Shadows You Left

by Jude Sierra

  River never thought that he would want it. That he would put himself in the path of a train and wish to be flattened. To want to be somebody’s nothing, if only because they opened up a hunger that had its own inertia, that made him helpless and weak, trembling in a dark theater in Erik O’Malley’s arms.

  Chapter Nine

  It wasn’t that Erik didn’t enjoy going to the movies, but going to the movies with River made it impossible to actually watch the movie. High in the back row where no one would see them, they laughed until their sides cramped, pressed close and traded touches in the dark. Erik had watched the way light flashed across River’s cheeks, laced his fingers between River’s knuckles and got lost in his mouth.

  The night was new and vast, and River’s hand was still in his as they stepped onto the sidewalk outside the theater.

  “You’ve got popcorn in your hood,” River said. He reached over Erik’s shoulder and flicked the kernel away. “Where to now?”

  “I figured I’d walk you home, kiss you good night at your front door, pretend like you’ve still got some virtue left to protect,” Erik teased.

  River snorted a laugh. His cheeks tinted with pink, and he swatted Erik’s chest. “Oh, yeah, you totally just charmed your way past my chastity belt,” he said, sarcasm thick. Erik tipped his head back and laughed, disarmed by River’s humor. “C’mon, it’s not even midnight. What should we do?”

  “I know a place we can go, I think.” He turned River’s hand over and played with his fingers, tracing knuckles and nail beds.

  They walked close enough that their shoulders brushed and their joined hands squished between them. River’s scarf touched the edge of Erik’s chin when he turned. Erik watched light from streetlamps bend around the shape of him. There was probably another storm on the horizon, but he didn’t care. If it rained, he would kiss River in it again, right there on the sidewalk. A group ambled past them, linked arm and arm. River stepped onto a bench. He walked across the cement, heel to toe, one hand clasped in Erik’s, the other stretched out to keep his balance.

  Erik hoped for rain.

  He hadn’t dated anyone in a long time. It felt like he hadn’t been on a date in even longer. Not like this, at least, with someone genuine, who looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

  River’s boots thudded the sidewalk when he hopped down. “You were in Portland for a while, right? What about before that?”

  “Oh, you mean after I gave the valedictorian speech and got accepted to four different Ivy League colleges,” Erik joked. River nudged him with his elbow. A soft, pleading come on fluttered out on a quick breath. “I dropped out of high school when I was seventeen. Before that, I partied a lot. Fought a lot. Did a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

  River licked his lips. He let Erik tug him to the left, down a street crowded with bars and restaurants. His fingers didn’t loosen in Erik’s grip. He didn’t falter or apologize. “Do you still have friends in California?”

  “None that miss me.” The lie tasted strange, forced and dirty.

  “But you miss them,” River offered. He lifted a brow as they slowed to a stop outside a tiny bar with a pink neon sign. “Right?”

  The truth lodged in his chest like a hot stone, singeing his bravado. Beverly hauling him into a hug. Lee’s smile as he sat in a booth, flicking sugar packets at him from across the table. Yes, he missed them. Fuck, he missed them.

  “You ever been here?” Erik steered his attention to the bar.

  River narrowed his eyes. He shook his head. “No, I haven’t,” he said, voice crisp and pointed. The unspoken lingered beneath the surface. River recognized Erik’s secrets, the outlines of them through the dark, and his tone was acceptance as much as it was a reminder. I’ll remember this, River said with his keen eyes and half smile. “Time Warp? Is it”—he leaned past Erik to glance inside—“an arcade?”

  “Arcade bar,” Erik corrected.

  River brushed past him. “You ever had your ass handed to you in a Tekken match? Because you’re about to.”

  Erik smirked. “Fuck off. You could never.”

  His fingers slipped away, and Erik wanted to snatch his hand, press a kiss to his palm, and say, I want to tell you. To look him in the eyes and whisper, But you’re too good for a mess like me.

  Time Warp was decorated in vintage eighties posters that glowed in the dark. Rows of old arcade games flashed and beeped—an old Star Wars flight simulator, Pac-Man, Tekken, Resident Evil, Galaga, Donkey Kong. In the back, brightly lit pinball machines loomed next to a cluster of tall tables.

  “Where do we pay?” River asked.

  Erik nodded toward the small bar stocked with beer and cider and said, “It’s free if we drink. What do you want?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  Two double IPAs later, River was kicking Erik’s ass at Tekken. They crowded together in front of the game. Erik swatted River’s hands away from the buttons, and River hissed at him to stop cheating. They played three rounds, and Erik lost three times. He blamed River’s wide smile for that, though. His slender hands and how effortlessly he laughed. River palmed the nape of his neck as they slid toward the pinball machines, stopping once to play a racing game, again to dip around a couple who stood in front of Frogger.

  “What about you? What were you up to before Styx?” Erik sipped his beer as River stood in front of a pinball machine.

  “I interned for a while,” River said. He cursed at the game and pulled the toggle, sending another polished silver ball into play. “I was living with my girlfriend, but…” He huffed out a sore laugh. “That ended, so I scraped some money together, moved out, got a place with Pax. Cheyenne offered me a full-time job a few months later.”

  Erik noticed the way River’s lips clamped shut, how he went rigid and his eyes hardened. He trailed his fingertips over the back of his shirt to the nape of his neck. “Bad breakup?”

  “You could say that. Brigid was just… You ever known someone who can take the worst parts of you and make them seem like the only parts? She was really good at that. I don’t—I don’t know. It was a long time ago, anyway.”

  “You’re not very good at this,” Erik said.

  River shot him a hard look. Erik snorted out a laugh before he set his beer on the table beside them and slid behind him, hands on his hips, mouth close to his ear. “The game,” he clarified. “If you haven’t noticed, you royally suck at pinball.” Tension drained from River’s shoulders. He stayed still, body trapped between Erik and the front of the pinball machine, and hummed in agreement. “You’re too eager.” Erik put his lips to River’s neck. He slid his palms over River’s elbows, followed the underside of his forearms to his wrists, and laid his hands over River’s knuckles. “Let me show you.”

  “You gonna teach me?” River’s voice betrayed him. Too rough and low. Too heated.

  Erik guided his fingers over the buttons. He sent the polished ball spinning into a trap door. The machine whirred and beeped, singing its praise. River scoffed. Erik smothered a laugh against his neck.

  “Show-off,” River muttered.

  Erik dragged his lips across the skin stretched between River’s jaw and shoulder, memorizing the thrum of his pulse, the quickening of his breath. He pressed closer, until River’s ass was snug against his hips. “Concentrate.”

  River sucked in a sharp breath. His hand slipped on the button, and the pinball went careening past the levers. A laugh sputtered over River’s lips when Game Over flashed in bright letters on the screen above the glass top. “That was your fault,” he said, trying and failing to rein in his laughter.

  “It definitely wasn’t,” Erik said, but he was laughing, too, the kind of laughter that was warm and easy.

  There weren’t many other people in the bar with them. A couple played a shooting game, and some friends chatted at a table. Arcade games flicked neon lights across walls. When River turned to face him, Erik kept his head tipped down, lips dusting the high point of
his cheek.

  “You plan on staying in Seattle for a while?” River asked. His eyes were half lidded, lips parted, hands braced on the edge of the pinball machine.

  That was a loaded question. Erik considered his answer. He could tell the truth—that he planned to move to Austin in a few months and leave Seattle behind, that Pete wanted him to fight for bigger crowds, that he didn’t know how to stand still. But instead, he said, “Gray skies only chase the good ones away, remember?”

  River’s dark eyes lit, and his smile stretched into a grin. He slipped away and walked backward toward the exit of the bar. His raised brow was a challenge; his fingers were restless at his sides. Erik trailed after him until they were out the door and in the cold again, met by a night thick with shadows.

  “If you’re not a good one, then what exactly are you?” River asked.

  Mist cooled his hot cheeks. The light above the back door was missing a bulb. Darkness cloaked them in the slender alley, met on one end by the street and the other by a tall fence. Erik inched closer until River’s back hit the wall and they were nose to nose, breathing the same air. He took River’s hands and pinned them, slid his thigh between River’s legs, and leaned in close.

  “You tell me.” Erik waited. Hoped.

  But River just rolled his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. “Let me go,” he whispered.

  Something awful lodged in Erik’s chest. He swallowed and unlaced their fingers, but before he could open his mouth to take it back, to explain, to say something, anything, River set his hands on Erik’s face and kissed him.

  Erik didn’t know if he would ever get used to this. To River kissing him softly, slowly. He didn’t know if he would get used to River’s fingers following the line of his throat or feeling him smile against his mouth.

  “Don’t you live close by?” River broke away to press another kiss to Erik’s cheek.

  Erik lived only a few blocks away. But then he remembered his dusty bookshelf and half-empty dresser and the old pictures he hid in books he never opened. The dishes in the sink. The photograph that lived in his nightstand. He tucked his thumbs under River’s shirt, scraped his teeth along River’s stubbled jaw and listened to his breath catch.

  “Or…” River’s back arched away from the wall. “Or you can come over?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Erik said. He kissed River again, chasing the sweetness from before, countering it with a touch placed low on River’s abdomen, fingertips just beneath the front of his jeans.

  The glow from River’s phone lit his face. He said, “Lyft is six minutes away,” on a rushed breath.

  Erik slipped his hand lower, past the elastic band of his briefs, and nodded. He scraped his nails up River’s stomach and grinned at the sound of a gasped curse. “Looks like your chastity belt isn’t very difficult to unlock.”

  River laughed again, that warm, honest laugh. He smiled through another kiss and held Erik carefully, like he was testing something, like this was new, even though it wasn’t. “You’re a good one,” he said, and pressed his lips to Erik’s again.

  For a fleeting, sudden moment, Erik believed him.

  Chapter Ten

  “So, is it that guy?” Steve asked.

  “What are you talking about?” River peeled the label of his beer bottle to shreds, a tiny pile growing on the low coffee table. The Seahawks fumbled the ball; the swell of the crowd’s cheers filled the room with Steve’s curses. River snuck another look at his texts while Steve armchair umpired.

  “The guy from the bar. Hot bartender?” Steve said after he’d settled down.

  River pocketed his phone. Staring at it wouldn’t make Erik text faster. “What about him?”

  “Man, do you play this hard to get for everyone?” Steve kicked him. “I know you’re getting laid. You’re way too easy to read when you get that look in your eye.”

  “Fuck you, what look?” River stretched out socked feet on the table. Steve’s house was one of River’s favorite places. Wood-paneled and dark-carpeted, it was dated, ugly, and utterly comfortable. Steve was renting it from his parents after their retirement to Florida. Call it nostalgia, laziness, or plain inability to visualize beyond what was right in front of his face, but Steve refused to change a thing in it. River approved. This home was the one River had gone to as a kid, where he pretended to be a part of something whole, something kind. There, he didn’t have to listen to his mother’s slurred speech and constant threats to leave. He could stop thinking, for a few moments, about what it was like to live with Valeria’s simmering anger and his father’s defeated complacence. Steve’s family was blessedly functional and more than willing to open their home to River when he needed an escape.

  “That one,” Steve said, gesturing. River scoffed. “Man, you cannot deny there’s someone.”

  “All right, fine. There’s someone. But not, like, someone someone.” River focused on peeling the last bits of label off the beer bottle and swallowed around his own lie. Erik was trouble, and River knew it—maybe even in and out of trouble, the way he seemed to come and go. The way his words were the surface of the lake, or some unfathomably deep body of water, hiding secrets below. “And yes”—River smiled—“it’s the guy from the bar.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Okay, but seriously,” River said, “I’ve barely seen you, how could you know?”

  “Because I’ve barely seen you,” Steve said. His hair was loose and tangled, and his raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

  “Ugh, sorry, I’m the worst.” River covered his eyes. Monday Night Football. He usually called Steve or went over for it. Instead, he’d texted Erik.

  Watermarked: If I invited you to a movie, would you believe it was a legit invitation to an actual movie?

  Wolfbite013: I’d need more facts to build a case

  River had smiled. Erik’s words verged on playful, and he didn’t get the sense that Erik was given to play. But he’d laughed during the movie, and when he did, River caught his smile in the flickering dark and pressed it into himself, knowing he was utterly smitten but packing that away for later as well.

  “Don’t sweat it. But tell me about him. He must be somethin’, going by that smile.”

  “Um…” River leaned back, scanning the ceiling. “His name is Erik. He’s a bartender.” And a fighter. He carries bruises like they’re everything and nothing. Steve was like River’s sister, but kinder. They both worried over River incessantly and nagged him to find someone nice. Erik was nice. He’d also had River all over the place last week, being by turns talkative, worrisome, and quiet. Qualities he knew they wouldn’t approve of. “He’s twenty-two and from L.A.”

  “Oof.”

  River’s laughter dovetailed with his. They let the white noise of the game insinuate itself as conversation.

  The last time he’d seen Erik, the night of the movie, River had wanted Erik to invite him over. He was intensely curious. Erik was a storm; when they were together, River was battered by it, torn up and caught up and raw. That intensity was real—a connection he knew Erik felt, too—but it never broke down the last of Erik’s barriers.

  Instead, River had given in, and despite an early appointment with Cheyenne to work on his back piece, he’d blurted an invitation to his place.

  He could only hope Erik would trust him eventually.

  “You know, I never asked what tattoo you want next,” River had said.

  Erik had been on his belly, face down in the mattress, still gathering his breath. He shook with laughter. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

  “Well”—River had kissed between his shoulder blades—“I happened to be looking at this gorgeous back of yours for the last half hour…” Under his palms, Erik’s body was a well-honed gift, but also, always tight. He held himself ready at all times, even then, coming down. River had straddled Erik and slowly, carefully had begun to work at some of the tension. “Have you ever considered a back piece?” River dug into a particularly stubb
orn knot, wondering if Erik had a trainer or coach. Did cage fighting even work like that?

  “I’ve considered almost all spots but my ass and balls,” Erik had said, with such seriousness River was momentarily thrown.

  He remembered how he’d laughed then, light and from his bones.

  “Thank God. No one’s ever asked me to tattoo their balls. I live in terror.”

  “Just say no.”

  “That’s the problem.” River spread his palm wide on Erik’s shoulder. He could see it, how he’d wind a dragon from the deltoid then down, skirting his shoulder blade along the trapezius before curling back toward his rib cage. Erik’s skin was beautiful; it framed ink in stark relief. River itched to paint it.

  “You have trouble saying no?” Erik’s voice had been lost to the mattress. River kissed his neck when he craned to hear him. River had mastered many things in his short life, but saying no rather than people-pleasing was not one of them. Distraction from introspection was.

  He bit Erik’s earlobe. “Back piece?”

  “There’s a dragon,” Erik said, allowing the transition. He twitched, and River rolled off him. Sleep-heavy eyes and soft lips framed his otherwise angular face. He was so handsome it hurt. “Called a Svara. Huge dragon, big horn on the front of his head.”

  River remembered, later, wondering how Erik picked the dragons. He’d spent the next two days looking at pictures of this dragon, at artwork and poorly conceived tattoos on Instagram and Pinterest. He wasn’t a fan of what he found. The challenge was nice, though.

  River tried to think of another way to explain Erik to Steve, a way to package him and adorn him with simple words. But all he could think of was that laugh—their laughter—and knew he was in trouble. He checked his texts again. River didn’t want the remainder of Sunday night football with Steve to be spent hung up on a two-day radio silence from Erik, but it nagged him, nonetheless. River wasn’t interested in neediness. After the third unanswered text, he’d forced himself to stop.