Page 30 of Down Bad

How dare he tell me I can stay.

“If you need to talk,” he goes on, “or just need a friend. Are … Are you okay? Can’t sleep?”

And then he says I need a friend.

Asks me if I can’t sleep.

“Me neither,” he admits, speaking so softly, it aches to hear it. “Had a last minute change on an order. Thought I’d get it all done before I go in tomorrow. If something’s sitting on my mind, I can’t sleep at all. Until it’s settled, I mean.”

“Why’re you doing this?”

The question slips right out of me.

Can’t contain myself a second longer.

“Doing what?” he asks.

I glare at him over my shoulder.

That shuts him up. And brings back all my resolve. You know exactly what you’re doing.

I come back over the porch.

He backs away.

Drops his knife.

And the roses.

I walk right over the leafy, thorny things until his back slams against the brick wall of his house, knocking his breath out.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I growl.

He stares into my eyes. There’s no porch light on, just a glow from the kitchen light inside lining the side of his face.

My hand is slapped to the brick by his head.

I’m drawing closer.

“Why … are you doing this to me …?” I repeat.

“Doing … what?” he breathes.

And fuck, what his little whimper of a voice does to me.

He knows already. Everything.

I’d almost laugh, on the verge of losing my mind, how Wyatt is either truly this innocent, or knows exactly how he’s been toying with me these past few days, playing with me all this time.

“You’re somethin’ else, Wyatt, y’know that? Somethin’ else.” I come even closer. Goddamn that voice of his. Those eyes that keep trapping me. “And I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

My eyes drop to his lips.

Goddamn those lips, most of all.

“Diego …” he whimpers, like some reckless part of him might have been asking for this all along.

It’s not good neighborliness.