Page 103 of Spiced!

Because the mistake of opening them was that they landed on him, and then leaving became a much harder sell.

Brendan was sound asleep beside me with the complete, unself-conscious stillness of a man who had made peace with the world and was taking a break from it. His careful daytime precision had completely deserted him in sleep. His mouth was slightly open, and one hand was thrown up over his head like a man who’d surrendered mid-argument. His eyes were closed but not still. They moved beneath his lids in the small, rapid way of someone deep in a dream, twitching with whatever his brain was busy doing at three fifty-eight in the morning.

I watched for an all-too-brief moment, memorizing every curve and line.

Dios mío, I thought. This man is wrecking me.

I leaned over and pressed my lips to his shoulder, soft and quiet, not enough to wake him, just enough to say something I didn’t have words for yet.

He didn’t stir.

I moved through the apartment by feel, grabbing my clothes from the chair and my phone from the nightstand. I made it to the bathroom without turning on a single light, which was a miracle given my bleary-headed state. Thankfully, Mofongo chose that morning to sleep in, too, so there wasn’t a furry, very whiny creature alerting the neighbors—and Brendan—of my movement.

I squinted at my own face in the mirror for a moment, the specific assessment I did every morning that confirmed, “Yes, mornings were from the devil.”

Halfway through brushing my teeth, my phone chimed.

At three fifty-nine in the morning.

I grabbed for it while chomping down on my toothbrush, soapy goo dripping down my chin. Only I reached too fast, fumbling, my phone skittering toward the edge of the sink and then past it. I lunged, catching it roughly four inches above the toilet bowl with the heart-racing panic of a man who understood exactly what was at stake in those watery depths.

Standing over the toilet with my phone in both hands, my heart somewhere near my throat and toothpaste on my chin, I stared at the screen.

Benji: ADRIAN!

I stared . . . and blinked . . . and couldn’t come up with a single good reason for anyone, especially Benji, to be texting me before four in the morning.

Benji: Answer me. Now!

I stared blankly at the closed bathroom door, then at the phone screen. My brain finally decided to activate, reminding me that Benji’s text could still wake Brendan. I switched the phone to vibrate.

Benji: I felt a disturbance in the Force. It woke me up. It felt as though something wonderful happened.

I rinsed my mouth, collected myself, and sat down on the edge of the tub, because this was apparently how the morning was beginning.

Me: It is 4:02 in the morning. Why are you awake?

Benji: I’m clairvoyant. Well, my asshole is. It tingled then puckered, but not in the fun “I want some” way it does when, well, never mind. It was a sign, Adrian. Either some virgin gay got his V-Card punched, or someone close to me had hot sex. You were the first person my ass told me to call, so I’m betting you got laid. Out with it!

Me: You asshole isn’t clairvoyant. It needs medication. Probably in cream form.

Benji: I sensed a disturbance, Adrian. A great one. The Force was very loud tonight . . . and puckery. There was great puckery had this fortnight. Much puckery. Pucking puckery!

Me: Go to sleep, Benji.

Benji: I will after you tell me how it was.

I smacked my phone against my forehead hard enough to leave a mark.

Me: How what was?

Benji: ADRIAN! My boy-j-j doesn’t lie. It’s incapable of false clenches. It’s the Psychic Friends Network of sphincters. It sees all, and it’s still tingling, which tells me someone’s world got rocked. For the love of the gay gods, was it you?

Me: Benji, please.

Benji: Don’t you BENJI me. I have a napkin. I have been tending said napkin, making notes and bullet points. Now, my all-knowing-asshole has confirmed my hypotheses. I’m psychically INVESTED in this situation and deserve information.

Me: It’s four in the morning. No one deserves anything at this hour.