Close to what, I don’t know. But close.
CHAPTER 20
TINK
I must fall asleep,because the next thing I know, there’s daylight glowing behind my blinds and a buzzing in my head.
No, not in my head. Next to it.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, and fumble around for my phone. But no, my phone is right in front of my face, which means this buzzing sound is…
Right. Shit. Last night comes flooding back—the library card, the Googling, the…cyberstalking. Blue at my door.
Krye’s burner phone.
Answer it, I hear in my memory.It’ll always be me.
I shove myself to sitting and grab around in my blankets, but by the time I find the stupid thing and figure out how to answer it—push the awkward center button—the call’s gone dead.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I try redialing again, but same thing as last night. No dice.
I sigh, sagging a little over my hands. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know Pan needs to know. And that means I’ve got to go wake him up.
I slept in my binder by accident, but I swap out my T-shirt for a clean one before pulling on pants and swinging by theminifridge for something with caffeine. Not that my heart isn’t already going a thousand beats per minute, though.
Because truth is, of all the places I’ve been as Tink, the situations I’ve had to act in, the underground locations and bad neighborhoods and seedy joints, the hardest place to know what to do is where I’m headed now.
A bedroom.Pan’sbedroom.
Not that I haven’t been in guys’ bedrooms before. But this…this is a totally different context. I’ve never seen how guys act when it’s just the two of them in one of their rooms.
And something about it feels…personal. Intimate, almost.
But, then again, only if I let it.
I take a sip for energy, grip the burner in my hand, and knock.
“What?” comes a mumbled voice from the other side of the door. “Who’s there?”
“Me,” I answer. “Can I come in?”
“Ugh.” I hear a groan, the soft flap of blankets. “Sure.”
Pan’s room is a mess. Of course it is. It’s not disgusting—he doesn’t leave crusty food bowls or used condoms just lying around—but if you’re trying to find anything, good luck. Clothes everywhere. Pan likes clothes and Pan has a lot of clothes.
And not all of them are even his, I notice. Right under the corner of the bed: crumpled, hot pink, lacy—a thong. I ignore it.
Pan sits up in his swirl of blankets, blinking and running a hand through his hair. “Hey.” He squints at me. “What’s up?”
And shit. Him, there, like this. In bed. Half smiling, croaky morning voice, no shirt. All the winged keys and constellations and antique clocks, hearts and arrows, anchors and everything patterning out his sleeves. The contours of his chest muscles and abs, the lines of his hips?—
Fuck. I close my eyes. Not this, not now. I shouldnothave had that drink last night, or…done any of it. Stupid, stupid. Hard reset, Tink.
“Nothing,” I say, opening them again. “I mean, actually, something. Can we talk?”
Pan gives an exaggerated sigh. “I guess.” He leans forward across his bed, and before I clock what he’s doing, he’s grabbed the can from my hand.
“Hey!” I cry, but he just laughs and takes a sip.
