Bowie: I hope you don’t have a foot fetish, cause I gotta warn you, dancer feet are pretty gnarly.
The moment Bowie hit send he instantly regretted it. Why had he made things weird? Because he liked feeling normal. Texting a boy was normal. Well, for other people. Bowie had never texted a boy for anything more than a hookup. Even if Javier was no boy.
Javier: You flirting with me, angel?
Bowie felt himself grinning as he sent the shrug emoji and then squeezed his eyes shut until his phone vibrated with another message.
Javier: Don’t worry. There’s a whole lot of prime real estate to explore before I make it all the way down south to those not-house slippers. I think I could find some destinations to stop at and explore along the way that could keep my attention.
Bowie swallowed hard, hands trembling.Hard to explore real estate with your hands tied... How are you going to drive?
The metaphor was stupid, but he was smiling like an idiot.
Javier: Then I guess you’d just have to guide me to your favorite scenic locations.
Bowie bit his bottom lip, his thoughts snagging on guiding Javier’s mouth exactly where he wanted it. What the fuck was he doing?
Bowie: Night, Javier.
Javier: Night, angel.
Bowie stared at the tiny angel emoji next to the wordnight, found himself tracing it even though it kept pushing the screen this way and that. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, phone still resting by his head.
* * *
He woke with a shout, heart racing, covered in sweat, feeling like his chest was in a vise grip. It took him a full minute to realize he’d had a nightmare. He was grateful he didn’t remember the details, but dread clung to him, his brain trying to recall the details even as he willed it not to. He snapped the light on, frowning at Odette’s empty bed.
He shuffled his way to the bathroom in the dark, relieving himself before washing his hands and splashing water on his face. It was only on his way back that he saw her. Odette. On the couch. She’d pulled her pillow and blanket from her bed. Why? Had he been making noises in his sleep? Did she feel weird being around him now?
He dragged himself back to his room, changing out of his damp underwear before pulling his comforter up so he didn’t have to sleep on sweat-soaked sheets. How was he supposed to live like this?
It was still dark when Bowie stumbled out of the door just to the left of the laundromat. He didn’t look good. He wore white track pants, a pastel tie-dyed hoodie, and his pink fuzzy non-house slippers, his lavender bag thrown over his shoulder. His hair was damp and stuck out in every direction. His face was drawn, the purple smudges under his eyes far more noticeable than his bruises even in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights.
Javier tilted his head. “You good, angel?”
Bowie double-fisted the strap on his bag just like yesterday. “I’m not a morning person,” he grumbled.
Javier held up a plastic to-go cup he’d had hidden behind his back. "Try this.”
Bowie’s gaze went wide at the iced coffee, and he grasped the offered cup, taking a sip. “It’s black,” he marveled.
Javier shrugged. “You didn’t seem like the cream and sugar type. I hear dancers are always watching their figures.”
“Thanks,” Bowie said, sounding bemused. As they walked, he hugged the cup against his chest like somebody might steal it, a not entirely unreasonable assumption in LA, Javier supposed.
Javier smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Where’s yours?” he asked, voice a bit breathless.
Javier made a face. “I don’t drink coffee.”
Bowie stopped. “So, you got this just for me? Why?”
Javier shook his head at the suspicion in Bowie’s voice, giving him a half smile he hoped appeared non-threatening. Had he always been this suspicious or was it a byproduct of the attack? “After you texted me last night, I thought you might be needing it. You seemed like you might be having a bad night.”
Bowie stared at him for a long minute. “Who even are you?”
That was a question Javier had been attempting to answer for a while now. Was he a saint? A sinner? A killer? An ex-con? Some complicated concoction of all of those things? Did it even matter? He couldn’t undo the many wrongs he’d done, no matter how many dogs or kids he rescued or how many evil bastards he put six feet under. But he wouldn’t burden Bowie with any of that.
