Bowie slowed in front of a dilapidated laundromat. “This is me.”
“You live here?” Javier asked, frowning.
Inside, people bustled about, moving clothing from washers to dryers. A couple sat on the machines, chatting, while a middle school aged kid pushed around a toddler in one of the wheeled baskets. There was a lady sitting in a chair reading a novel with two half naked people on the front. Maybe she was at a good part and didn’t notice her kids banging into things. Maybe she was just too tired to care.
“Upstairs.”
“What?” he asked, looking back at Bowie.
“Upstairs. That’s where I live. What? Your friend didn’t give you my home address, too?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice as he said it but also the tiniest bit of trepidation.
“Nah, he did. I just didn’t expect you to live over something calledThe Washing Well.”
Bowie fidgeted, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet, flexing one foot back and forth at an impossible angle in an absentminded gesture. “Yeah, it’s still kinda weird that you expected me to live anywhere.” Once more, he darted his tongue out to wet his lower lip before meeting his gaze. “Do I need to be afraid of you? Seriously, if this is some kind of weird kink or you’re secretly a monster, I just really can’t handle it. I can’t handle another bad thing in my life.”
Javier raked his gaze over Bowie, from his fuzzy pink boots to his shock white hair with its dark roots. “You? Nah, angel. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He leaned in a little, his tone conspiratorial. “Now, anybody who knocks that smile off your face. Well, they’re a whole other story.”
Bowie blushed. “You have more red flags than a car dealership. You get that makes you sound kind of crazy, right?”
Javier shrugged. “I've been called worse.”
“Are you going to be outside the company every day?” Bowie asked, voice almost timid as he gazed up at him with that same look that made Javier feel both protective and more than a little turned on.
“I guess that depends on you, angel. You could tell me to fuck off. I’ll go. I just wanted to see for myself if you were okay after what happened at the police station.”
Bowie visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And you’d do that? We’d go our separate ways forever?”
Javier raised his brows, giving him a half-smile. “Well, yeah. I’m not actually a stalker. In fact, I’m a huge fan of enthusiastic consent.”
Bowie did that foot flexing thing one more time, worrying his bottom lip between his snowy white teeth.
Javier sighed, turning to go. “Thanks for the walk, angel.”
He made it ten steps before Bowie’s voice rang out. “Javier.”
“Yeah?”
“I walk to the studio every morning at five thirty. If you happen to be around, maybe you could walk with me?”
Javier gave him a slow smile, looking him over once more. Damn, he was cute. “Yeah, I could do that.”
He was about to walk away again when Bowie said, “You know this whole thing fucked me up, right? Like, I’m…damaged. I can’t even handle people touching me, so if this is just the world’s weirdest come on and you’re trying to get laid, you should know that…since you’re such a fan of consent.”
“You worry too much. We’re just walking. And you’re allowed to be fucked up from this. What that dude did to you would fuck anybody up. It won’t always be that way.”
“How do you know that?”
Javier shrugged. “Because nothing ever stays the same. The pendulum always swings back.”
Bowie gave a shuddery breath. “But what if I get worse?”
Javier’s mouth hooked up at the corner. “You’re not going to get worse. You’re tough. You legit stormed a whole room of armed detectives ready to throw down. Shit, I know cold, calculating motherfuckers who would never have the balls to do that.”
Bowie was shaking his head. “But what if I don’t get better? What if I can never let anybody touch me again?”
Javier wasn’t sure why Bowie was asking him. He’d just spent the entire walk telling Javier that he was a little creepy and a lot stalkery and trying to suss out whether Javier was flirting or crazy. Now, he was standing on a crowded LA sidewalk asking Javier to assure him that he wasn’t too damaged. Would it matter to Javier if he was? Who was he to judge what was too fucked up? He had his own crosses to bear.
“Then you can touch me instead.”
