9. Naz
NINE
NAZ
I’m almost relieved to be forced out today, even if it’s for something I don’t particularly want to deal with.
My grandparents aren’t the easiest people to be around on a good day, but my grandfather is in the hospital.
I only found out because I called them, not because anyone thought to alert me two days ago when he was admitted.
“I’m just going to the hospital, I really don’t think you need to come with me for this.”
Logically, I understand Scott is here to protect me from a legitimate threat, but it feels like too much to have him see me deal with private matters like this. I already gave him too much when I spilled my guts and vented about my grandparents' stubbornness. And then last night…
I just really need space right now.
“Don’t you have… I don’t know… Stuff to do?” I gesture to his phone, which he’s been looking at all morning.
“You’re the only stuff I need to do,” he says, winking as a wide grin spreads across his face. “Professionally, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You won’t even know I’m there, I promise.”
I doubt that. If anything, I’m even more aware of his presence than I was yesterday. I’m pretty sure I’ll suffocate on the awkward silence during the drive, but it’s not like I really have a choice.
“Fine.” I relent with a huff, bypassing his rental truck and trudging up to the big house.
“Are we walking there?”
“I have my own car.”
Scott doesn’t have any arguments until I pull my car out of the garage.
“That’s your car?”
“No, I stole this one. Why? What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know… Something flashier, I guess. This looks like something an accountant with two kids and a hypoallergenic dog would drive.”
“I’m not Jesse,” I remind him. “Or Will.” They’re the ones with the flashy cars.
I don’t really do flashy. Except maybe the tattoos, but I don’t really think of them as flashy, either.
If anything, they’re a cover. “This is the most energy efficient and environmentally conscious vehicle on the market.”
“Am I going to fit in that thing?”
“It’s a crossover. You’ll fit.”
“It’s a roller skate,” he says skeptically, waving his arms to show just how much taller he is than the vehicle.
“I’ve seen you fit into smaller places,” I murmur with a pointed look.
That shuts him up. Scott’s mouth opens into a surprised O, eyes crinkling at my unexpected dirty joke. Not that I don’t make jokes, I do. All the time, really. I’ve just admittedly been kind of a grouch this morning.
The day started off hard enough, waking up wrapped around Scott for the second time in as many months. I was already struggling with the first time and how much I didn’t hate it, but then I had to go and fuck him like that last night.
I didn’t mean for it to be like that. Hell, I didn’t even know it could be like that.
Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely barged into the living room expecting to fuck him. I prepped and everything. Obviously I was expecting something.
I had a plan. I was going to wake him up and let him know just how pissed off I was, and that I couldn’t sleep because of it. Then Dom Scott would come out and say something sexy like, “I think I know what you need.”
What I absolutely did not expect was to get out there and see him all spread out, relaxed as can be.
The little bit of light coming in from the window made him look too pretty.
His skin looked too soft, and his hair flopping down over one eye made him look like the male version of Sleeping Beauty, except his eyes were open and he was looking at me like I wasn’t real.
And then I just crawled right on top of him.
I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to kiss him like that, or to get wrapped up in the way his hands felt.
From there, it just kind of happened. I lost control. I lost myself.
I blame it on the boner I’ve been trying to ignore since the jolly giant arrived. Why does he have to be so hot? It’s annoying.
And now, not only is it impossible to ignore him, but I have visions of last night playing on repeat in my head. The way he let me take control and just use him for my own pleasure until right at the very end, when he flipped me over and showed me just how much he still owns my body.
This morning he woke up chipper as ever and seems to have no problems acting like nothing happened last night. Meanwhile, I’m a few skipped heartbeats away from my internal meltdown becoming an external inferno, and who knows what the fuck I might do to make my life even more complicated.
Add in my weekly call to my grandparents taking a bad turn, and I’m more on edge than I was before the best orgasm of my life.
I used to call my grandparents twice a week to check in, but these days we have a standing expectation for a single call every Sunday morning.
Even if I’m on the other side of the world, I set an alarm so I can reach them at the right time.
Usually, I catch them just after church and before they leave to meet their church group for lunch.
It gives both sides an excuse to keep the conversation short.
If we stay on the phone too long, the conversation always drifts into awkward silence or reminders of how disappointed they are that I passed up a good education and the respectable life they wanted for me.
Most of our calls are just me checking in, asking about their week, their church friends, whatever project my grandfather is currently obsessing over. We talk about the book they’re writing about the history of the Raleigh-Durham area and the effects of gentrification on old neighborhoods.
We rarely talk about the band. If I mention a tour or a show, they tend to get quiet. It's like anything connected to music exists behind a wall they refuse to look over.
They love me. I know they do.
And I understand them. It hurts that I chose music, a path that, in their minds, killed my father, over a normal, comfortable life in academia like theirs.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would have looked like if I'd followed the path they’d laid out for me, but I can't picture myself spending my life in lecture halls debating history books.
But I still call. Even when it feels more like an obligation than anything else.
Scott’s phone chimes several times in a row as soon as we hit the main road.
“Someone’s popular.”
He doesn’t answer, staring down at his phone with an expression that has me worried for a moment. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Just a bunch of spam messages. I get them all the time.”
“Change your number. Isn’t there some kind of protocol for scrubbing your number from lists? Seems like that would be something the security team could handle.”
“Maybe,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly looking down at his phone one more time before shoving it back in his pocket.
“Are you okay?”
“So your grandpa is sick?”
He’s obviously trying to change the subject, but Scott is rarely private about anything so I feel like I should let it go for now. He’ll tell me later if it’s important.
“Yeah. He’s had COPD for years and managed it okay, but I guess he had an episode a few days ago and was admitted.”
“And you only found out today?” Scott asks incredulously.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and I shake my head, unable to come up with a good explanation why my grandfather has been in the hospital for as long as I’ve been in Raleigh and no one thought to tell me.
They knew I was in town. I called them before I left New York to tell them I was going to be here, and I left a message when I arrived.
“I told you, they’re stubborn. Neither of them wants to admit that they’re getting too old to keep up with everything they’re into.
They retired six years ago and they’re still writing articles, volunteering, doing the occasional lecture, and participating in academic societies.
On top of that, they’re researching and writing a book. ”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Lester’s are overachievers by blood. Except me, of course.”
“Of course. Except, you know, how many Grammys, AMAs, VMAs, and whatever other awards have you won? How many platinum and double-platinum records do you have? Not to mention the multiple world tours, all fully sold out within hours, by the way. And none of that touches the amount of fundraising, volunteering, and awareness work you’ve all dedicated your lives to,” Scott points out.
“You’re still an overachiever, if you ask me. ”
I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, make sure you don’t mention any of that when they’re around.”
“Like I said, you won’t even know I’m there,” he says, miming zipping his lips.
I won’t lie, it does feel good to have someone care enough to be in my corner and point out my achievements every now and then. Like they matter.
None of Lest Is Moore’s accomplishments have ever really felt like mine. I’ve always felt separated from our success. Maybe because that success never changed anything for me back home.
I thought maybe my grandparents would be excited about the places I’ve gotten to see or the opportunities I tried to share with them.
It never happened. I stopped hoping they'd be proud of me after our first award season, when they didn't want to attend and didn't even watch from home. They never even congratulated me until I pointed out that we’d won every category we’d been nominated in, and even that felt flat.
Even our charity work couldn't get through to them. As my grandfather once put it, ‘It doesn't count if you're using it for clout and to puff up your own egos.’
It's not like that. It never was. But trying to prove it would feel like begging for recognition and prove his point, so I gave up on that a long time ago.
These days I mostly keep my accomplishments to myself. It's easier than listening to my own excitement sound like bragging.