He’s white with rosy, porcelain skin, dark, ginger hair, and amber eyes. He’s got a face like a Renaissance painting with plump, pink lips and a long, straight nose. He’s beautiful, but he has no idea how much. He used to think I was the catch, but I guess that was before he realized his life was actually going somewhere and mine was stalled in second gear.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on the other side of the ocean?” I ask rather than something polite like hi or how nice to see you again.
“I’m back,” he says, and it feels like he punched me in the face.
“Since when?”
“Last week.”
“And you’re here now why?” I ask, gesturing to the party.
“Drew um…” he glances at Drew briefly. “Mentioned it on his Instagram.”
Drew sighs. “Fuck me,” he mutters. “Look, it wasn’t an open invitation.”
Ben nods. “I realize that. I saw an opportunity and… Can we talk?” he asks me .
I don’t know what to say. He was brutal when he dumped me. Throwing the escort job in my face, acting like he was so much fucking better than me for having a career—saying shit like this was never going to work anyway—we’re too different. He told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore. He told me he wasn’t sure he ever had been.
We were together for almost three years . I had no secrets from him. If looking at him hurts, I can’t imagine the kind of damage talking to him might do.
Drew angles a shoulder between us. “Maybe tonight’s not the right time. We’re trying to celebrate something here.”
Ben ignores him, his eyes like small fires, burning into mine. “Sy? Please?”
I don’t see a way out of this without making a scene, and Christian is currently in a booth, surrounded by people who are making him laugh. It’s rare enough to get a smile out of him—there’s no way I’m going to be the one to fuck up his night because I have ex drama.
“Outside.”
Drew lets out a low growl. I smirk. Down boy. “It’s fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell him. “Dance with your girlfriend. Do that growl. I hear chicks dig that.”
He gives the back of my neck a squeeze, and I nod at Ben.
“You’re gonna try to make me leave, aren’t you?” he asks.
“We’re not doing this in here. It’s my best friend’s birthday.”
“Oh…shit,” he says like he’s genuinely not trying to intrude. Like he actually feels bad about something.
I narrow my eyes. The differences between us remain stark. He’s wearing a crisp button down tucked into wool slacks with a black coat that makes him look expensive. I’m in a hooded sweater and jeans. I shove my hands into the front pocket and lead the way outside, steeling myself and checking for chinks in my guard .
It’s fucking freezing, but I try not to telegraph how cold I am, stiffening my muscles and getting us out of the way of the door.
“Well,” he begins. “I’m back.”
“For Thanksgiving?”
“No, I’m just back. I got offered a position at a firm here—the pay is good, and it’s home, so…”
“Oh, well, good for you.” Ben is an architect like his father, and I hate knowing this about him. I hate how sweet I once found that—how charming and stable it made him seem.
During our second year together, we were serious. We talked about marriage and kids. Hypothetically, but still. Those were the kinds of conversations we’d have after making out on his couch at night or after a slow morning fuck.
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
I shake my head, looking down at the dirty sidewalk. I don’t want one. He’s a scab I’ve managed not to pick, and I refuse to start now. There’s no chance he won’t leave a scar, but I get to decide how ugly it is.
“We don’t have to do this now,” he tries. “I just wanted you to know I’m back. I’m here. And I miss you.”
I shut my eyes. I was hoping he wouldn’t say that. I knew it would get to me, and it does. A hammer blow to my guard that reverberates everywhere.
“Can I call you?” he asks.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I say so quietly I can barely hear myself.
“Sy—”
“Why now?”
“What?”
“You obviously didn’t lose my number. What do you have to say now you couldn’t have said months ago?”
“A lot, actually.”
“Did something change?” I ask, regretting the question as soon as it leaves my mouth .
“Yeah. A lot of things,” he says softly, his familiar gaze gently caressing my face.
I like it, and I hate that I like it. It feels like he’s not only memorizing me but remembering me. Like he’s eating his own heart out. I settle on the last to keep my defenses up. I try not to let any emotion show. Seeing him now reminds me how much losing him hurt. The way he looked at me in the end. So much disappointment. Like I’d fallen too far for him to reach down and help up.
“I don’t want to do this tonight,” I say.
“When then?” he insists.
“I don’t know. I mean, what is this about? You want to apologize? You want to be friends? You want to explain yourself and make me feel like shit all over again?”
“Sy…that’s not—I never meant—It wasn’t you .”
“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter, kicking at the pavement and turning to face the street. “Well, nothing about me has changed. I’m still working the same three jobs. I still have almost no spare time. I’ve still got no plans to be anything else.”
“I get it. And yes, I want to apologize for some of the things I said. I was hurt—I was insecure—I was scared about moving to a different country. I knew I’d hate it.”
“Are you serious? You were thrilled when you got that offer,” I say, remembering his surreptitious excitement he always tried to hide from me. The congratulatory texts and calls I pretended not to notice. He practically shouted it from the rooftops, but to me it was severely downplayed. He was cold about it, even.
He shut down on me around the time I started selling myself for Katia. It wasn’t like I didn’t understand where he was coming from—I only hoped for more understanding about what I was juggling—why I felt like it was a good option for me.
“Thrilled for the offer—sure—but leaving the country?”
He doesn’t have to say more. He hates change. A real creature of habit, this one. I shiver, unable to suppress it. “Here—” he says, moving to shrug off his coat.
I hold out my freezing hand. “No. I’m going back inside. If you wanna call, call. Just don’t expect me to answer.”
“Silas—”
“What?” I snap, both from the cold and from this total blindside. Another one.
“Give me one chance, okay? I fucked up. I get it. But I refuse to believe we can’t come back from it.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“Not if you’ll give me the smallest chance and just listen . Let me in for thirty fucking minutes—that’s literally all I’m asking.”
I’ve never been a master of communication. I tend to let my body do most of the work. Words, too often, aren’t sufficient to get my point across, especially when it comes to the way I feel about someone, which half the time even I don’t understand. My brain is a hurricane, which leads to misunderstandings of all kinds.
Ever since my mom got really sick, it’s been easier not to feel things. To put one foot in front of the other and keep moving. Do the jobs, make the money, pay the bills, help where I can.
“Fine,” I tell him. I need to get this over with and go back inside.
“When’s your next day off?” he presses.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and scroll to the calendar. I don’t have a day off anytime soon—not a full one, but he’s asking for half an hour. “I can do Monday evening.”
“You’re not working that night?”
“Not overnight,” I say, my tone grim. I’m already dreading this, and I can’t even decide why.
“Okay,” he says. “Monday then. Nine o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“Dinner?”
I shake my head. “Let’s just meet here. ”
He steps closer to me, and some stupid part of me wants to close the distance, absorb his warmth. Let it seep into my bones. Apparently I need a hug, but I’ll die before I ask Ben for one. I’ll go on a spree once I finally get back inside. Get all my physical closeness needs met platonically. Maybe someone will take pity on me and give me a really long, lingering one.
“Thank you,” Ben says. “I know I don’t deserve it.”
I don’t agree with him, out loud or in my head. He’s not a bad guy. He just fucked me over. If he’s sorry, great. Maybe it’ll help me move on.
“Good night, Ben.”
“See you soon,” he says.
I step away, turning my back on him and re-entering the bar, looking for someone to hold onto.