Chapter Twenty-Five Jo
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jo
I t’s been a year since I last got laid.
My usual booty call, a former Haven instructor named Evan, used to text me every time he came to New York to visit his family. Not that I can compare the man currently holding my hand and the man who pulled my hair every few months; Evan and I were a familiar, animalistic comfort to each other, a way for two friends who shared a mutual attraction to scratch an itch until he found himself a long-term girlfriend in Denver.
Silas is… more.
That—and the tequila—is what I’m attributing my horniness to in this dimly lit bar. I’m on the verge of feral, my resolve to keep my heart guarded crumbling faster than the granola bars I keep in my purse.
For so long, I’ve been content to stay firmly on this side of single. The alternative—truly letting someone in—would have meant potentially compromising the delicate balance I’d struck to maintain my sanity. This is not to say I haven’t noticed attractive people; the city is full of the most interesting, beautiful specimens the human race has to offer. I’m also aware enough to know that my co-workers are what most people would consider objectively hot.
Even still, I haven’t had a desire to act on anything other than Evan’s periodic u up? texts. Until now.
Unfortunately, it’s still Derek’s birthday celebration, and we’re surrounded by friends now that we’ve met the rest of the group at Bare Minimum, one of New York’s greatest dives. The floor is so sticky my wedges catch with every step I take, and the interior smells like the five-dollar beer and whiskey combo-shots the bartenders have been serving all night. If I were a different kind of person—someone who did not have a very public job and an anxiety disorder—I might pull Silas into one of those dark corners and show him exactly how much I want him.
Instead, I settle for the tamest of compromises while the group chatters around us. I release his hand so I can slip my own in the back pocket of his jeans. He responds by pulling me closer, our bodies flush, his fingers trailing along the bare skin of my exposed lower back. Our gazes meet, and even in the low lighting, I can see his pupils are blown.
“Thirsty?” he asks, his voice husky and teasing.
“Parched.”
He leans in to whisper directly into my ear. “What would you like?”
To any onlookers, he might seem like he’s trying to say something over the rock and roll music playing from the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. But I know that he’s doing this so we can feel more of each other, especially when he grips my hip with just enough pressure that I have to remind myself to stay upright.
It’s our turn to order, but I don’t want to stop this game of double entendres yet. “What do you recommend, Silas?”
“Depends what you’re in the mood for,” he murmurs.
I run my free hand up his back, intentionally dragging my nails so he can feel them through his T-shirt. He lets out a sigh against my neck, his breath warm against my skin. I smirk as I say, “I’ll take whatever you give me.”
“This place doesn’t serve what I want to give you, Jo.”
Oh my god, I am going to combust in the middle of this very crowded bar.
I can feel my pulse everywhere: from the tips of my fingers eager to touch him to between my legs, where I need him closer. My last shred of social awareness registers that there are people behind us waiting to order. One of us is going to have to break this tension—I’ll be damned if it’s me.
“And what would that be?” I ask, hoping to call his bluff.
He pulls back so we’re eye to eye again. The heat from our exchange is written all over his face, his cheeks tinged pink and his stare hungry. Beneath my bra, my nipples harden.
“Do you two want to order something?” the bartender snaps.
Well, that’s one way to rip me out of my horny fog.
Silas and I jump back from each other like two naughty teenagers caught by the school principal. I sputter out an order for a beer and Silas does the same. I take several deep breaths while he pays.
With a cold bottle in hand, I survey the dive and see our group snagged a corner booth and some stray chairs. Only Derek and Quinn are missing, but then I spot them hunched over the jukebox with handfuls of singles. Silas and I make our way over, and people scoot into one another to make more room.
“Want to sit?” Silas asks as he gestures to the sliver of a seat at the edge of the booth.
I shake my head. “I’d rather stand for a while.”
He gives me a knowing smirk before taking the free space and striking up a conversation with Derek’s friends. Admiration blooms in my chest as I watch him; he’s so good at making an effort with people. It’s the perfect complement to how I interact with others, since I struggle to get my bearings with new people outside of Haven.
I’m working on it, I remind myself.
Amber appears at my side as I take my first sip of cheap beer. She has her own drink in hand—a whiskey neat, judging by the color in the glass—and a mischievous smile on her face. I brace myself for whatever it is she’s about to say.
“I knew you were up to something tonight,” she says, soft enough that only I can hear her. “You wore your coochie cutters.”
“Was it that obvious?” I ask, and even I don’t know if I’m talking about my Daisy Duke ploy to get Silas’s attention or our lust-addled showdown at the bar.
Turns out, there’s no need for me to specify. Amber simply levels me with a look.
“Have you talked to him yet?”
Her question is quiet, and the music is loud enough that no one can hear us, but I’m acutely aware that Silas is only inches away. A shock of nerves zips along my skin. I shake my head and take another swig of my beer. “Not yet. Soon, though.”
Amber nods and squeezes my arm in reassurance before she’s whisked away by Derek, who has been overcome by the birthday spirit and is hell bent on dancing to Van Morrison. I smile as she indulges him, turning and grooving along with him next to the jukebox. They love each other so loudly and easily. I wonder if I’ll ever find that.
For the first time in a long time, I actually want to have that for myself.
My attention diverts at the unmistakable touch of Silas’s fingers trailing up my leg. When I look down at him, I find that expression of barely restrained hunger on his face again. I feel it too, that intense desire to be close to him still burning through me, except now cold reality is clouding it. I know this man wants me—it’s practically written on his face—but I have no idea how he feels about me. If there’s more to this than just lust.
Of all the risks I’ve taken lately, this one has the potential to hurt me the most.
“These shorts are diabolical,” he says between song transitions. “But I think you know that.”
I force myself to smile. “It’s hot out.”
My insides are a mess as he sets his beer on the table and angles himself so he can grip both of my thighs. This puts his head right at my pelvis—a place where I would very much like to see him under different circumstances—but I can’t ignore my breath sawing out of my lungs or my hands starting to shake. This is my anxiety taking over.
I have got to get out of here, even if only for a minute.
“Speaking of,” I mutter as I set my beer on the table, “I’m gonna get some air.”
It’s remarkable how fast the desire on his face fades to concern. I see his eyes soften and his brows pinch together before I dart away from the table. As politely as possible, I shoulder my way through the crowded bar until I reach the exit. I practically stumble through the door—only to find it’s hotter out here than it was inside.
It’s so humid that I feel like I’m breathing in soup, but I force myself to box breathe as I meander away from the smokers clustered near the entrance.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four.
I get in two rounds before there’s a gentle tug at my elbow. I’m not at all surprised to see Silas when I turn around. His blue eyes carefully survey me while he keeps a light touch on my arm. In this moment, I can’t decide if I appreciate him or hate him for being the kind of man who won’t let me suffer alone.
Silas reads me like a book, concern etched across his face when he asks, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” The words leave my lips before I can even think about it; it’s the sort of standard non-answer you give when an acquaintance asks that kind of question. Silas, however, is not an acquaintance, so I give him at least a morsel of the truth. “Just having a brief existential crisis.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
I gesture between us with my hands. “This. This is what’s going on.”
“What do you mean?” The question comes out slowly, and I worry he’s stalling. I fold my arms across my chest as he asks, “Is this about what happened at your place the other night?”
My temper rises in tandem with my heart rate. “You mean us hooking up?”
He has the good sense to look chastened. “Yeah. That.”
“Yeah. That ,” I echo. “What are we doing here, Silas?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When his gaze finds mine again, there’s a glimmer of pain there, enough to scare me. My body braces for impact. My hands grip my arms hard enough to hurt.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. Slowly, he pries my crossed arms away from my chest until he’s holding my hands in his. “I feel like I’m in some kind of sexual purgatory.”
His choice of words startles a genuine laugh out of me. For a second, I forget that we’re even having this conversation, but the reprieve is brief. My heart is beating so rapidly that I feel like my toes are at the edge of that cliff again.
Here it is: my chance to tell him how I feel. To tell him how much it means to me that he sees me for who I am. To tell him that I like him.
If I was braver, maybe, or faster, I would tell him that I can see myself falling in love with him. But I don’t get a chance because he adds, “I think you and I should meet up separately. Spend some time together and talk. Just the two of us.”
I don’t miss him glancing to our left, where ten or so people are smoking and talking near the front door. Their drunken chatter is loud enough to cut through the music filtering out from the bar. I guess this isn’t the ideal place to have a heart-to-heart with someone.
Silas and I, alone, with no interviews to record, no article looming over our heads, no rambunctious party to distract us, no agenda aside from just being together—that’s exactly what we need. “Yeah. Okay.”
As he repeats my “okay,” his face softens, and it’s as though all my organs rearrange themselves to make space for my heart, which feels much too large and is still beating way too quickly.
Silas holds my hand as we walk back into the bar together. For the rest of the night, we stay close, but it’s different from before. Our touches are gentler, less outright feral—just enough to show that yes, we still want each other, but we’re willing to wait for it. Later, much later, he stands outside with me while I summon my Uber home. It’s there that he kisses me good night—a slow, languid seduction that burns through me all over again. My entire body feels like a smoldering ember, like if I could just get more of him, I could burst into flames.
Long after we’ve gone our separate ways, I’m still thinking about that—how good it feels just to want something again, enough that I’m willing to put my heart on the line for it.