Gray looks happy.Like he’s in his element.Which he is, I realize.This is part of who he is—the party, the guys, the attention that he thrives on.He’s grinning even when he has to keep Robin from getting a hand down the back of his jeans.I’d be running for the hills, but Gray’s having fun.
He’s so good at this, I think.And I don’t even know whatthisis.Being himself, I guess.He makes it look so easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.Like anybody could be themselves, and it wouldn’t be hard at all.And there’s something beautiful about how happy he is.
I try to remind myself: he’s trouble.He can be an asshole sometimes.He runs his mouth pretty much constantly, and don’t forget that crack about having Gran cut a switch.But it doesn’t help.I look at him, and I think, He’s wild.He’s so wildly himself.And he’s mine.
Or he’s supposed to be, anyway.
For tonight.
I’m moving through the crowd, pocketing my phone, pushing between dancers.When I reach them, Robin notices me first, and he draws back slightly.Gray still hasn’t noticed.Doesn’t look until I take his wrist, turn him away from Robin, and say over his shoulder—into the sudden flash of viciousness on Robin’s face—“You don’t mind if I dance with my boyfriend, do you?”
Then the expression on Gray’s face catches my eye, and I forget about Robin.Startled.A little confused.I put his arms around my neck, put my hands on his hips.It’s like he’s waking up, and he cocks his head, and he has a little smile.
“I was kind of bluffing,” I say.I’m painfully aware of how his body feels under my hands: the roughness of the denim, the dense muscle and bone underneath.I’m pretty much holding his ass, but saying his hips sounds a lot better.“You’ll have to show me.”
He’s going to make some kind of crack.He’s definitely going to make a joke.I’m sure of it.But he doesn’t.His face smooths out—not a smile anymore, but not anything I can read either.He drops his arms from around my neck, but before I can even start worrying about that, he adjusts my hands.I’m really holding his ass now, and he moves in toward me.Then his arms are back around my neck, and he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne and whatever he uses in his hair and a hint of sweat.His end-of-the-day stubble scrapes me because we’re cheek to cheek now, and he’s almost whispering as he says, “Like this.”
He moves, and at first he’s guiding me.After a few minutes, I get the hang of it—enough, anyway—to move with him.It’s not dirty, not exactly.He’s not humping my leg or drilling into me with his dick like some of the guys around us.But it’s not…notdirty either.Because our bodies seem to touch everywhere, and every inch of friction seems to work its way through my body and up my spinal column and set my brain on fire.
Gran has an old sampler she made when she was Methodist, and it saysHe judgeth the quick and the dead, and when I was six or seven, she’d had to tell me that quick meant alive, but it was an old way of saying it.And now, right now, I understand, because every part of me feels quick.Every part of me is moving faster than it’s ever moved before, and it’s like I’ve been living my life in slow-motion until now.His arms are a weight around my neck, keeping me from floating off the ground.His breath is warm on my cheek.If I turned my head, we’d be kissing.
It’s a wave of heat at first.The way it feels sometimes when I know I’ve tripped on my own dick and made a jackass out of myself in front of everybody.But this feels good, not bad, and it’s my whole body, wave after wave of it, and my brain still feels like it’s on fire.There’s this part of me that thinks this is what Gran used to talk about when she was having her hot flashes.And then, somehow, it’s even worse, because I know what this is, what I’m feeling, how every inch of skin feels like it’s electrified, how my body seems to be turning into light from the inside out.
Gran’s fucking tingle.
The thought is so disorienting that I lose a couple of seconds.My body keeps moving, and I’m trying to catch up with my feet, and then I lose the rhythm and we’re both about to fall.
Gray catches us.Keeps us upright.
He’s laughing, but in a sweet way, and his arms tighten around my neck.He’s speaking so low it’s barely more than a vibration moving from his lips to my ear.
“Relax, Sammy.I got you.”
12
Sam
I have to go to work the next day, which is cruel and unusual punishment.
We didn’t get home all that late—barely midnight, which meant Gran was still watchingDrag Racein the living room.And it’s not like Gray came in, or we stayed out in the car talking, or anything.He thanked me again for introducing him to those people.He felt like we’d made a good impression on some key figures.He was happy, I could tell.
And then I went inside, gave Gran the bare minimum, and escaped to my room.
I thought I’d never sleep.But then I did.And when I woke up the next morning, for the first time in a long time, I hit snooze and didn’t go for a run.
I still make it to work on time.I’m on first shift for the next rotation, and it’s always an adjustment.I make it through roll call still hopped up on adrenaline, like I never went to sleep the night before, and I grab an extra large coffee before I hit the road.I don’t look around the station for Gray because I’m not a creeper.Plus, it’s Saturday, and unless he’s working a big case, he gets weekends off.
It’s hard to put my finger on what’s different as the day goes on.I’m tired, sure, and it starts catching up with me in spite of the coffee.But it’s not that.I guess it’s just a nice day.The sun seems brighter.It’s warmed up, and when I roll the windows down, I can smell lilac blooming.It’s such a good day that the first guy I stop for speeding, I let him off with a warning.
And I’m having a hard time staying focused—probably because I’m so tired.The whole shift, I catch my mind drifting off.Like, I know Gray usually takes his coffee black at the station, but is that the way he likes it at home?He’s definitely not a morning person, but does he still get up and go for a run—or maybe detectives don’t have to do that?What does he look like when he wakes up first thing in the morning?I decide he probably likes to lie in bed on the weekends.I bet if he had coffee and his phone, he could stay there all morning.
I take a picture of a guy walking a little dog, because Gray has this theory about guys with little dogs, and I think he’s full of BS but it’s still funny.I’ll send it to him later.And that makes me wonder if he likes pets, or if he had pets growing up.Probably not because he made it sound like he didn’t have a very happy childhood, but I bet he’d like a dog.I could see him with a beagle.Or maybe he doesn’t like pets; that’s okay too, because we never had a dog growing up either.Dad always said raising a kid by himself was enough work.
When I take my lunch, I park on Market Street, not far from where Gray brought me that sandwich—it feels like a long time ago now.I eat the meal I packed myself: a protein scramble, an apple, two Chips Ahoy cookies wrapped in wax paper.The sun is warm on my back, and the murmur of the river keeps me company.A car drives by, and the windows are down, and I hear one of the songs they played last night.And I think I should probably text Gray and ask him what it was, because I kind of like it.
By the time I’m done with work, I don’t even remember half of what I did that day.I change out in the locker room as fast as I can, only half hearing the other guys ribbing each other, and head outside.It’s only midafternoon, which is another perk of being on first shift, and I barely make it to my car before I text Gray the picture of the guy with the little dog.
He doesn’t answer.
