Camden.London. My heart pinches and I sit up on one elbow. “Why’s he calling so early?”
“It’s not early for him, but it could be a pocket dial. Or a tic. He has Tourette’s much worse than me.”
Joss sets the phone down and comes back to bed. I watch him slide back under the covers. Let his legs entwine with mine again. This part is better than sex, the heat of his skin, the warmth of his touch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still bamboozled by the fuckin’, but this is everything, and it’s almost enough to distract me from the fact he’s not returning the call from his previous employer.
“You’re not calling him back?”
“Who?”
“Your friend.”
“He’s not my friend…not really. I know his fella more.”
“Maybe he’s calling about work, then.” I hate myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth, but I can’t take them back. And this Jake Thompson might not be Joss’s friend, but I am. “I mean, you’ll need a job when you’re back, right?”
Joss lays down on top of me, ignoring the sticky mess we’ve yet to wipe up. He presses his hand over my mouth and buries his head in my neck.
It’s his only answer.
* * *
“Hey Fletcher, you leaving soon?”
Fletcher. It’s my name, but I’m so used to everyone at V&V—except Molly—calling me Kai that it takes me a moment to look up. By then, the electrician I’ve been working with all day is up in my face. “Are you leaving soon?” he asks again.
I’d have left a half hour ago if he hadn’t made so much mess, but I keep that to myself and carry on sweeping. I don’t mind clearing up. Gives me less time to moon over Joss when he’s busy working. “I’m leaving when I’m done. Why? You need a ride?”
“I need you to lock up.” The electrician dangles the keys to the jewelry store from his finger and thumb. “Mr. Garfinkel gave me the keys, but my girl needs me home, man. I promised her.”
Locking up means waiting for Mr. Garfinkel to arrive and conduct his nightly survey of the remodel progress. He’s a nice old man, but he’s pedantic and slow. I know this because I’ve locked up ninety percent of the evenings that have passed since I took this job.
The electrician is a lazy douchebag, but I don’t care enough to argue with him.
I wave him away.
He drops the keys on my tools and leaves without looking back.
Lazy asshole.I don’t watch him leave. I go back to cleaning his mess. Then I take a moment to write down what I need to do after the weekend. It’s not something I ever had to do before PTSD but having clarity in what I expect of the future me helps me stay in the present.
Joss writes things down too. Manic lists that he scratches so hard with the pencil he tears holes in the page. He leaves them all over the living room. I’ve never seen one make it down to the kitchen. They stay on the coffee table, on the floor, and squashed down the back of the couch. You see, I don’t tidy the apartment within an inch of its life anymore. I’m too busy chasing Joss around my bed.
His bed.
Any bed.
A smirk splits my face. It’s Friday—he’s gonna be working late. But ever since that fucked-up and wonderful night at my creekside home, part of our living-in-the-moment philosophy has enticed him to wake me up every night he comes home to me sleeping on the couch.
He coaxes me awake and into a bed. His, mine, it doesn’t matter. Then shit happens. Wild shit. I can’t even think about it without poppin’ wood, which I absolutely do not need right now. I have a cantankerous old man to reassure that the store that’s been in his family for generations is on track to reopen in a couple weeks’ time. I don’t have time for a boner that won’t quit.
Man, you’re obsessed.
With Joss.
Not my dick.
Dear god. How old am I?
Too old to be losing hours at a time to dirty-cute daydreams.
