Playing, p.13
Playing, page 13
Though twenty-five percent of the sugar in a bubble tea is still a fuckton of sugar.
He leads me to a metal table outside.
I sit in the clear plastic chair. It's that same chair in every single trendy coffee or tea shop. Only it's clear instead of white.
He leans in close. His eyes find mine. They promise to blow my mind.
And to make my stomach flutter.
And to make me feel safe and warm and—
"Fuck." Walker leans back. Pulls his cell from his jeans. "I have to take this."
I shake my head. "No game." But my voice doesn't quite come across as teasing. Frustration is spreading over his expression.
"I know." His voice doesn't hit teasing either.
I motion to the counter. "I'll get the drinks."
He nods. Moves around the corner.
This particular strip mall—the micro-neighborhood Little Osaka is basically three strip malls and a short row of stores—is dead quiet. There are a bunch of empty offices and the restaurant taking up most of the space is an all the drama happens inside place.
I move into the store. The conversations are a quiet buzz. Two teenagers grab beige drinks from the counter. Milk teas. A guy grabs a light pink drink. Something strawberry, I guess.
The barista, tearista, bobarista? sets two massive teas at the counter. He calls my name.
I grab the drinks and straws. Go back to the table. Stab the plastic covering of my beverage with a giant straw and take a long sip.
It brings me back immediately. The way Lily smiled as she gushed over my homecoming dress. The frown when she didn't get into NYU. Her consoling me when I tried to dye my hair blond and ended up with bright orange locks.
She was my best friend all through college. And through the first year or so of everything. Until she realized how bad it was.
She gave me a choice. She confronted me. But I refused to get help. To choose her.
"Hey." Walker slides into his seat. He forces his lips into a smile, but frustration is still written all over his face.
"Everything okay?"
"Okay enough."
I push his drink toward him. "You were right. This place is good."
"You don't look happy."
"You either." I take a long sip. It tastes like love. Like a love I'm desperate to deserve again.
"Yeah." He stabs the plastic with his straw. Brings the drink to his lips. Takes a long sip.
This is getting to be an alarming trend.
What's wrong?
Nothing. Frown. Grunt.
I'm doing the same thing.
I'm going to be a psychologist and I can't talk about my feelings.
It's sad. Really, it is.
I want to be able to do this.
And I want to know him. The parts that hurt. The guy behind the breezy smile.
I play with my straw. "Your sister?"
"Yeah." His eyes go to the shiny silver table.
"What's the situation there?"
He looks to me and raises a brow. "The situation?"
"I don't need details." In theory. "You… you look upset. There's something there."
"Yeah." He leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. "I don't usually talk about it."
"You don't have to. But I… is there anything I can do?"
"I doubt it."
"My sister and I… we stopped talking a few years ago. We didn't really grow apart. We were close. Until we weren't."
"You got into a fight?"
"Yeah. A huge one. She asked me to make a choice, and I didn't make the one she wanted."
He tilts his head to one side. "That's vague."
"And the details about your sister being a thorn in your side?"
"Fair enough."
"That was almost two years ago, that Lily stopped talking to me. It was sudden. She was always that type of person. She did what she wanted. How she wanted. When she wanted it."
"What did she want from you?"
"To…" How do I explain this without explaining it? I have to tell someone about my past eventually. Maybe even Walker. But not yet. I'm not ready to cross that bridge. "To change my life."
"Convert to Scientology?"
"No. She was right. Trust me." I bring my drink to my lips and take another long sip. It still tastes like love, but the sweetness is gone. It's over-steeped, astringent, bitter.
"You ever reach out to her?"
"Not yet. I'm trying to give her space. I stalk her on Instagram, but otherwise I'm not around."
"You stalk your sister?"
"I don't follow her around. Though I could. She's way too free with her location."
"Who isn't these days?"
"You."
"You still follow me?"
"I told you. I love your work." Really, his tattoos are amazing. "You still haven't told me how you got into it."
"Ryan. You saw him. Looks a lot like Dean only with a permanent scowl?"
I nod. That sounds vaguely familiar.
"He was already working at a shop. He got Brendon a job there. Dean got jealous. He wanted to do ink too. When I saw his first piece—everyone starts by doing a tattoo on themselves."
"What did he do?"
"A spade."
"What did you do?"
"A star." He stands, places his foot on his chair, and pulls up his jeans. There's a tiny star under his ankle.
I laugh. "It's so cute."
"I know." He shakes his head. "It's awful. I need to fix it."
"You can't. It's sweet. It's perfect."
"Yeah. It feels like a part of my history. Like a scar almost. Sure, it's ugly—"
"Take it back."
He shakes his head. "It's terrible."
It's lopsided and blurry. But the imperfection only makes me love it more.
"It's ugly and it doesn't suit me anymore, but if I changed it…"
"It would be like erasing the past."
"Exactly." He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. His posture softens as he sits. He's relaxing. Letting his guard down. "My sister… I love her. But she doesn't have her shit together. She's always looking for me to bail her out of trouble."
"Like?"
"Some loser ditching her at a bar. Whatever. Anything. I want to help. But she's at the point…" He shakes his head. "I try to put my foot down, but she always slinks back to our parents, and they let her get away with murder."
"Mine are the same way with me."
"What have you ever done bad enough to deserve that?"
"A lot."
"I don't believe you."
"Well… I have." I'm not going to tell him. But I've done plenty of shitty things. Most of them are a blur, yeah, but a few are fresh enough to sting. "My parents are proud of me for everything. They act like I've never made a mistake. Like this fight between me and Lily will blow over any day now, even though it's been two years that she hasn't spoken to me."
"That must hurt."
"It does. But I deserved it."
"And now?"
"I don't know. I'd understand if she couldn't forgive me."
"For?"
"Lying to her." That's close enough to the truth.
He leans back. Taps the chair with his hand. "It was that bad?"
"Worse."
He raises a brow. "Not sure if I believe you."
"It doesn't matter. It's true. I was miserable after college. I hated my job. I was desperate to go to grad school, but I kept bombing the GRE. I started looking for other things to blame. Or ways to feel better. I lashed out at Lily a lot." When she was trying to help me get sober, but, hey, it's still true. "Said things you can't take back."
"Still. That's your sister."
"You've never considered cutting off your sister?"
His eyes turn down.
"I don't know what she's done. Or any of the details. But whenever you mention her—it's like your whole body goes tense."
"Am I that obvious?"
I nod. "If she makes you that miserable…"
"Yeah." He presses his lips together. "I've considered it." He pushes himself to his feet. "We should go if we want to make the movie."
I nod. "Okay. You know, I'm not trying—"
"I know."
"I just… I do like talking to you. And you can talk to me. If you ever want to talk to someone about things. We are friends."
He nods. "Same goes for you." He offers his hand. "You'll be the first person I discuss this with. I promise."
I believe him.
I'm not sure what he means by this but I believe him.
Chapter Eighteen
Walker
My phone keeps buzzing.
I give up on ignoring it halfway through Blade Runner and check my messages in the bathroom. They're all from Bree. All drunken apologies and pleas for help. Not the kind of help she needs.
The kind of help easily solved by a rideshare app.
Half a dozen voicemail messages in the last two hours. It's late on a Friday. She's probably at some shitty bar with some asshole.
I'm not rescuing her again.
It isn't happening.
I press my back against the beige wall. The bathroom is empty. The two silver stalls are unlocked. The wide sink is clean. Dry. The shiny mirror reflects my inability to cut Bree off back at me.
It's going to be like this until she ODs and doesn't get help fast enough.
Are you going to run to her side until the day you get there and she's a fucking corpse?
Shit. I don't want to do this. But I have to.
I call my parents. First Mom. Her cell goes to voicemail. I try Dad. His message greets me.
Hello, you've reached Robert Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you.
It's all business. Like him.
"Dad, call me. We need to talk about Bree." I hang up.
It's late, nearly two a.m. They're sleeping. This isn't the time for this conversation.
But then it never is.
I shoot my sister a text.
Walker: You want to make it up to me? Take an Uber home.
I plant one hand on the counter and stare back at my reflection.
It continues mocking me.
This could be it. I can tell her to get lost right now. I can tell her she's out of my life forever, block her number, and never hear from her again.
It would mean ceasing most communication with my parents.
And all her old friends.
And more or less sentencing her to die with a syringe in her hand.
But it's been a fucking eternity and I haven't been able to do much about that.
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Sabrina: You're mad.
No shit, I'm mad.
She's like a child.
Walker: It's nearly two, Bree. Go home. Sleep it off. Call me when you're sober.
That's all I can take tonight.
I turn my cell off, slide it into my pocket, and make my way back to Iris.
Her blue eyes are glued to the screen. She leans back in her seat as she breaks a square from a fancy chocolate bar—this place actually sells good chocolate, though it's still at ridiculous movie theater prices.
She looks to me and offers me the square.
I take it. Nod thank you.
She tilts her head, assessing me, looking for cracks.
Finding them.
She leans in to whisper. "Your sister?"
"Yeah."
I press my palm into my quad. Fuck, it feels weird admitting that. I'm itchy all over. Desperate to get the fuck out of this chair and be somewhere, anywhere, else.
"You want to talk about it?" she whispers.
I shake my head.
"You want more chocolate?"
I laugh. "Yeah."
The guy behind us lets out a loud shush.
It's an obnoxious move. But he's right. Talking during Blade Runner is fucked up.
She breaks off another square and hands it to me.
I nod a thank you and lean back in my seat.
Iris follows suit.
I let my hand find hers. It feels good the way it did in middle school, when holding hands was a big fucking deal. When a kiss was everything. When I actually thought I might love a woman one day.
I try to focus on the futuristic Los Angeles flashing on the screen, but I can't.
This situation with Bree is fucked up.
Usually, I jump straight to denial. Even with the guys at the shop. Even though they all know Bree's an addict.
A long time ago, Brendon, Dean, and I used to party together. Sometimes with Bree. We all drank too much and occasionally dabbled in narcotics.
We grew out of it. Got bored.
She didn't.
It's my fault she's like this.
I should have stopped her then.
Even if she was—is—my older sister.
Even if she was into it first.
I don't want to carry the weight of this myself anymore.
I want to tell someone.
No, I want to tell Iris.
I want to actually know her.
* * *
Iris saunters into my apartment like she owns the place.
She tosses her purse on the couch, spins on her heel, turns to me, motions come here.
My lips curl into a smile. She's cute tired.
She puts a hand on her hip. "Do I have to get started myself?"
"Fuck yeah." My tongue slides over my lips. "Can I watch?"
"You want to watch me touch myself?"
"You're really asking me that question?"
"Yeah."
"Of course."
"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "I just… I never thought anyone… I've never done that."
"You want to?"
Her nod is slow. Needy.
"You awake enough?"
"Haha. Very funny." She takes a step backward. "I'll have you know I'm running on an exquisite blend of caffeine and sugar."
"And that never leads to a crash."
"Ever."
"You're an addict."
All that joy falls off her face. She shakes it off. Forces a smile. "We all have our vices." She plays with her skirt as she takes another step backward. "I am going to start without you."
"Good."
She spins on her heel and skips into my bedroom. She leaves the door open a crack. So I can see her strip out of her dress. Toss her bra aside. Push her panties to her knees.
Fuck, I do want to watch this.
In one minute.
I move to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands, return to the main room.
My cell sits in my jeans like a rock. It taunts me. What if Bree didn't get home okay? What if she's walking the streets somewhere? What if you're responsible for your sister's death?
I try to shake it off, but it won't go.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? My girl—well, whatever I should call Iris—is teasing me with touching herself and my head isn't in the game.
This isn't me.
I move into the bedroom. I need to ease myself into it. To—
Iris is naked in my bed. It's a beautiful fucking sight.
But she isn't touching herself.
She's curled up on her side, fast asleep.
I leave my phone on the dresser, strip to my boxers, and get in bed behind her.
I only mean to hold her for a minute.
But as soon as my eyelids press together, the world drifts away.
* * *
The apartment smells like coffee.
The other side of the bed is warm. Iris just got up. We slept together without sleeping together.
I'm not stupid.
I know that means something.
And wanting to share all this shit with her…
I stretch my arms over my head as I rise. My cell is still sitting on my dresser. Still off. Still mocking me.
There's a sound in the kitchen. Humming. Iris is humming one of those mellow acoustic songs.
I listen as I boot up my cell. A dozen excuses from Sabrina pop up in text message form. Bullshit about how she is sober. About how she's going to stay sober. And a voicemail from my dad. I hit play on the message and hold the phone to my ear.
"Walker, come to dinner tonight and we'll talk. Your sister is doing well, but she misses you. She needs your support. I know you work weekends. If you're busy tonight, call me and we'll make other arrangements. We eat at seven sharp, the same as always." His voice softens. "I love you."
The line clicks.
He thinks she's doing well.
How the fuck can someone so smart be this clueless?
I leave my phone on the counter, head to the bathroom to go through my routine, move into the kitchen.
Iris is leaning against the counter, her fingers wrapped around an oversized white mug, her lips pressed into a smile. Her expression gets sheepish as her eyes find mine. "You win that round."
Fuck, her smile does things to me. Pushes aside all the shit bouncing around my head.
I don't run away from things.
But right now…
"No." I move closer. Wrap my arms around her waist. She's wearing clothes. An Inked Hearts t-shirt Ryan designed and a pair of my boxers. "We both lost."
Her smile spreads over her cheeks. "Is everything good? Last night…"
I can't think about it right now. I need to clear my head. I need to be someplace that makes sense. "We'll talk about it later."
She nods, accepting it.
It's true. I am going to tell her. And figure out how the fuck this can be casual if I'm confessing all the ugly shit in my head.
"I'll make you breakfast." I slide my hand under her t-shirt. Press my palm into her stomach. I want to fuck her senseless, yeah, but I want my arms wrapped around her more.
It's weird.
She looks up at me with a soft smile. Shakes her head. "I'll cook."
"Set my kitchen on fire?"
"I'm not that hopeless."
I arch a brow.
She steps back to fold her arms. Cocks her hips. Dons that adorable don't mess with me look. "I'll prove it."
I motion to the stove. "Go ahead."
"Maybe… just, well, I am going to look up a recipe."
"And follow it to a T?"
"Of course. That's how you learn. Or you… you don't use recipes?"
"They're boring."
"Then I'm boring."
"You're not."
Her cheeks flush. "Thanks." She moves to the fridge, pulls the door open, assess the offerings. "Eggs. And bacon."
He leads me to a metal table outside.
I sit in the clear plastic chair. It's that same chair in every single trendy coffee or tea shop. Only it's clear instead of white.
He leans in close. His eyes find mine. They promise to blow my mind.
And to make my stomach flutter.
And to make me feel safe and warm and—
"Fuck." Walker leans back. Pulls his cell from his jeans. "I have to take this."
I shake my head. "No game." But my voice doesn't quite come across as teasing. Frustration is spreading over his expression.
"I know." His voice doesn't hit teasing either.
I motion to the counter. "I'll get the drinks."
He nods. Moves around the corner.
This particular strip mall—the micro-neighborhood Little Osaka is basically three strip malls and a short row of stores—is dead quiet. There are a bunch of empty offices and the restaurant taking up most of the space is an all the drama happens inside place.
I move into the store. The conversations are a quiet buzz. Two teenagers grab beige drinks from the counter. Milk teas. A guy grabs a light pink drink. Something strawberry, I guess.
The barista, tearista, bobarista? sets two massive teas at the counter. He calls my name.
I grab the drinks and straws. Go back to the table. Stab the plastic covering of my beverage with a giant straw and take a long sip.
It brings me back immediately. The way Lily smiled as she gushed over my homecoming dress. The frown when she didn't get into NYU. Her consoling me when I tried to dye my hair blond and ended up with bright orange locks.
She was my best friend all through college. And through the first year or so of everything. Until she realized how bad it was.
She gave me a choice. She confronted me. But I refused to get help. To choose her.
"Hey." Walker slides into his seat. He forces his lips into a smile, but frustration is still written all over his face.
"Everything okay?"
"Okay enough."
I push his drink toward him. "You were right. This place is good."
"You don't look happy."
"You either." I take a long sip. It tastes like love. Like a love I'm desperate to deserve again.
"Yeah." He stabs the plastic with his straw. Brings the drink to his lips. Takes a long sip.
This is getting to be an alarming trend.
What's wrong?
Nothing. Frown. Grunt.
I'm doing the same thing.
I'm going to be a psychologist and I can't talk about my feelings.
It's sad. Really, it is.
I want to be able to do this.
And I want to know him. The parts that hurt. The guy behind the breezy smile.
I play with my straw. "Your sister?"
"Yeah." His eyes go to the shiny silver table.
"What's the situation there?"
He looks to me and raises a brow. "The situation?"
"I don't need details." In theory. "You… you look upset. There's something there."
"Yeah." He leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. "I don't usually talk about it."
"You don't have to. But I… is there anything I can do?"
"I doubt it."
"My sister and I… we stopped talking a few years ago. We didn't really grow apart. We were close. Until we weren't."
"You got into a fight?"
"Yeah. A huge one. She asked me to make a choice, and I didn't make the one she wanted."
He tilts his head to one side. "That's vague."
"And the details about your sister being a thorn in your side?"
"Fair enough."
"That was almost two years ago, that Lily stopped talking to me. It was sudden. She was always that type of person. She did what she wanted. How she wanted. When she wanted it."
"What did she want from you?"
"To…" How do I explain this without explaining it? I have to tell someone about my past eventually. Maybe even Walker. But not yet. I'm not ready to cross that bridge. "To change my life."
"Convert to Scientology?"
"No. She was right. Trust me." I bring my drink to my lips and take another long sip. It still tastes like love, but the sweetness is gone. It's over-steeped, astringent, bitter.
"You ever reach out to her?"
"Not yet. I'm trying to give her space. I stalk her on Instagram, but otherwise I'm not around."
"You stalk your sister?"
"I don't follow her around. Though I could. She's way too free with her location."
"Who isn't these days?"
"You."
"You still follow me?"
"I told you. I love your work." Really, his tattoos are amazing. "You still haven't told me how you got into it."
"Ryan. You saw him. Looks a lot like Dean only with a permanent scowl?"
I nod. That sounds vaguely familiar.
"He was already working at a shop. He got Brendon a job there. Dean got jealous. He wanted to do ink too. When I saw his first piece—everyone starts by doing a tattoo on themselves."
"What did he do?"
"A spade."
"What did you do?"
"A star." He stands, places his foot on his chair, and pulls up his jeans. There's a tiny star under his ankle.
I laugh. "It's so cute."
"I know." He shakes his head. "It's awful. I need to fix it."
"You can't. It's sweet. It's perfect."
"Yeah. It feels like a part of my history. Like a scar almost. Sure, it's ugly—"
"Take it back."
He shakes his head. "It's terrible."
It's lopsided and blurry. But the imperfection only makes me love it more.
"It's ugly and it doesn't suit me anymore, but if I changed it…"
"It would be like erasing the past."
"Exactly." He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. His posture softens as he sits. He's relaxing. Letting his guard down. "My sister… I love her. But she doesn't have her shit together. She's always looking for me to bail her out of trouble."
"Like?"
"Some loser ditching her at a bar. Whatever. Anything. I want to help. But she's at the point…" He shakes his head. "I try to put my foot down, but she always slinks back to our parents, and they let her get away with murder."
"Mine are the same way with me."
"What have you ever done bad enough to deserve that?"
"A lot."
"I don't believe you."
"Well… I have." I'm not going to tell him. But I've done plenty of shitty things. Most of them are a blur, yeah, but a few are fresh enough to sting. "My parents are proud of me for everything. They act like I've never made a mistake. Like this fight between me and Lily will blow over any day now, even though it's been two years that she hasn't spoken to me."
"That must hurt."
"It does. But I deserved it."
"And now?"
"I don't know. I'd understand if she couldn't forgive me."
"For?"
"Lying to her." That's close enough to the truth.
He leans back. Taps the chair with his hand. "It was that bad?"
"Worse."
He raises a brow. "Not sure if I believe you."
"It doesn't matter. It's true. I was miserable after college. I hated my job. I was desperate to go to grad school, but I kept bombing the GRE. I started looking for other things to blame. Or ways to feel better. I lashed out at Lily a lot." When she was trying to help me get sober, but, hey, it's still true. "Said things you can't take back."
"Still. That's your sister."
"You've never considered cutting off your sister?"
His eyes turn down.
"I don't know what she's done. Or any of the details. But whenever you mention her—it's like your whole body goes tense."
"Am I that obvious?"
I nod. "If she makes you that miserable…"
"Yeah." He presses his lips together. "I've considered it." He pushes himself to his feet. "We should go if we want to make the movie."
I nod. "Okay. You know, I'm not trying—"
"I know."
"I just… I do like talking to you. And you can talk to me. If you ever want to talk to someone about things. We are friends."
He nods. "Same goes for you." He offers his hand. "You'll be the first person I discuss this with. I promise."
I believe him.
I'm not sure what he means by this but I believe him.
Chapter Eighteen
Walker
My phone keeps buzzing.
I give up on ignoring it halfway through Blade Runner and check my messages in the bathroom. They're all from Bree. All drunken apologies and pleas for help. Not the kind of help she needs.
The kind of help easily solved by a rideshare app.
Half a dozen voicemail messages in the last two hours. It's late on a Friday. She's probably at some shitty bar with some asshole.
I'm not rescuing her again.
It isn't happening.
I press my back against the beige wall. The bathroom is empty. The two silver stalls are unlocked. The wide sink is clean. Dry. The shiny mirror reflects my inability to cut Bree off back at me.
It's going to be like this until she ODs and doesn't get help fast enough.
Are you going to run to her side until the day you get there and she's a fucking corpse?
Shit. I don't want to do this. But I have to.
I call my parents. First Mom. Her cell goes to voicemail. I try Dad. His message greets me.
Hello, you've reached Robert Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you.
It's all business. Like him.
"Dad, call me. We need to talk about Bree." I hang up.
It's late, nearly two a.m. They're sleeping. This isn't the time for this conversation.
But then it never is.
I shoot my sister a text.
Walker: You want to make it up to me? Take an Uber home.
I plant one hand on the counter and stare back at my reflection.
It continues mocking me.
This could be it. I can tell her to get lost right now. I can tell her she's out of my life forever, block her number, and never hear from her again.
It would mean ceasing most communication with my parents.
And all her old friends.
And more or less sentencing her to die with a syringe in her hand.
But it's been a fucking eternity and I haven't been able to do much about that.
It takes a few minutes for her to text back.
Sabrina: You're mad.
No shit, I'm mad.
She's like a child.
Walker: It's nearly two, Bree. Go home. Sleep it off. Call me when you're sober.
That's all I can take tonight.
I turn my cell off, slide it into my pocket, and make my way back to Iris.
Her blue eyes are glued to the screen. She leans back in her seat as she breaks a square from a fancy chocolate bar—this place actually sells good chocolate, though it's still at ridiculous movie theater prices.
She looks to me and offers me the square.
I take it. Nod thank you.
She tilts her head, assessing me, looking for cracks.
Finding them.
She leans in to whisper. "Your sister?"
"Yeah."
I press my palm into my quad. Fuck, it feels weird admitting that. I'm itchy all over. Desperate to get the fuck out of this chair and be somewhere, anywhere, else.
"You want to talk about it?" she whispers.
I shake my head.
"You want more chocolate?"
I laugh. "Yeah."
The guy behind us lets out a loud shush.
It's an obnoxious move. But he's right. Talking during Blade Runner is fucked up.
She breaks off another square and hands it to me.
I nod a thank you and lean back in my seat.
Iris follows suit.
I let my hand find hers. It feels good the way it did in middle school, when holding hands was a big fucking deal. When a kiss was everything. When I actually thought I might love a woman one day.
I try to focus on the futuristic Los Angeles flashing on the screen, but I can't.
This situation with Bree is fucked up.
Usually, I jump straight to denial. Even with the guys at the shop. Even though they all know Bree's an addict.
A long time ago, Brendon, Dean, and I used to party together. Sometimes with Bree. We all drank too much and occasionally dabbled in narcotics.
We grew out of it. Got bored.
She didn't.
It's my fault she's like this.
I should have stopped her then.
Even if she was—is—my older sister.
Even if she was into it first.
I don't want to carry the weight of this myself anymore.
I want to tell someone.
No, I want to tell Iris.
I want to actually know her.
* * *
Iris saunters into my apartment like she owns the place.
She tosses her purse on the couch, spins on her heel, turns to me, motions come here.
My lips curl into a smile. She's cute tired.
She puts a hand on her hip. "Do I have to get started myself?"
"Fuck yeah." My tongue slides over my lips. "Can I watch?"
"You want to watch me touch myself?"
"You're really asking me that question?"
"Yeah."
"Of course."
"Oh." Her cheeks flush. "I just… I never thought anyone… I've never done that."
"You want to?"
Her nod is slow. Needy.
"You awake enough?"
"Haha. Very funny." She takes a step backward. "I'll have you know I'm running on an exquisite blend of caffeine and sugar."
"And that never leads to a crash."
"Ever."
"You're an addict."
All that joy falls off her face. She shakes it off. Forces a smile. "We all have our vices." She plays with her skirt as she takes another step backward. "I am going to start without you."
"Good."
She spins on her heel and skips into my bedroom. She leaves the door open a crack. So I can see her strip out of her dress. Toss her bra aside. Push her panties to her knees.
Fuck, I do want to watch this.
In one minute.
I move to the bathroom, piss, wash my hands, return to the main room.
My cell sits in my jeans like a rock. It taunts me. What if Bree didn't get home okay? What if she's walking the streets somewhere? What if you're responsible for your sister's death?
I try to shake it off, but it won't go.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? My girl—well, whatever I should call Iris—is teasing me with touching herself and my head isn't in the game.
This isn't me.
I move into the bedroom. I need to ease myself into it. To—
Iris is naked in my bed. It's a beautiful fucking sight.
But she isn't touching herself.
She's curled up on her side, fast asleep.
I leave my phone on the dresser, strip to my boxers, and get in bed behind her.
I only mean to hold her for a minute.
But as soon as my eyelids press together, the world drifts away.
* * *
The apartment smells like coffee.
The other side of the bed is warm. Iris just got up. We slept together without sleeping together.
I'm not stupid.
I know that means something.
And wanting to share all this shit with her…
I stretch my arms over my head as I rise. My cell is still sitting on my dresser. Still off. Still mocking me.
There's a sound in the kitchen. Humming. Iris is humming one of those mellow acoustic songs.
I listen as I boot up my cell. A dozen excuses from Sabrina pop up in text message form. Bullshit about how she is sober. About how she's going to stay sober. And a voicemail from my dad. I hit play on the message and hold the phone to my ear.
"Walker, come to dinner tonight and we'll talk. Your sister is doing well, but she misses you. She needs your support. I know you work weekends. If you're busy tonight, call me and we'll make other arrangements. We eat at seven sharp, the same as always." His voice softens. "I love you."
The line clicks.
He thinks she's doing well.
How the fuck can someone so smart be this clueless?
I leave my phone on the counter, head to the bathroom to go through my routine, move into the kitchen.
Iris is leaning against the counter, her fingers wrapped around an oversized white mug, her lips pressed into a smile. Her expression gets sheepish as her eyes find mine. "You win that round."
Fuck, her smile does things to me. Pushes aside all the shit bouncing around my head.
I don't run away from things.
But right now…
"No." I move closer. Wrap my arms around her waist. She's wearing clothes. An Inked Hearts t-shirt Ryan designed and a pair of my boxers. "We both lost."
Her smile spreads over her cheeks. "Is everything good? Last night…"
I can't think about it right now. I need to clear my head. I need to be someplace that makes sense. "We'll talk about it later."
She nods, accepting it.
It's true. I am going to tell her. And figure out how the fuck this can be casual if I'm confessing all the ugly shit in my head.
"I'll make you breakfast." I slide my hand under her t-shirt. Press my palm into her stomach. I want to fuck her senseless, yeah, but I want my arms wrapped around her more.
It's weird.
She looks up at me with a soft smile. Shakes her head. "I'll cook."
"Set my kitchen on fire?"
"I'm not that hopeless."
I arch a brow.
She steps back to fold her arms. Cocks her hips. Dons that adorable don't mess with me look. "I'll prove it."
I motion to the stove. "Go ahead."
"Maybe… just, well, I am going to look up a recipe."
"And follow it to a T?"
"Of course. That's how you learn. Or you… you don't use recipes?"
"They're boring."
"Then I'm boring."
"You're not."
Her cheeks flush. "Thanks." She moves to the fridge, pulls the door open, assess the offerings. "Eggs. And bacon."
