Page 8 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 3

Chapter 6

I wakeup the next morning with Jared’s arms wrapped around me, my head resting in the little nook of his shoulder, my leg flung across his muscled torso. We’re both naked, the sheets a twisted mass of fabric at our feet.

I blink into the sunbeams streaming through the old window, sun so bright that it’s made it’s way into the alley outside my window. Everything about this feels like a dream, but it’s reality. Jared is here. He’s in love with me. He said so.

Beside me, Jared begins to stir, which turns into a full-body stretch with his arms above his head, his toes pointed as he groans into the morning. Then he collapses around me, pulling me in close with a kiss.

“Good morning,” he says.

“It is,” I reply.

“It’ll be better once we get some food,” he says, his stomach grumbling like a cartoon character. It makes me wonder how much he ate in the last few days. Probably not much, from the look of him. “Up for some brunch?”

I glance at my phone, still plugged in on the floor next to the bed. “More like lunch,” I say when I see that it’s closing in on noon.

He glances over my shoulder at the display, his eyes widening at the time. “Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve ever slept this late.”

“Well I think you had some sleep to catch up on.”

“Ah yes, that reminds me,” he says. He ducks his head down and takes one of my nipples into his mouth. I moan, wrapping my legs around his waist to feel his hardness against me.

“Food first?” I ask, though I already have an idea of his answer as he slip inside of me, filling me in one swift motion.

“Food later,” he says, grasping my hips as he moves me on top of him. “You first.”

An hour and a couple more orgasms later, we’re reluctantly dressed and headed to Jared’s apartment for some clean clothes for him.

Since he walked the handful of miles from his apartment to mine, and because he usually doesn’t employ a driver on the weekends, that left us to take the T to his apartment.

When we get down to dark, dank depths of the Davis Square station, he squares his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight.

“Down boy,” I say, nudging him with an elbow. “It’s just the T, not Thunder dome.”

He gives me a healthy side eye, which I realize is covering for the fact that he’s probably never actually ridden the T before.

When the train comes, it’s fairly empty for a Saturday afternoon. I take a seat, and pat the empty spot next to me. After a beat (during which I think he’s weighing the cost-benefit analysis of sitting on the seat versus holding onto the possibly tubercular pole) he sits next to me.

The ride is short, and thankfully uninterrupted by police actions or service outages. We exit at South Station and start the short walk along the Harbor to his building in Fort Point. The afternoon is sunny and mild, the first hint of impending summer, and I smile up into the warmth of the sun, my hair blown back in the breeze. I feel Jared’s fingers reach across and take my hand in his, and soon we are walking hand-in-hand down the street, past couples carrying coffee and pastry, walking dogs, pushing strollers, and just generally enjoying a warm spring Boston Saturday. It’s absolutely perfect.

Until we arrive at his building and I see a familiar face waiting on his stoop. It’s his father, and unlike Jared, who’s dressed down for the weekend, this Mr. King is still in an impeccably tailored suit, his gray hair in a sharp crew cut and combed into a perfect line. A line that perfectly matches the line of his tense mouth.

I expect Jared to drop my hand. I wouldn’t blame him. I imagine, if what he’s told me is true, he hasn’t brought a whole lot of girls home to meet Dad. Or any, I’m guessing.

But as we approach, I feel him thread his fingers through mine, squeezing me even tighter, like he’s holding on for dear life.

“Taking the day off, I see,” his father says in a clipped, steely tone, a voice that’s a mere shadow of his son.

Jared’s jaw clenches. “It’s Saturday,” he says.

“And on the seventh day God rested,” Mr. King replies. “Saturday is the sixth.”

Jared lets that one sail by. When he gets to the door, he starts reaching into his pocket for his keys. Almost as an afterthought, he says, “Dad, this is Quinn.”

If Mr. King heard him, he doesn’t let on. Instead he chooses to pretend I’m not there at all.

“I wanted to talk to you about the memorial,” Mr. King says, remaining rooted to his place on the sidewalk.

Jared whirls around on his heel, facing his father with a fire and thunder I hardly recognize. “I was under the impression you’d be skipping the memorial. Again.”