Chapter 6 Dax #2
Reed seems shocked by my brusque response. “Sorry. I just saw an Arrow Mart shirt at the top of your hamper. I didn’t mean— Never mind.” It’s clear he has more to say but keeps it to himself.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. The leftover food grows cold, along with our red-hot chemistry.
Reed goes to his bag by the door and shoves his cape and helmet inside, then digs around and produces a jangly set of car keys. “Thanks for hosting.”
My heart dips a bit. “You’re lea—” I stop from asking the obvious. From giving the barest hint that I care. If he stays, he’ll ask more questions. If he asks more questions, I’ll pile on more lies. Nobody can know me for me. Not here, not now. Probably not ever. “Thanks for cooking,” I say.
“Any time,” he says, then seems to catch himself. He brushes a finger along his bottom lip, which is still swollen and the color of cranberries from our session. He clears his throat. “It was nice to have somebody besides myself to cook for.” His loneliness rings in his sheepish words.
The fact that Reed thinks of me as a somebody should not thrill me like it does.
I’m a person who has been unceremoniously treated worse than a computer on wheels, though, so I suppose it makes sense that someone seeing my humanity would excite me.
The excitement is only made stronger by Reed’s soulful blue eyes on me, searching almost, as if seeking a reason to stay. And I could easily give him one…
But once his eyes move past me to the apartment around us, I start seeing my place through a stranger’s eyes.
The grubby, off-white carpet in need of a steam cleaning.
The bare snot-yellow walls. The dresser in the bedroom, overflowing with shirts I didn’t have the time to fold.
He’s even seen the inside of my mostly barren fridge.
Found the bacon and bread that were straddling their expiration dates.
In the bedroom, I’m in control. But in life? Every decision hangs over my head, leagues out of my grasp. Reed deserves better than this. Than me.
“I should be going,” Reed says, hesitating.
“Text me when you make it back, so I know you’re safe,” I say, my words definitely formed by the whiskey alone. My care for him is too apparent in that single sentence.
He shakes his head, but his eyes glow hopeful. “You’ll probably be asleep by then.”
“In an hour? I doubt it,” I say, pushing for some odd reason.
“It’ll be closer to three and a half,” he says, looking down at his clanging key ring.
From it, a key chain of the Nova Ranger emblem dangles.
His nerdy obsession is beyond attractive to me.
I can picture him staying up late into the night, flipping through rare comics, pointing to his favorite pictures.
“To get back to Laramie?” I ask.
“Gilette,” he says. “I live in Gilette now.”
“But the university is in Laramie.”
“I graduated,” he says. “Back in May. I grew up in Gilette.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. I came home today in such a daze and set this up. I was so focused on myself and my own release that I hadn’t considered him or wondered why I hadn’t seen him on the Kink Camp grid in a while. “You drove across the entire state to come here tonight?” I ask.
His cheeks turn redder than I’ve ever seen them. “I like driving,” he says by way of explanation. I can’t help but think that the underlying meaning is that he likes me.
I like him too, obviously. But like leads to love, and love requires trust, and trust is an emotion I can’t access anymore. It’s trapped inside a fireproof safe.
While I should offer to let him crash here for the night, I worry my resolve is weaker than it should be. My whiskey-dunked brain might convince me to tell Reed the truth—about my name, my record, Arrow Mart. It would be a nice reprieve to unburden myself to someone as cute and kind as Reed.
Don’t do it, the villain in my head warns. You’ll regret it. You always do.
“Drive safe,” I say in a detached tone. I try not to dissect every smidge of disappointment on Reed’s face as the door closes behind him.
Around four a.m., while I’m lying in bed with the blankets kicked off, still not having wrestled myself to sleep, my phone chimes with a message from Reed.
Made it back. Thanks again for tonight.
Or I guess last night now? LOL
I had a great time. I hope we can do it again real soon.
The overly bright glare of my phone screen in the dark room hurts my eyes, yet I still stare at it. Reading his messages over again.
We can’t do it again, real soon or otherwise.
We can’t because I can’t. Because my life has been a series of mistakes I can’t take back.
Mistakes I would’ve thought twice about had I known of Reed Thompson.
Had I ever imagined one day there would be a man potentially worth giving the world to? A man worth being good for?
That’s what Reed Thompson deserves: a good man.
And no matter what I try, I’m as bad as they come.
That’s right, the villain in my head chimes in agreement. You’re a lying, cheating, thieving crook with nothing to offer.
My vision reddens at the edges as my heartbeat ramps up.
Instead of responding to Reed or struggling to sleep or staying put in this shitty apartment until I can no longer make rent, I march back into the living room where I open my laptop, launch a secure browser, and hunt for blueprints to Wendell Blitz’s Jackson Hole compound.
A heist plan forms one diabolical step at a time in my head.
One that I now know I can’t ignore or push off.
If I’ve only got one more strike left on my permanent record before I’m out of the game for good, I’m going to strike it big, and I’m going to strike it right. I’ll either walk away rich or die trying.