Chapter 7
?
Late night visitors are prohibited.
Morana
To touch you.
Why did I say that?
Do I hate myself or something?
Did I get swept up in all the frank honesty Kyran offers without pretense?
Did I go mad?
Probably. Definitely. Surely.
Huffing, I take my time rearranging my reward store while this afternoon haunts me to no end. The cardboard building patchworked over with shopfront photos I found and printed boasts many little pockets. In those pockets, my reward cards live, prices relating to their placement on the skyscraper.
Ever since Maelin moved out, I’ve let my garbage infiltrate the rest of what was our house, so my entire motivation system covers the dining room table like a tiny city.
Tasks live in a slew of cardboard housefronts, each themed after specific rooms in the Bachelor palace.
My store is, of course, the central skyscraper.
And then I have my bank, where I put the teeny tiny slips of money I’ve made.
On the whole, it’s juvenile.
And messy.
And stupid.
Just like me.
My nose wrinkles when I come across the FrostPlays plushie I want to get ordered.
It costs five hundred points, because it costs several hundred dollars, and logic dictates that I need to work for the privilege of taking out a second mortgage to get it.
As though I’ve taken out a first. And as though working hard for the privilege of spending a lot of money is ever exactly motivating.
Realistically, it will take time to work up to this many points, which means I’ll get to save more paychecks.
But.
Realistically, I should throw this prize away along with the other things I’ve lost interest in. That’s what I’m doing right now, after all. Sorting through my store, freshening up the prizes, deleting old whims.
Getting a plushie of Kyran is, repeat it with me, Morana! Gross.
You know him.
You know him.
In real life.
You’ve braided his hair and lain down in his bed and felt his hand against your cheek and…
My doorbell rings, dragging me out of the stupor.
Brow furrowed, I try to remember if I’ve ordered anything recently as I pull myself from my table to the foyer. Bracing for a chilled February breeze to hit me on this otherwise warmish—for early February in West Virginia—night, I open the door and look down for a package.
I find feet instead.
Shoes.
Kyran.
I slam the door shut on him, look at the FrostPlays life-size plushie card still clasped in my hand, and scream. What’s he doing here? “What are you doing here?” I shriek, searching the small, vacant foyer for a place to hide the card.
Nonchalant, Kyran knocks.
Frantic, I shove the hand with my contraband behind my back and crack the door open to glare.
Once our eyes meet, Kyran says, “I’m a workaholic.
I think about my job a lot. It took me a while to adjust after my parents died, but once I did, once I reframed my mindset, I realized that I really love what I do.
The community I’ve built. The friends who stayed there with me, even when I stopped posting videos for a year.
I have the insomnia thing. It keeps me up at weird hours and makes my sleep schedule a mess.
I take long naps in the middle of the day to cope.
And often the sleepiness makes me irritable.
I will do a lot of things for a bit. If I think it’s funny, I’ll very easily get carried away.
I’m kinda lowkey obsessive. My emotions hit hard and heavy and fast. It’s a problem, and I think I weather them by conserving my energy in other ways.
” He presents his icy facade. “Like the never smiling thing. I’m a tease.
You know that firsthand. I’m inappropriate; again, firsthand experience.
I’m genuinely not a fan of boundaries. Whenever I see a line, I get this compulsion to cross it.
Also—” He drags his attention off me, takes in my foyer, my arm behind my back, whatever he can see beyond the cracked sliver of my open door.
“—I’m kind of a stalker…or maybe just nosy.
I don’t know where the line is. But if I did, let’s be so real, I’d probably cross it.
” He turns, hands tucked in his pant pockets. “Night, mistress. See you tomorrow.”
I stare outside my front door as he…walks away. He just shows up, after dark, drops…whatever all that was…and then walks away?
Trailing down the driveway to his ice-blue car, he opens the driver’s-side door.
What.
The.
A crass word exits my mouth as I march after him.
He stops his little retreat. Door open, one long leg stretched to step in, he looks at me.
I repeat, “What the—” I cuss.
He frees a small gasp and covers his lips with his fingers. “Potty mouth.”
“What are you doing?” I blurt, throwing my hands up. “Why are you here?”
“I got your address from Crisis. She keeps all the records of who lives where in Sunset. And I—” He points at his vehicle. “—am going home now.”
My shoulders drop. He cannot be serious. I flail my hand at my front door. “What was all that?”
His head tilts. “An abridged list of my more unsavory traits.”
“For why?”
“Trust is built with knowledge, honesty, consistency, vulnerability, reliability, and open communication. I’m good with honesty.
I can be vulnerable, but given the nature of my past, it’s a little difficult for the other person to stomach the reasons behind my vulnerabilities.
I’m fairly consistent in my inconsistency.
I have to work on being more reliable. We’re getting to know each other better every day.
” He pulls his leg back from the inside of his car and shuts the door, so there’s nothing standing between us.
“Telling you about the worst parts of me combines knowledge, communication, honesty, and vulnerability. Logic therefore dictates that you’ll be trusting me in no time. ”
He. Is. A. Lunatic.
He lifts a finger, pointing at my hand. “What are you holding?”
I look down, at what I’m holding, and suck in a sharp breath. Shoving my hand back behind me, I say, “Nothing.”
Interest sparks in his eyes.
Heat pours through my limbs, racing to fill my face.
He takes a slight step toward me.
“Kyran,” I warn.
“Remember what I said about boundaries and crossing lines?” Another step.
My heart jerks into my throat. “Crossing boundaries goes directly against building trust.”
He pouts, conceding. Dropping his hip against his sports car, he looks elsewhere, off me, up the neighborhood street. “Does it? That is devastating news for me.”
Uh-huh. Boohoo. The second I get back inside, I am burning this card. “While we’re on the topic of boundaries, I’d like to enforce one.”
He regards me out of the corner of his eye.
“Don’t come to my house after dark,” I choke on the words, because he says them at the same exact time. “Wha…” My stomach twists. I open my mouth again, in an attempt to finish my point, but his opens at the same time. We both say, “It’s—”
“—inappropriate,” he finishes when my tongue ties. Then he adds, “I did say I was inappropriate in my list of flaws. But I think you’ll find if you squint and tilt your head just right, that one can be a plus point.”
Absolutely no it cannot. “You can’t do this. I mean it.”
He switches the topic. “I didn’t like the way we left things earlier, but I was too tired to address it then.
” Laying a fluttering hand regally against his chest, he says, “I have, since, napped. So I’d really like to discuss your raging case of denial as it coincides with your incurable desire for me. ”
I find myself choking on my words again, stammering and stuttering and sputtering about as heat crawls up my neck, to my ears, and blazes in my head.
Cool as a fresh sheet of ice, Kyran says, “Face it. You’re attracted to me. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw caution to the wind and take advantage of that.”
One good reason? Boy. What do you mean one?
There are dozens. So I start listing them.
“I’ll never be able to trust you if you do that.
It’s manipulation. It’s wrong. You shouldn’t take advantage of people.
Who wouldn’t be attracted to you? You’re—” I wave my hand at him, the one with the card.
My heart jolts, and I put that stupid thing back behind my back yet again.
“I’m…?” he coaxes.
I grit, “You really want me to say it?”
“Yes, very much.”
“It’s obvious.”
“You’re being ableist.”
I cut my attention off him, up one street, then up the other—looking for whatever cameras might be here to capture this horrible prank. None appear. So I plant my glare back on him. “How, pray tell, am I being ableist?”
“Not everyone can see the obvious. It’s a real disability, you know.” He dips his chin, tutting in respect for the minority he’s supporting. “Stupidity.”
Ah, right, yes. Silly of me. I did indeed forget about the stupid people. “I sure hope you’re on government aid for that, then,” I mutter.
“Would it really kill you to admit aloud that I’m pretty?”
My brows rise as I behold this ludicrous man. “Pretty?” I ask, levelly. “Pretty?” I bark a laugh. “You really think I was going to say anything about pretty?”
His tongue exits his mouth, wets his lips. “To be certain, I was more confident about my prettiness and your opinion of it roughly five seconds ago, yes.”
I scoff, shake my head, dare to take a step up to him, then I hiss, “You’re hot.”
He blesses me with the softness in his expression as his lips tip toward a smile. His cool palm lands on my cheek, and I find myself frozen—in place, right here, in reach. Sultry and deep, he says, “Oh? Is that so?”
Breath becomes impossible.
“To…clarify…I shouldn’t use my hotness to get what I want from you?”
He’s messing with me. Teasing. But he’s also serious. And I know that he is.
His eyes lower to my lips. “I shouldn’t…convince you that you’d really, really like to take a chance with me?”
The air inside me thins.
“And, just for clearness’s sake,” he whispers, “I shouldn’t spend all my free time trying to show you how much I care about you, how incredible I think you are, how interesting, how compelling, how beautiful…
I should not keep coming to see you, hoping that I can offer you a piece of me in exchange for some precious moment of you.
I should absolutely not create a curriculum surrounding trust, then follow it to the letter until you depend on me without a second thought.
And I should, by no means, seek to take this game we play to the next level. However I possibly can.”
I shiver, as though I am not burning up.
Kyran’s smile keeps me perfectly entranced, perfectly under his spell, and perfectly at his mercy. Conversational, he says, “So.” He closes his eyes, tilts his head down, and touches his forehead to mine. When he speaks next, his breath coasts across my lips. “About that denial…”
Weakly, I say, “I’m not in denial.”
His fingers dance down my cheek, to my neck, and rest there, thumb grazing my jaw. “No?”
“And you—” I swallow. “—are clearly taking advantage of my attraction right now.”
“I love you,” he says, and I lose my knees.
His eyes snap open the second my forehead is off his.
His smile vanishes as he swears, lunging to catch me around the waist. Unfortunately, my weight hits his wee, sad gamer arms, and we both go tumbling into the grass beside the driveway.
He sucks in a pained breath as he collects himself… on top of me…with his…
Red hot, I stare as the man of my every last delusional fantasy pushes himself up and removes his face from…my chest.
Refilling his lungs, he hovers, above me, around me, on his hands and knees, and stares straight down. He blinks. His throat bobs in a swallow. He bows his head slightly. He murmurs a reverent, “Thank you, deities.” Then, he drags his attention up, to my face, and the humor leaves him.
My lip trembles as I try to open my mouth, say something. I cannot.
Here we are, in the middle of the night, lit only by the streetlamp several houses down, on my lawn.
And FrostPlays is on top of me, his long black coat flared around us and his eyes gleaming with reprehensible lust.
Kyran moves, shifting his body over mine more completely, with something very near intention. Bracing his weight onto one arm, he frames my cheek in his hand and swipes his thumb across my skin.
I tense, squeeze my eyes shut, and whimper.
His hissed curse fans across my lips, and when I can find the strength to look at him again…
His bright, icy blue eyes…are dark with intensity. “Morana,” he says.
I whisper a broken, “What?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep again.”
Yeah, well. Neither am I. Get over it, you big bab—
His lips greet mine.
It’s a touch.
A graze.
A glimpse of what could be, what should be, what I…need to be.
It changes my brain. It redefines my cells. It adjusts my chemistry.
And then?
Then it’s gone.
Away.
Far, far away.
Kyran gets off me, opens his car door, closes it, and I watch from my spot in the grass, where my body is threatening to catch fire, as he drives away.