Page 13 of Blurred Boundaries

“Let me go get the others,” I tell him.

He acknowledges me with a nod, still focused on arranging the plates. I leave the kitchen and nearly walk straight into Paul in the hallway. I inform him food is ready then head for the stairs and jog up to the third floor, my footsteps thudding against the wooden steps. A long corridor stretches ahead, lined with closed doors and soft lighting. I open the first door on the right, but it’s empty. I shut it and move to the next one. This one is open, but Roland and Austin are not inside. I keep going farther down the hall. I see one more closed door. I grab the handle and push it open the same way I did the other—and then I freeze at the sight in front of me.

“I’m so sorry,” I yell.

I spin around so fast, I almost trip over my own legs, stumbling back into the corridor. I race back downstairs, mentally kicking myself for not knocking first. Though, in my defence, Roland and I have never needed to knock before barging into each other’s rooms, but that’s not the point right now. The point is, I’m not sure I’ll ever get the image out of my head—Roland bent over while Austin drives into him.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I hurry down the stairs, but that’s a bad move because now it’s clearer and playing like a fucking highlight reel in my head. Roland gripping the sheets, Austin’s hands on his hips, the sounds I barely registered before fleeing. I reach the bottom step and stop dead, my heart racing. And worse, I have to adjust the semi pressing against my joggers.

Fuck! This is not happening.

Am I turned on by seeing my best friend getting fucked? Absolutely not. Probably not. I mean . . . hopefully not?

I stay rooted to the spot until my dick gets the message and goes back to a respectable level of softness, then I head back to the kitchen to join Taj and Paul.

“Where are they?” Taj asks.

“They’re uhm . . . ” I swallow. “They’re busy, but will probably come downstairs soon.”

Paul doesn’t even look up as he scoops egusi soup into a bowl and adds goatmeat. “They’re fucking,” he deadpans.

Taj lets out a hoot of laughter. “Is that why your face is like that?” He points at me, clutching his stomach as he keeps laughing.

I roll my eyes at him and grab a plate just as Roland and Austin walk in. Thankfully, no one says a word, and we all settle around the table and start eating. The soup is tasteful and full of flavour, the meat is tender enough to fall apart with barely any effort, and the poundo yam is smooth and warm. I have to give props to Taj though, because the man can cook. But I refuse to daydream about him cooking for me regularly, or feeding me, or standing behind me while reaching around to hand me a spoon. Nope. Not doing that.

After dinner, I stay behind to load the dishwasher and clean up while waving everyone else out of the kitchen. They disappear towards the living room, Taj and Austin already arguing over what game to play on the PlayStation while Paul trails after them as their unwilling audience.

I’m stacking the last of the plates when Roland speaks. “So.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry you had to see that.”

“My fault for not knocking,” I reply.

“Anyway, what was your text about?” he asks. “Don’t think I’ll forget.”

I straighten up and lean back against the counter. “On my first night here, I went to a club and met Taj, and one thing led to another. Then on Monday, I realised he’s one of my students.”

Roland looks thoughtful. “When you say one thing led to another . . . what exactly are you talking about?”

“Blowjob,” I blurt out.

His eyes go wide. “Wow. Michael. Wow. But you’ve called that off, right?”

I let out a long sigh. “I tried, but he’s just so . . . uh.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I don’t know how to explain it, okay?”

Roland moves closer and squeezes my shoulder. “I can’t judge you, really. But just be careful, okay?”

“I will be. And how’re you dealing with your suspension?”

He grins, giving him a boyish look I haven’t seen on him in years. “You’ve seen how.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan.

We join the others in the living room where Taj is surprisingly beating Austin, a professional footballer, at FIFA.

After a few minutes of Taj humiliating him, Austin drops the controller on the sofa and lets out an exaggerated yawn. “I’m only letting you win because you’re such a gracious host,” he declares. “I’m going to bed.”

He stands up and is promptly followed by Roland. “Good night,” he tosses out as if he’s forgotten we’re even there. Paul watches them leave with a flat look, then stands up as well and leaves for his room.

I stand at the same time Taj does, like he was waiting for me. He glances at me but says nothing, and we head upstairs in silence. At the second-floor landing, we stop outside my door, Taj standing close enough for his fingers to graze the back of my hand. He doesn’t leave straightaway; he just stands there for a moment like he’s deciding something.