by Ella James
I can feel him swallow. He feels like he can’t breathe. I can tell because of how he’s sort of gasping. Finally he whispers, “Too good.”
I shift so I’m sort of on my side—so I can rub my face against his forehead, kiss his cheek. I can feel it in him again—the nameless dark and heavy. His eyes are closed, his angel’s face somber and still.
“No such thing as too good, buddy.” I’ve got both my arms around him, holding his big body to mine. I kiss his forehead, rub my lips against the damp hair peeking out from underneath the hoodie. “Let’s be good enough till next time,” I add in strangled rasp.
There’s two heavy breaths, one after another. Then his head bows more against my shoulder…and I feel it—what he isn’t saying.
There can be no next time.
He doesn’t move or speak for so long…but I know he’s not asleep. His body is too taut, all that heavy muscle still but not relaxed. I hold him against me, and my hand finds its way into his hood. My fingers sift slowly through his hair. It feels good and soft. It feels good to him; his ribcage expands.
That’s right. Breathe, Skywalker.
He does it for me—grabs a deep breath.
“Skywalker,” I murmur. “ Anybody ever call you that?”
I can’t tell if he nods or shakes his head.
“Star Wars is my favorite,” I say.
“Empire Strikes Back?” His low voice is so damn soft, it’s barely a whisper.
“A New Hope.”
“Blasphemy.” He shifts so he’s more on his back, my arm still around his shoulders.
“Kidding.” I laugh. “But I only like Empire just a little better. Probably because Hope starts sorta slow.”
“Not slow,” he murmurs. “Perfect. Just not as perfect as Empire Strikes Back.”
“A real Warsie.”
“Good and evil, baby.” I cut my gaze down at him, and find he’s smirking with his head against my chest.
“I noticed your yacht’s name…when we docked.”
I watch a smile twist his lips.
“You collect that shit?”
“Did you read that, too?” He shifts more onto his side, angled toward me. I move so we’re facing.
“Nope. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
He smiles slyly. His hand finds mine, fingertip tracing along my thumb. “Maybe.” It’s husky. His eyes look sleepy. The hood of my sweatshirt frames his Hollywood face.
“God, you’re beautiful, guy.” I can’t help leaning in, brushing my lips over his. He opens for me, and we kiss slowly, my palm on his rough cheek as he moves in closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.
He pulls back first, breathing deeply as he bows his head, his forehead touching my jaw. Then he moves his mouth right by my ear and whispers, “I’ve got a light saber.”
“What?” He grins as my jaw drops. “You have a real light saber?”
His whole face is animated, eyebrows arched, both dimples out.
“No fucking way. Which one?”
“Luke’s.” His eyes twinkle. “From Return of the Jedi. That scene on the skiff barge—when they’re up against Jabba and R2-D2 spits it out?”
“Oh holy shit, you lucky fuck, you.”
He laughs, and I tug the hood. “You’re fucking pulling my leg.”
He shakes his head. “It’s in my closet.”
“In your closet. What the shit?” I throw my head back. “You can’t even get a goddamn case for it?”
He laughs. “I need to auction it again. That’s sort of why I got it. To do something charitable.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. I think the whole point of this is save it till your buddy Vance comes out to visit.”
SNAP…the spell is broken. His face shuts down—just before his lips pull taut into a thin line, like he’s angry. Luke McDowell turns onto his back, staring at the starry sky, his body rigid, thick chest pumping. He shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw.
“Shit. I’m sorry. That was stupid. You want me to eat my foot? I’m pretty good at that.”
I’m not looking for much—just a twitch of his lips. But he’s frozen.
I turn onto my back, too, and blow a breath out—quiet, so he doesn’t hear it.
“’S all good.” His throaty murmur swells between us. I feel more than I can see him shift. His arm covers his face. Then, so quietly I can barely hear him, he says, “You were right…as it were.”
I let a long, slow breath out as it dawns on me what that means.
I’m the first one, aren’t I?
A hot rush of adrenaline slips through me. It spins my head and burns out in my body, leaving only flop sweat and a knot in my throat. “Am I?” It’s supposed to come out smooth and easy, but it sounds choked.
I don’t dare to move, but I need to touch him, so I inch my hand toward his until my fingertips brush his knuckles. His fingers lace through mine, loosely clasping my hand, then squeezing.
When I look at him, his eyes are closed. His face is tense—almost pained.
“Just…could never risk it.”
“But you could that night.” Because we were completely off the grid, and because he probably realized within the first few minutes that I didn’t know him.
“Low risk.” His eyes open, blink up at the perfect sky. His mouth twists. “Plus, you called me out.”
I don’t know why I did that. I think I was horny and still upset over Lana.
“Sorry.”
He shuts his eyes again. “It’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Mc-D?” I swallow hard and weigh the question out. It falls from my lips before I can vet it. “You’re not bi or pan…are you?”
His hand squeezes mine. “No.”
That word is a weight on my chest, making me feel breathless. “You don’t think God…cares, right?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Other people do, though—other people care. And being a pastor is a lot about other people, isn’t it?” His chest expands, but he doesn’t answer. Anger swells in my throat. “People are stupid.”
His lips thin. “Untrue.”
“So what is it?”
“It’s like kindergarten.” His eyes open…find mine for a moment before fixing on the stars. “In my class, we had the Big Cheese. Every day…a different person was the line leader. We were all excited for it, right? Everybody wants to stand out. To be good. To wear the badge. What they do and think matter. People— We’re thinking about us, so we don’t think about each other enough. Any issue of moral superiority…it’s a chance for everyone to be the Big Cheese. Smarter. Better. Right. In politics, too. Same thing. Part of being human.”
Yeah, okay, so people are ego-crazed dicks. “But why is it an issue at all? In your religion?”
His eyes shut again on a sigh. “Society is innately…procreative. And people are inherently suspicious of differences. And the Bible…” He blows another breath out. “It’s open to interpretation. To translation.”
I’m sure people choose the interpretation that suits their worldview. Enforce the rules that don’t apply to you and bend the ones that do, right?
“Come here.” His murmur cuts into my thoughts. I blink and see he’s got his arm out. I move closer, and he pulls me up against his chest. Warm and solid. Feels good…smells good. Everything about him deeps into my chest and tugs like a damn magnet—and he feels the same way.
I hold onto him, kiss his throat, and say what I can’t keep to myself. “It’s not bad. Wanting what you want.” He shuts his eyes. “I’m not like you—I don’t know about religious stuff. But would a god make people ‘wrong’ or ‘bad,’ and if he did, is he even worth it? Is he worth your whole damn life?”
He’s gone stone still.
I know I fucked up, but I can’t help it. I can’t fucking stand to think about him going back to that shit. Thinking about him by himself…my quiet, lonely guy in his bed by himself at night, with no one. Soldiering up all the fucking time so he ca
n jet around the fucking world trying to help people—when there’s no one to help him. The way his chest expands now…like he can’t breathe. This shit’s got him scared, and I don’t even know what kind of shit his people probably told him back when he was a kid.
He takes a couple heavy breaths, and I feel sorry that I said it. Even I’ve heard the phrase “preaching to the choir.” What’s dumber than preaching to the preacher? I rub my face against his jaw and kiss his cheek and hug him hard enough so he’ll remember. “I’m not trying to disrespect what you do. That was out of line and stupid. Forgive me?”
“Of course.” His eyes are shut. I kiss them.
“When’d you know?”
His chest rises as he sucks in air. He rasps, “Eleven.”
“When’d you know you wanted to do what you do for a living?”
“Always.”
Fuck. I’ve got no words, so I just kiss his lips. He looks like a fairy tale—like sleeping beau. I move so I’m half on top of him and run my hand back through his hair. “You’re a good one, Skywalker. Taste good, too.”
My kisses wake him up, and for a while, we’re flesh and bone and blood, all twined together, consecrated by the water and the moonlight.
He breaks away, running his hands down my arms as he lies below me. “I have to leave soon.”
I drop down beside him, and we hold onto each other, kissing till we’re breathless again and then panting chest to chest, our eyes locked. I press my forehead to his head and shut my eyes so I can memorize the feel of him.
“What’s your favorite place, Sky?”
“Zakynthos Island,” he says. “Greece.”
“Time of day?”
I peek my eyes open to see him smiling like he’s amused by the question. “Morning.”
“Did school teachers like you?”
His lips twitch, making his left dimple show. “Of course.”
“What’s the biggest stress you’ve got going right now?”
“The foundation. Charitable giving. Trying to motivate change while avoiding politics.” His brows lift.
“That sounds near impossible.”
“I don’t like politics.”
“No?”
He shakes his head and kisses my mouth again. “It’s…unduly tiring.”
“Say that again.”
“What?” He makes this funny face—like this exaggerated frown that’s sort of on the verge of turning smile.
“Unduly.”
He laughs. “Making fun of me?”
“It’s fucking sexy.”
He swallows…cut his eyes at me. Smiles a little. “Unduly.”
I can’t help myself. We’re kissing again. I’m straddling him again, letting my hands and mouth say what I don’t have words for.
Don’t forget about me.
Cover up your fucking ears to that shit.
Love is love is love…is love.
He groans there. Then he bites my lip and turns me over so he’s on top, his hands framing my face, working painfully through my hair.
“Vance Rayne—you’re a sickness.” His mouth—hard and fast. His breaths faster. “I had you and it’s…still…not enough. What am I gonna do?”
He’s leaning over me. He’s breathing hard. His hand in my hair loosens, and I pull him down beside me. His big shoulders give a jerky shudder. For a second, I think he might cry or something, but he’s only breathing. I’m holding his head against me.
“Beatles song?” I whisper.
“All of them.” But then he gives me, “‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’ ‘The World.’ ‘All You Need is Love.’”
“Favorite Dali?”
“The Temptation of Saint Anthony…followed closely by Galatea of the Spheres.”
“What’s the best smell?”
“The ocean.”
“Are your fancy preacher suits uncomfortable?”
“They’re tailor made.” My hand is on his face, so I can feel him smiling.
“Take them off sometimes and go down to that boat of yours.”
“I will.”
“Tell me one thing about God,” I whisper. “Your God.”
I feel him swallow. Breathe. He lets the breath out as he whispers, “God loves you.” My fingers trace his closed eyes.
“Vance?” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve gotta go.”
I hug him hard and kiss his forehead. Fuck, he smells so good. Wanting him for longer rips at me. I push the ache away. I kiss his hair again. Rub my palms down his arms.
“Get some sleep, okay? Don’t be going back to Pakistan.” He tilts his head up just a little, like he’s trying to see my face—but he can’t with his cheek on my chest. “I read about that.” People tried to kidnap him once when he worked with UNICEF. “Scary shit,” I say. “Don’t do that scary shit, you promise?”
He can’t promise, but he hugs me harder. Then he sits up.
“Lay back down, man. Look up at the stars and let me row you in.”
He does as I say, his arms propped behind his head—but his pretty tiger eyes aren’t on the stars. They’re drinking me in. I roll up the blanket, then pull up the anchor and set it between us. As I row us back to shore, I hold his gaze, and we’re both smiling just a little by the time the boat’s bottom brushes the shore.
He gets up, and somehow we both climb out, our shoes sinking into the cold sand. We step into the woods, and he hugs me, his face pressed against my neck. “Thank you.”
“Thank you more.” I rub my fingers through his hair. My chest feels kind of tight and weird. “If you ever needed someone, would you call?”
He hugs me tighter.
“Look up something called PanX, for when you fly. Every message you preach, turn around and say it back to yourself. Promise?”
I wrap my hand around his as we move toward the rented car. We get to it, and I open his door for him. When he’s in, I crouch down and take his hand and press it in between mine. “Call me. If you need me. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’ll hang on the line with you. You don’t have to call at all, unless you really need to. But if you do, you have to promise.”
His eyes shut. Then they open up and look into mine. “Okay.”
“I’m your friend.” I kiss him deep and hard and pull his head against my chest. His hands smooth over my jaw…run into my hair. Then he pulls back and his eyes are shining at mine.
“Drive safe, Sky.”
“I will.”
And then the door is shut between us. Then the curtain falls. The woods go dark. I go inside, but that night, I can’t sleep.
Eight
November 18, 2017
Fourteen Months Later
Vance
“V!”
I look over my shoulder—or try to, anyway. It’s so fucking crowded in here, just shifting my weight makes me bump some girl on my left, who shouts “sorry” a few times and waves her hands till she imparts that she sloshed beer on me.
The Chubby Bunnies are loud as shit, so I can’t even hear my heartbeat—much less her. I look at down at my beat-up green jeans, point to the tear in the knee, and shrug. I guess it feels a little wet, but fuck it—I’m sweaty already.
“All good,” I shout, with a thumbs up.
I’ve been slamming back Coors at Billi’s Divebar for maybe two hours. A little while ago, I covertly bought a round for the whole crowd here, because my buddies Xi and Mason are on stage. It’s the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and they’re running $1-a-pop on draft from 11-1, so the crowd is hopping.
The girl beside me laughs. I wiggle my brows. She throws her arms around my neck, and I hear it again: “V!”
I wobble around with Random Girl still glued to my chest and spot Avie, one of my good friends who’s tight with Xi and Mason, too.
She’s got her hair in teal dreads. Her lips curve underneath a sheen of sparkly purple lip stuff. She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts something. I can�
�t hear it. Then she beckons me with her hand.
“Is that your girlfriend?” I blink at the woman pressed against me. Blue eyes. Freckles. My arm’s wrapped around her slim back like we know each other.
“Just a friend,” I half shout.
She smiles, and I smile back—because she’s drunk, and you should try to smile at drunk girls who can’t stand up without holding onto you.
“You wanna come with?” I have to say it right near her ear so she hears me. She nods, and I take her hand. We start toward Avie.
One step…two steps through the thick crowd. That’s when I feel it: my phone vibrating in my pocket. Trouble is, I’m wearing these old jeans. In six days, ten of my paintings go up in an exhibition at the Matthew Marks Gallery. I’m so fucking busy, I don’t even shower half the time. I’m out of decent jeans, and the pocket that’s got my phone is ripped right where it always rips—from the damn phone.
I stop.
The phone is stuck, and I can’t pull it out.
The girl is holding onto my arm, peering up at me with her wide blue eyes. I give her a wink and keep on fumbling with my fucking phone. My hands are sweating as I rip the pocket open, answering the thing before I even read the name on the screen.
I’m so fucking breathless from this weird rush of adrenaline, my legs nearly give out when I see the screen.
Skywalker
Holy fucking fuck shit. I wave at Avie, thrusting my phone at the ceiling so she can see it. I press the fucker to my cheek as I tell the girl, “Go hang with my friend,” and point her toward Avie. “I’ll be back.”
There’s such a thick sea of heads and shoulders, for a second I can’t fucking breathe. I start shoving through them and say “hello,” so he knows I’m here. Someone curses in my wake. Someone else shoves my arm. Fuck—I trip on someone’s foot, and some guy with a lip ring catches my elbow.
