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Ethan
For the first time on the trip, I grab some shorts and head for the hotel gym. I run until my legs give out and lift until my arms are numb, trying to find my center again. Going from sunshine and sleepy mornings and freedom to a claustrophobic, angry world where I have no power has sucked away all the confidence Victor found in me.
Thoughts of Victor bleed into thoughts of my mother—none of this can fix me—until it’s driving me insane.
I chug a bottle of water and shower in the attached locker room, standing under the hot stream with my forehead resting against the slippery tile wall. It reminds me of home, scrubbing the shower as I wash myself because there’s literally no other time. Ever since Danny’s accident, there’s been a weight on my chest that never went away, a constant push to tryharder, until I forgot that it hadn’t always been there.
Then those seven words—I’ll teach you how to hurt me—turned into the best three days of my life and I couldbreathe. Now it’s back, twice as heavy, like a punishment.
You’ve made helping people your personality so you don’t have to come up with your own.
If I can’t even do that right, what’s left of me?
I stay in the shower a long time, telling myself that when I walk out Victor will be sitting there, waiting. He’ll grin and say, “Look at you, all wet. Don’t fucking touch me like that,” eyes daring me to do it. I’ll grab him, smear water on his face and mess up his hair, and then we’ll just walk out of this place and forget it ever existed.
He’s not there, but a text from him is.
Hurry up.
Where? I’m busy.I have no interest in continuing our conversation by the pool. In fact, the next three days will be easier if I just avoid seeing him at all.
Then he texts me a photo: he’s lying in the hotel room bed on his back, head hanging off the edge, shooting down the length of his naked body, one hand displaying his hard cock.
We agreed that what we shared in the car would be the last time. We promised this was over, because obsession and hate don’t share withanything; they can’t survive on twice-a-week sex and dates on the weekend.
It should have been the last time. But there’s a long way between “should be” and “is”, a lot of places to get lost in between. The elevator can’t get me upstairs fast enough.
But when he opens the door, he’s dressed—kind of. A pair of sweats hangs low on his hips, making it clear there’s nothing underneath. He’s shirtless, just his chain necklace caught up in his clavicles. A smirk teases at his lips.
I step inside and slam the door, backing him up until his legs hit the edge of the bed. Then I stop, because there’s no mattress. For the first time, I look around the room.
The mattress, piled with blankets and pillows, sits on the floor in front of the TV. There are about ten thousand snacks on the floor next to it, in a messy pile.
“Surprise,” Victor deadpans. He’s trying to look cool, but he seems nervous. “Yippee. I’m so fucking fulfilled by thinking of someone besides myself. So exciting. So romantic.”
There’s a microsecond where we both freeze at the last word. I clear my throat. “You found all the food I liked.” He’s watching me hopefully, and there’s such a softness he doesn’t know I can see behind the bravado in his gaze. When I run my fingers through his hair, he closes his eyes. We’re both so desperate for touch, even after a few hours, that it feels as potent as the first time. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s the one day of the year that I’m nice. Like a reverseThe Purge.”
“Lucky me.” We both grin, and the lingering awkwardness disappears.
He jumps on the mattress with both knees like a kid and turns on the TV. There’s a DVD menu featuring Harrison Ford’s young, smoldering face.
“My favorite, the classicIndiana Jones I predatori dell'arca perduta.”
He laughs at how I mangle the name. “I think it’s an Italian dub with English subtitles. It’s the only thing they had at the shop.” He grabs my legs and unbalances me, pulls me down next to him. “You should see it; it’s a fucking bootleg CD with the name written on in permanent marker.”
For the next two hours, we gorge ourselves on junk food and make fun of the extremely dramatic Italian dub track and how badly it matches the actor’s expressions. Victor has never seen the film before, which makes it even funnier. I catch myself watching him instead of the movie, drinking in the glow of the TV on his tawny skin. I could sit here for a year, just touching him, every flawless inch of him, and never get tired of it.
My workout starts to catch up with me around the time Indy finds the ark. Victor prods me and I realize I’ve dozed off, propped against the bed. “I need you awake to tell me what the hell is going on,” he complains.
I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to see his reaction to the face-melting scene. His jaw drops, then he busts up laughing, glancing over at me. “The fuck just happened?”
The next time I wake up, the movie is over and he’s nudging my shoulder.
“Sorry.” I swallow, squinting at him. “I’m tired.”
A shiver runs through me when he cups my face in his hand the way I usually do to him. His hands are so intoxicating to me, refined but strong with a wide palm and big knuckles and the spaces between his fingers made to fit mine perfectly. “It’s going to be ok,” he murmurs.
