Page 35 of Never Forget

“I don’t know… Something flashier, I guess. This looks like something an accountant with two kids and a hypoallergenic dog would drive.”

“I’m not Jesse,” I remind him. “Or Will.” They’re the ones with the flashy cars. I don’t really do flashy. Except maybe the tattoos, but I don’t really think of them as flashy, either. If anything, they’re a cover. “This is the most energy efficient and environmentally conscious vehicle on the market.”

“Am I going to fit in that thing?”

“It’s a crossover. You’ll fit.”

“It’s a roller skate,” he says skeptically, waving his arms to show just how much taller he is than the vehicle.

“I’ve seen you fit into smaller places,” I murmur with a pointed look.

That shuts him up. Scott’s mouth opens into a surprised O, eyes crinkling at my unexpected dirty joke. Not that I don’t make jokes, I do. All the time, really. I’ve just admittedly been kind of a grouch this morning.

The day started off hard enough, waking up wrapped around Scott for the second time in as many months. I was already struggling with the first time and how much I didn’t hate it, but then I had to go and fuck him like that last night.

I didn’t mean for it to be like that. Hell, I didn’t even know it could be like that.

Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely barged into the living room expecting to fuck him. I prepped and everything. Obviously I was expecting something.

I had a plan. I was going to wake him up and let him know just how pissed off I was, and that I couldn’t sleep because of it. Then Dom Scott would come out and say something sexy like, “I think I know what you need.”

What I absolutely did not expect was to get out there and see him all spread out, relaxed as can be. The little bit of light coming in from the window made him look too pretty. His skin looked too soft, and his hair flopping down over one eye made him look like the male version of Sleeping Beauty, except his eyes were open and he was looking at me like I wasn’t real. And then I just crawled right on top of him. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to kiss him like that, or to get wrapped up in the way his hands felt.

From there, it just kind of happened. I lost control. I lost myself.

I blame it on the boner I’ve been trying to ignore since the jolly giant arrived. Why does he have to be so hot? It’s annoying.

And now, not only is it impossible to ignore him, but I have visions of last night playing on repeat in my head. The way he let me take control and just use him for my own pleasure until right at the very end, when he flipped me over and showed me just how much he still owns my body.

This morning he woke up chipper as ever and seems to have no problems acting like nothing happened last night. Meanwhile, I’m a few skipped heartbeats away from my internal meltdown becoming an external inferno, and who knows what the fuck I might do to make my life even more complicated.

Add in my weekly call to my grandparents taking a bad turn, and I’m more on edge than I was before the best orgasm of my life.

I used to call my grandparents twice a week to check in, but these days we have a standing expectation for a single call every Sunday morning. Even if I’m on the other side of the world, I set an alarm so I can reach them at the right time. Usually, I catch them just after church and before they leave to meet their church group for lunch. It gives both sides an excuse to keep the conversation short.

If we stay on the phone too long, the conversation always drifts into awkward silence or reminders of how disappointed they are that I passed up a good education and the respectable life they wanted for me.

Most of our calls are just me checking in, asking about their week, their church friends, whatever project my grandfather is currently obsessing over. We talk about the book they’re writing about the history of the Raleigh-Durham area and the effects of gentrification on old neighborhoods.

We rarely talk about the band. If I mention a tour or a show, they tend to get quiet. It's like anything connected to music exists behind a wall they refuse to look over.

They love me. I know they do.

And I understand them. It hurts that I chose music, a path that, in their minds, killed my father, over a normal, comfortable life in academia like theirs. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have looked like if I'd followed the path they’d laid out for me, but I can't picture myself spending my life in lecture halls debating history books.

But I still call. Even when it feels more like an obligation than anything else.

Scott’s phone chimes several times in a row as soon as we hit the main road.

“Someone’s popular.”

He doesn’t answer, staring down at his phone with an expression that has me worried for a moment. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just a bunch of spam messages. I get them all the time.”

“Change your number. Isn’t there some kind of protocol for scrubbing your number from lists? Seems like that would be something the security team could handle.”