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“Nah. It’s more fun to wait and find out.”
12
Ford
Turns out,Orson is impressed by a man who can cook. And I say “cook” lightly because all I do is make up the chicken coating, set it in the pan, and chop up the shit for the coleslaw before cutting up and throwing some fries on as well. I learned early on how easy it would be for me to rely on takeout and ready meals since I have no one but me to cook for, and so I made it my mission to learn how to do this properly. And enjoy it.
Spending that half an hour or so every afternoon preparing whatever the hell I want to eat makes it taste that much nicer. Normally I’d have a beer while I cook, but I didn’t pick any up this week, and I don’t miss it.
“I’ve got some ginger ales, seltzer water and lime, or sodas in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
Orson throws me a look. “Ginger ale?”
“Kinda picked up the taste of it lately.”
“It just so happens to be one of my favorites.”
“What a coincidence.” The look he gives me makes me all fluttery. It’s so easy to do when he’s around. The kind eyes that get crinkles in the corners, the silver-flecked scruff, the way he holds himself all tall and confident, in a way that tempts me to bring him to his knees. Whatever that was in the bathroom was definitely coming from the both of us. Interest, flirting, that hum of possibility on the air—unspoken but so thick it coated my tongue.
For a supposedly straight man, Orson’s the one toeing the line more often than not. I’m firmly planted on my side, observing and hoping but not sure how to proceed.
He opens the fridge to the sizzle of hot oil and inspects the inside before pulling out the seltzer water and some lime. “You know, I don’t care if you drink. Art and the guys do around me. It’s not a temptation thing.”
“Nothing worse than being sober around a drunk person, but … I never realized how much of it I did until you said you didn’t. Most people naturally gravitate toward alcohol in social situations, and with you, I assumed you’d be the same. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It’s normal.” He opens two bottles and slides a ginger ale over to me. “You know what isn’t normal?”
“What?”
“You didn’t ask why.”
I shrug and check the chicken. “It’s not like it’s my business.”
He chuckles darkly. “Other people don’t understand that. Whenever I say I don’t drink, I get odd looks and the third degree.”
My frown settles deep.
“Do you want to know why I don’t?” he asks softly.
“Only if it’s something you want to tell me.” I cross my arms and face him. “You don’t need to give me an explanation.”
He shuffles slightly, not meeting my eyes. “I, uh … After I lost Tara, things got really dark for me. I ran away from where people knew me. Got into alcohol and drugs, sex with people I didn’t like. I went back to stripping to survive financially, but I didn’t enjoy it like I did the first time around. Instead of it being a job and good exercise, it was more like I was punishing myself. And I made some … messed-up choices.Especiallywhen I was drinking.”
My gaze falls again to his scars, but I look away quickly. The fact he shared any of that with me is a big deal. I’m not entitled to know these personal things, so him wanting to share them with me is something I won’t take lightly. “It was brave of you.”
“What? Running away and hiding?”
“No. That you saw you wanted better and did the work for it.”
“That’s … not a perspective I’ve had before.”
I remove the chicken from the pan. “Not surprised. I am an incredibly clever and insightful man.” And I’m pretty damn proud of my cooking right now because the chicken skin is perfectly crispy.
We sit at my table, plates piled high, talking about work and whatever shit comes into our minds, while I try to ignore the pornographic way Orson is moaning over the chicken. The way he licks his fingers into his mouth, over and over and fuckingover.
It gets dark, and we finish eating, but neither of us makes a move to get up. The lights are on, but the house is silent, and with the way we’ve angled toward each other, we’re sitting closer than we were originally.
“Question,” he says after a sleepy silence. “Why the garage?”
