Rune shakes his head. His eyes are on his phone, and he looks…I’d say unhappy, but that doesn’t quite cover it. “I have a ride.” His tone is dark, and he glances off to the side like he’s searching for someone.
I’m worried now. The only person who ever makes Rune look upset is Easton, and that’s not even in a soul-crushing way. Easton just irritates the shit out of him.
Right now, Rune looks like he wants to crawl into a hole—a feeling I’m a little too familiar with.
“I’ll walk you to the parking lot,” I say.
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, but then his shoulders sag, and he nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
We don’t speak again. The cement trail drops off at the curb, and a few hundred feet away, I can see a massive black truck parked across two spaces. There’s a guy waiting by the hood, tossing his keys into the air and catching them with a flourish like we’re meant to be impressed.
He looks like the picture you’d see if you googledmiddle age douchebag trying to reclaim his youth. He’s wearing a white backward cap, a polo, tight jeans, and aviators. All the things I love, but somehow, he manages to douche them right up.
I can also see age on his face. The guy has to be at least fifty if his greying temples are any indication. That wouldn’t be a problem, but the way he’s staring at Rune like he wants to grab him by the neck and force him to his knees, and not in a good way, makes my stomach churn.
“Hey,” I call after Rune. He freezes and turns. “Call me if you need to.”
His shoulders sag. “Thanks. I’m okay though.”
“Call me,” I emphasize. “If you need to.”
His lips twitch, and then he nods. “Yeah. But whatever you think this is, I promise it’s not.”
I think it’s something horrible. Abuse or coercion or…I don’t know. Some kind of emotional manipulation. But I know pushing him isn’t going to solve anything, and he must know that’s what I’m thinking, so it has to be something else.
I just don’t know what else it could be.
It’s taken my mind off Leo, which is great until I watch Rune drive off into the distance. And then I’m alone with my thoughts again…
And the second I close my eyes, the ghost of his body is right back under mine, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to let go.
NINE
LEO
I shouldn’t be here.I should not be here. It’s a quiet mantra I keep repeating as I make my way up the drive, past the empty truck, and into the lobby of the station. There’s no one behind the desk, but that’s not really a surprise.
We live in such a small town, and Easton’s always complaining about how the city doesn’t want to spend money where it doesn’t need to. Sometimes he gets put at the reception desk, and I know that pisses him off more than anything.
He’s always been awkward on the phone. He lost several dates in high school because he couldn’t hold a conversation that way, but it also worked out for him because the people who did give him a chance were wildly charmed when they met him in person. He never struggled to connect to people the way I did.
Taking a breath, I push my way through the door into the main room and hear voices up above me. My arms are full of empty takeout containers, which was my flimsy excuse for showing up, but now it feels even weaker. How am I going to look anyone in the face and admit that my life is so small, I had nothing better to do than this?
Because really, it is. Even if the excuse is pathetic and half a lie. The containers do belong to the station, but Easton’s usually the one who picks them up. Fuck, I should have stayed away, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he stormed out of my house.
I spent the night lying on my bed, hand on my half-hard dick, staring at the ceiling and replaying all the ways he kissed me and touched me. All the ways he was shy about it, and uncertain, which didn’t seem like him at all.
So now here I am, hoping he’s here and hoping he’s gone in equal measure.
Really, I just want to look him in the face. I’m not going to ask him why he left the way he did. It’s not like we’re friends. It’s not like he was really attracted to me. I’m pretty sure it was a pity fuck, and in all honesty, I want to look into his eyes and confirm that it didn’t mean anything.
That it was a fluke—a temporary lapse in sanity—and it won’t ever happen again. It’s not like I don’t get it.
If the situation were reversed, I might pity him enough to give him a quick hand job, then run away filled to the brim with regret. And I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m not a catch. I’m scarred on the outside and on the inside with a brain that never quite fires right, even on the best day. I’m lonely and kind of pathetic about it, and I’m nearly thirty with an older brother who is still taking care of me.
Who the fuck would want that?
But I think I need to know. I need to see it on his face that that’s all it was.
