Page 32

Why did he have to give me a cute nickname like that? Why? Why did he have to sound so sweetly concerned, and why did he have to already know me well enough to realize I was acting weird?

When I finally pried my eyes open—only because I knew I had to eventually—Ricky was watching me closely, his cheeks still flushed from our kiss but his eyes a little uneasy. Worried for me.

Yep. This was going to kill me.

“I’m fine,” I heard myself say, my voice sounding strange. “All good. Great. Totally… really great.”

“Are you sure?” He stepped a little closer before I felt the gentle touch of his fingers threading through mine.

My heart spasmed so hard and so painfully that I genuinely thought it was about to stop dead in my chest.

I managed a wobbly smile and a nod. He didn’t look convinced, but I saw the sweet determination to try and make me feel better even if he didn’t know what could be wrong. Of course he had no idea that, through no fault of his own, he was the reason I could barely function right now. Why would he?

He lifted our joined hands to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “I missed you today.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This was torture.

“I missed you too,” I said back shakily. Because I had. So much.

He smiled. “Last night was amazing. Like, the best.”

“It was,” I agreed faintly, because it had been.

He squeezed my hand and stepped closer, leaning in to nuzzle my neck and press a soft kiss there. My eyes slammed shut, brows drawing together in agony.

“I like you so, so much, Elliot,” he whispered into my skin. A little secret between us. Something precious and fragile that deserved to be protected and cherished and given room to grow even bigger.

And I was about to throw it on the ground and stomp all over it.

As I swallowed thickly, the back of my throat aching, he lifted his head. And at the sight of his sweet face, the tiny shred of control I’d been clinging to withered away to nothing. Just disintegrated in an instant. My heart pounded as I stared at him. My scalp went numb. So did my hands and feet. Tingles raced over my skin; unpleasant ones that felt like insects crawling all over me. A physical manifestation of the guilt and the selfishness and the burning, endless need for the sweet human standing in front of me.

Fuck being noble.

“I like you so much too, Ricky. So, so much,” I croaked, reaching up to cup his cheek, unable to stop myself but loathing myself for it at the same time. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Chapter Sixteen

Ricky

Elliot lived in a small apartment on the top floor of an early twentieth century building about twenty minutes from the mall. It was bitchin’.

He’d been acting a little weird at work before we left—kind of jumpy and nervous, which was unlike him—but the moment I stepped inside his place after he unlocked the door and held it open for me, I felt myself relax. Because it was his place. Elliot’s. And he was my safe haven.

There was a living area and tiny kitchen to our right, and against the far wall, tucked into a little alcove with a sloped ceiling and a big window, was his bed. My eyes snagged on it and held for a long moment, stomach twisting into knots with breathless anticipation.

“Thirsty?” Elliot dumped his backpack by the door and kicked off his shoes, then made his way into the kitchen to open the fridge, turning on various lamps along the way.

“Um, sure.” I set down my bag and toed off my sneakers, leaving them beside his. Tugging nervously on the hem of my T-shirt, I padded over to join him.

“Beer or orange soda?” He was already pulling a big bottle of off-brand orange soda out of the fridge.

“Soda would be great.” I watched as he opened a cupboard to grab two glasses. He still seemed tense. In fact, he seemed to be growing tenser and tenser by the second. Which was really weird. Elliot never seemed tense. Rubbing one socked foot over the other, I awkwardly said, “Hey, if you’re… Um, I can go—”

“No.” He shook his head and flashed me a smile over his shoulder before looking back at the counter. Over the glug and hiss of soda pouring into a glass, he added, “I just, uh, want to talk to you about something.” It sounded like his voice shook a little as he said it.

“Oh.” Nerves shot through me, a million terrible things he might want to tell me crowding my brain. He didn’t really like me. He regretted what we’d done together. I was fired. I was a terrible kisser. My cum tasted weird. “O-okay.”

He handed me my glass, then took my hand and led me over to the couch. I perched anxiously on the edge, running my gaze over everything as I took a tiny sip of soda. There was a game console next to the TV and a neat stack of cartridges on the shelf below. VHS tapes lined a small bookcase by the window, mostly kung fu and other action movies, and a healthy spider plant trailed down from the top shelf. Everything was neat and clean. The folded throw over the back of the couch smelled like him. My gut cramped up with longing as I imagined us snuggled underneath it together, watching movies or playing video games.