“Thanks, Quinn, Coach Basse, but?—”
“It’s Brady, remember. None of that Coach rubbish. Makes me sound like an old fart. So, you coming?”
I pause, and glance around Brady to their table. There’s a flash of Cory’s face, teeth piercing a bottom lip. Two glimmering blue eyes widening, taunting, daring me to accept, before he ducks behind a menu. The pretty young woman with her arm draped around his neck, laughs and squeezes tighter, and an irrational burn, indigestion on steroids, scolds my insides. “I’d love to, guys, but my friend, Ryan and I were just leaving.”
Before Brady and Quinn can react, Ryan is on his feet, a hand reaching out to pull me into mine. I take it, then sling my arm around his shoulder. Given the circumstances, his waist would have made for a better show, but he’s much shorter than me, and has always been sensitive about his height.
Tossing a twenty on the table even though we hadn’t ordered food, I say goodnight to the loved-up duo and drag Ryan towards the exit. If I yell, ‘your place or mine’, over my shoulder as we pass a certain table, it’s purely by accident.
What the fuckis wrong with me?
In a life littered with monumental errors in judgment, this is surely the most reckless. I’m almost twenty-five years old, and have just used the only friend I have to make someone I can never have, jealous.
Marching to the car like a man possessed, each individual, minuscule piece of gravel I tread on sends a dull throb through my brain. Losing enthusiasm, my march becomes walking, walking slows to plodding, plodding to stopping. Ryan, who’s been silent since we exited the bar, halts beside me, tugging on the hem of my shirt, a wide smile making me feel even worse.
“What’s up, big guy? Are you nervous about me ravishing you?”
“What? Nervous. No way. I’m … pumped.”
“Pumped, hey? I’m glad to hear it, because I have this new harness and whip and I’ve been dying to try it out. The old one snapped in half on the swing. I think I was a little too rough.” For that last bit, the little too rough bit, Ryan leaned in to whisper, then lick the shell of my ear. Kinky or not, the prospect of taking an attractive man home should be exciting. I’m young. Supposed to be dumb and full of … stuff. But blood rushing south is not going to my groin, it’s going lower. Draining down my legs, oozing from my toes.
I think I might faint.
All the while, Ryan maintains that smile, teeth glowing under the street lights.
The glow isn’t helping, but now that I think of it, he does look a bit psychotic. Maniacal even. I don’t think he’s blinked this whole time.
“Oh. Whips, hey. Wow.”
“Gags too. The whole basement is decked out.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“Do you want to leave your car here and I can drop you back in the morning ? You probably won’t be able to sit, let alone drive once we’re done.” Without waiting for a response, he takes off, striding towards his car, a rather hearse-looking black station wagon, looking back at me once he makes it to the driver’s side door. “You have medical insurance, with that new job, right?”
Still no blinking.
“Oh. I. Um.”
Without moving my head, I scan the parking lot. My car is hard to spot, it’s in the darkest section on the other side of the lot, right beside the fence that separates O’Reilly’s from a Green Line train stop. It’s a run-able distance but with the blood loss and my hot girl fitness, I’m pretty sure he’d catch me.
Fuck, this is just so typical of me. First guy I go home with in eons and he’s a gay, less hot Christian Grey. I still haven’t moved, but Ryan has. He has both hands cupped around his eyes blocking the reflection as he peers into the back of the wagon. Maybe I should make a break for it now while he’s distracted.
“Looking for something?” I ask instead, because I am a stupid nosy bitch.
“Just my rope.”
“Oh. Rope. Wow.”
Ryan straightens, his head turning like a possessed Chucky doll. “How do you feel about asphyxiation?”
McJesus dreams about skating as fast as I run. He would probably leave out the wailing, but who’s to say. All I hear is the thundering of my feet, my heavy panting, the cry of terror, and riotous laughter. “James, I was kidding. Stop running, you fucking idiot.”
It takes a few strides for his words to sink in, but when they do I come skidding to a halt, dropping onto my haunches. “Thank God. I’m so unfit.”
Still by his car, Ryan’s bent over too, he’s laughing though, not struggling to breath. “Anyone ever told you that you run like Kermit the Frog?”
Yes. Frequently. “No. I just run on the balls of my feet like a lot of autistic people do. I also have hyper-mobile joints. Flexibility is what made me a great goalie.”
