I argue with him a little longer about him taking the bed, but he’s determined. It’s not like the sofa is uncomfortable, anyway. It’s long enough to fit him and wide enough that he won’t fall off during the night if he tosses and turns. So if he wants to make a martyr of himself, I might as well let him.
I do pull out some sheets for him, and as I tuck them into the sofa pillows as a makeshift bed, he says, “I never figured you of all people as an art collector.”
“I’m not. Not for the art’s sake, anyway.”
“Investments, huh?” He’s staring particularly hard at the Ad Reinhardt that takes up almost the whole wall space between the living room and the kitchen. “Still. Interesting taste.” From there, he wanders to the windows and looks out across the Hudson, presses up against the window hard to get a glimpse of the piers to the left. Seeing him spreadeagled on the glass like that is enough like a particular fantasy I’ve had—although in that fantasy, he’s naked—that I decide enough is enough.
“Your bed’s ready. You want me to turn out the light on my way up?”
He turns back to me. “I’ll get it. I still need to catch up on my emails, so I’ll be up a little while longer. Shit—I hope that’s okay. The light from down here won’t disturb you?” He pauses in pulling out a laptop from his bag.
“Do your thing, Harvard. I’ll see you in the morning.” But I lie awake in bed a long time watching soft shadows play across the ceiling from the living room below, listening to the quiet tap of his keyboard. It’s almost comforting. Eventually the clicking of keys stops and the light goes out. If I concentrate hard I can even hear his breathing.
But just as I drift into a light doze, I’m jerked back awake by a frightened cry.
Chapter Twenty-One
Carlo
Someone is strangling me.
They have their hands wrapped around my neck, choking me, keeping my voice tight in my throat so I can’t call for help. I force it, force out a cry, and then other hands are on me, shaking me, someone’s calling my name—
“Wakeup, Carlo!”
I come back to consciousness with a rush, gasping for air like I’ve been half-drowned in a bathtub…or in the cold Atlantic Ocean.
“Fuck,” I cough, when things become clear.
I’m at Nick’s. I’m on his couch. I’ve been having a nightmare.
That’s all. That’s all.
“He was really dead, right?” I pant out, still trying to catch my breath.
“Huh?”
“When you put him into the sea. He wasn’t still breathing?” I can’t stand the thought of him coming to, all jammed up in that small metal box, and then the water flooding into it, into his lungs. I have to push the thought away, shuddering.
For a moment, I worry Nick is going to say something harsh, something that will burrow into my brain and stay with me for the rest of my life, but he just smooths the damp hair away from my forehead. “He was dead. Promise. And it was quick for him, too, the way he died. Painless. More than he deserved, maybe.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m—I’m glad it was quick, if he had to die at all.”
Nick nods. “You okay now?”
“Yeah.” I’m not. I’m not anywhere near okay and I don’t plan on closing my eyes again tonight, just in case I dream again.
“Come sleep upstairs.”
“What? No. I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. Hell, I spent the night at your place that one time.”
If I was being honest, that time Nick Fontana slept over and I got to wake up with his huge bicep mashing me against his chest, his hard cock rubbing between my asscheeks—it was the best morning of my life for a long damn time. And not just the morning sex, either. It was just nice waking up next to him.
But we don’t have room for any of that stuff now, so I shake my head again. “It’s not a great idea.”
“So, what, you’re gonna sit up answering emails for the rest of the night? It’s only one o’clock now. Come upstairs. If you’re gonna be awake you might as well keep me warm while you worry.”
