17. Chapter 17 #3
I scroll through the messages, my stomach twisting tighter with each word.
The first few texts are not unusual—something about Eli being an asshole, a picture of a sad-looking dog at the coffee shop, a complaint about the traffic.
But then there it is: "If I never see you again, I love you.
" Followed by, "You better love me too." And finally, the one that makes my blood run cold: "I'm definitely about to get kidnapped. Can you call me?"
"Shit," I mutter, handing the phone back. "Did you call him?"
"Of course I called him," Patrick snaps, his voice tight with panic. "I called him a million times. It goes straight to voicemail. So does Eli's."
He's already dialing Eli again. The phone rings, and rings, and rings, until finally, the dreaded voicemail kicks in. The robotic sound cuts through the tension, every word a fresh punch to the gut. "You've reached Elijah Cruz. I don't check my voicemail, you loser."
The beep is somehow mocking, a tiny electronic laugh in the face of our panic.
Patrick's face goes white, his knuckles gripping the table so tight I'm surprised the wood doesn't splinter under the pressure. He's already redialing, his thumb jabbing at the screen.
"He never answers his phone," Patrick says. "Never. Not even when he knows it's me."
All I see in his face is pure, unadulterated fear. "I tried to help Aubrey out with money," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "He's in pretty bad. My cousin knows some guys who, uh, can do favors you don't normally get opportunities for."
The pieces click into place with a sickening lurch. "Wait," I stop him. "You saying that your cousin is a gang member?"
“Yeah,” Patrick confirms, his words tumbling out fast. He clearly doesn't enjoy talking about it.
“They lent Aubrey a shitload of money in a pinch. He didn’t pay them back when he was supposed to.
I told him—fucking told him—he needed to get that taken care of.
They're pissed. I think that's why he's scared.”
His phone buzzes against the counter, the sound too loud in the sudden silence of the shop.
“That him? He okay?”
“No,” Patrick says. “It’s my cousin. Says Aubrey’s meeting up with his crew at the Chinese Theater to finish paying right now. And to never suggest another friend for help again, because this got him into deep shit.”
“So problem solved?” I ask, but already I know it’s not.
“No,” Patrick shakes his head, his eyes wide with panic. “Aubrey doesn’t have any money, Ricky. And he hasn’t told Eli because he doesn’t want to drag him into it. So what’s he doing at the Chinese Theater, and why isn't he answering? I’m worried about him.”
“You two are pretty close huh?”
“Yes. And... Well, I don’t exactly have a lot of friends.”
“Why,” I ask, the sarcasm dripping. “You’re so charming.”
He bites back a laugh, but it’s weak, barely there.
“Hey, don’t worry,” I assure him. “I’ll text Eli the details and let him know his boyfriend needs immediate bailing. He's been at work all day, that's probably why he hasn't answered. I'll call the shop if he doesn't text back.”
When we wrap up paying for the meal and walk to the car, the night air cool against my skin. My phone buzzes in my pocket with Eli’s response. He's already on it. Thanks me for letting him know.
The sun flickers above us, casting an orange glow on Patrick's worried face. “Ricky… are you sure you want this? Me? I’m already giving you more trouble than you seem to realize.”
“Eli might need some back up over at the Chinese Theater, if what you’re saying about your cousin is true. You feel like going on a ride with me?”
The corner of Patrick's mouth quirks up.
That smile—fuck, that smile. It's the kind of thing that makes a man believe in stupid shit like fate and forever.
I'd do anything to keep seeing it, to keep being the one who puts it there.
I hope to god he lets me. Because when he looks at me like that, I'm not just another problem to solve but someone worth fighting for. I can finally breathe.
I'm not ready to give that up, not even for a second.
I don't know what the hell comes over me in that moment. Usually, I'm a "ask first" kind of guy, always careful about boundaries, especially after everything that's happened between us. But there's something about the way he's looking at me that short-circuits my brain.
My hands are moving before I can think, fingers sliding into the soft hair at his temples, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones.
Then I'm pulling him in, my mouth crashing against his like I'm drowning and he's the only air in the room.
It's not gentle, not careful, not the way it should be after everything.
It's desperate, possessive, the kind of kiss that says "mine" without ever speaking a word.
For a second, I panic, wondering if I've fucked everything up again.
But then he's kissing me back, fisting the front of my shirt, pulling me closer, almost as if he's afraid I might disappear.
And just like that, I know I finally have him.