I felt a stir in my pajama pants and glanced over toward the couch. Kent was still fast asleep. He probably wouldn’t notice if I snuck out. Not that he’d care, anyway. Just him being there was already making me stressed. Blowing off some steam might not be bad.
I started typing back.
Me: If you can host, I’m down.
The reply came instantly.
Him: Come over. First floor, 1A.
Taking care to be silent, I threw on a hoodie, grabbed a condom from the bathroom, and headed out the door. I didn’t have enough time to question my decision before I found myself standing in front of the stranger's door. I knocked and it opened almost instantly. The man standing in the doorway was handsome, scruffy, and already half-hard in his sweatpants.
“Hey,” he said with a crooked grin.
“Hey.”
I stepped inside, the door shutting behind me.
“Do you wanna watch a movie or somethin’?” the stranger asked as he nonchalantly stroked himself through his sweatpants.
“No.” I reached up, pulling him down into a kiss. “I want you to fuck me.”
Chapter 3
Kent
My alarm was the first to go off in the morning. I reached toward the bedside table to silence it, but the table wasn’t there. Thinking I’d just rolled to the center, I reached further, hoping to find it. With athwumpI hit the floor hard, groaning as the cheap carpet dug into my skin. My eyes peeled open at last, and I saw the couch, the unfamiliar apartment, and the side table where my phone kept ringing over and over again.
Fuck. I’d completely forgotten about crashing at James’s place.
I pushed myself up off the floor, my shoulder aching from the impact. The apartment was dim, early morning light barely filtering through the thin curtains. I fumbled for my phone on the side table, squinting at the screen. Six-fifteen. Jesus Christ, who the hell set an alarm for six-fifteen?
Then I remembered. I did. Because I had a seven o’clock meeting with the site manager about the Belltown project, and the commute from Brittany’s place—from my old place—took half an hour.
Except I wasn’t at my old place anymore. I was in Capitol Hill, in a studio apartment that smelled like lavender and clean linens.
I silenced the alarm and sat there on the floor for a moment, letting reality settle over me like a wet blanket. This was my life now. Crashing on my stepbrother’s couch because my girlfriend had kicked me out. Rock fucking bottom. At least I had an extra fifteen minutes to get ready, not that it made things any better.
From across the room, I could hear James breathing. Soft, even breaths. Still asleep. Of course he was. Normal people didn’t wake up at the ass crack of dawn unless they had to. I glanced over at his bed, just barely making out his form under the covers, turned toward the wall.
My mouth tasted like something had died in it. I needed coffee. I needed a shower. I needed to get my shit together and get to work so I could pretend my life wasn’t falling apart.
I stood, my knees cracking loud enough that I winced, waiting to see if James would stir. He didn’t. Good. The last thing I needed was an awkward morning conversation about feelings or boundaries or whatever the hell gay shit he’d want to talk about.
I made my way to the bathroom, each footstep feeling too loud on the hardwood. The soggy box was still sitting in the tub where James had left it, looking even worse in the morning light. I’d deal with it later. Right now, I just needed to piss and brush my teeth and figure out where the hell James kept his coffee.
The bathroom was exactly what I’d expected. Neat. Organized. Expensive-looking products lined up on the shelf above the sink. There was moisturizer, face wash, and some kind of serum. I picked up one of the bottles and read the label. Retinol night cream. Sixty dollars. I set it back down, shaking my head. He was worse than Brittany.
After I finished in the bathroom, I crept back out into the main room. James was still asleep, his breathing unchanged. I moved toward the kitchen area, if you could even call it that. Itwas more like a corner with a small fridge, a two-burner stove, and about three feet of counter space.
I opened the cabinets as quietly as I could, searching for coffee. The first cabinet had dishes: white plates stacked neatly, matching bowls, glasses arranged by size. The second had food. Organic this, gluten-free that. A bag of quinoa. Fucking quinoa. I was living with someone who ate quinoa.
Finally, in the third cabinet, I found it. Coffee. But not just any coffee. It was some fancy shit in a bag with a label that looked hand-drawn. Small batch roasted. Single origin. Twelve dollars, probably, for eight ounces.
I grabbed it anyway. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The coffee maker was one of those pour-over setups, all glass and faux luxury. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to figure out how the hell it worked, then gave up and just looked for a regular pot. There wasn’t one. Of course there wasn’t.
“Fuck it,” I muttered under my breath, filling the electric kettle I found next to the sink.
