Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2

by Romance, Smartypants

  His film choices were ones that were thought-provoking, confusing, and of such quality that he wanted to delve into them again and again.

  Looking around at my apartment, seeing the lack of consideration I’d given to my surroundings, I felt boring and listless compared to Steven. Unvaried and bland. Maybe I was too boring for him. Maybe I couldn’t stimulate his mind enough.

  Maybe if I’d just kissed the hell out of him and run my hand down to his dick like I’d wanted to, I could have proven that I could at least have given him one hell of a genital stimulation.

  I groaned and flopped down on my couch. I shouldn’t have been this upset about a guy not liking me. We’d only been on two dates, but I’d already started fantasizing about lazy Saturdays in bed, runs in the park, and bringing him to Kari’s wedding. He was so magnetic and had a deceptive openness to him that invited taking him into confidence. He broached topics like money and Elizabeth—which felt slightly taboo to me at such an early juncture—with such an easy candor that I wondered why I’d ever thought it was taboo.

  But I say deceptive because I’d seen, in his conversation about his brother-in-law, that his openness wasn’t total, nor was it enthusiastically given. He’d been honest, hadn’t dramatically or harshly shut me down, but his voice had gone lower, the words pulled reluctantly.

  And I wanted to know him.

  Still.

  God, but this chasing thing sucked. Dusting myself off after setbacks was hard. I wasn’t used to working this hard or putting so much hope into someone. Calling him now, after the insane way we’d ended the night, felt like an act of desperation, and I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t a glutton for punishment, nor was I a desperate man.

  But…maybe I could text him. I mean, I did promise him I’d let him know I was safe. I needed to keep my promise, right?

  Having talked myself into it, I dug my phone out of my pants and typed out a text.

  ME: I’m home. Thank you for dinner.

  I threw my phone down on the cushion next to me and stood up to undress, stripping off my jacket and shirt. I felt tired; in need of a hot shower and some solid sleep. Just as I unbuttoned my pants, my phone rang. It was Steven.

  My heart kicked up and I took a deep breath, annoyed with myself for being so nervous. Calm down.

  “Hello,” I answered coolly, as if I weren’t on the verge of tachycardia.

  “You said you’d call,” he said, sounding peeved.

  His peevishness ticked me off, and without thinking—because if I had given even a fraction of thought beforehand, I surely would not have said this—I said, “Being thrown off the premises by a thug didn’t exactly fill me with joy, Steven. If you were pissed, I wish you would have just said so instead of calling security on me like a criminal.”

  I rolled my eyes at myself. Maybe I was a glutton for punishment.

  Steven let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl and said with force, “That’s not what that was.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “It was a chauffeured ride home,” he said softly, a note of defeat lacing the words.

  “Talk to me, please.” Not only did I want to know everything about Steven and encourage trust, I also had little patience for grown people deflecting and dodging important and difficult conversations.

  The silence stretched so long, I worried we’d been disconnected. “Steven?”

  “I’m here,” he said, but didn’t continue.

  “You can tell me anything. I’m a doctor, you know,” I cajoled, trying to sound cute. “I’ve heard it all.”

  “I bet you have, McPretty MD,” he replied, and I could tell he was smiling. He paused before continuing. “I’m…exhausted.”

  His words were an admission, a confession, said with reluctance rather than offered as an excuse.

  I opened my mouth to ask if he was under a lot of stress, when he spoke up. “Did you ever make a decision that was so hasty and stupid that when you close your eyes to sleep, you could only lie there and castigate yourself?”

  His question surprised me. It was much more revealing than I’d expected, and I felt sympathy for him. I knew those feelings. I hated those feelings.

  “Yes,” I answered. “When I think of shooting that woman, even now, years later, I still feel sick to my stomach, like a pit of fear and regret has lodged itself in me and wants to drain all the blood from my head.”

  “Damn, Ken,” he laughed softly. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

  “What’s keeping you up?”

  He paused again. “Did I tell you that I had a guy steal my wallet earlier this year?”

  “No.”

  “And another guy threatened avian mass murder.”

  “Um, what?”

  Instead of clarifying, he continued. “Then, there was that guy I told you about at the restaurant,” his pitch altered, as if he were going to continue, but instead he huffed a curse. “Shit. At some point, I have to examine the possibility that it’s not bad luck and these things aren’t just happening to me, but that I’m subconsciously making poor decisions that put me in these terrible situations.”

  My feeling was that he was being too hard on himself. I loved Steven’s usual confidence and ease, and the regret I heard in his voice spurred me to reassure him.

  “Hey, we all make mistakes. We don’t get through life without them. But sometimes, being averse to risk, is a mistake itself.” I deliberated for a moment about whether to admit this about myself. No risk, no reward, Ken. “As someone who hates risk and loves overthinking everything, I have to say, life can be lonely when you don’t take chances on people.”

  “Hmm.” He seemed to think about it for a moment before turning the conversation. “DKM, I just realized something,” he said with exaggerated surprise. “You hoodwinked me tonight!”

  Amused, I asked, “Hoodwinked, huh? How’d I do that?”

  “You tricked me, and I’m ashamed that it took me the whole night to figure it out.” Then, softly, with mock disgust—almost as if he were speaking to himself, he said, “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

  This set off a round of laughter for me. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but his reaction was hilarious.

  “How could I have tricked you?”

  “I chose the movie! Again!”

  It had been an intentional choice to watch a movie he said he liked to re-watch. I didn’t feel like I was there to enjoy a film, I was there to learn about Steven. I wanted to know his likes and dislikes, wanted to know what made him who he was.

  “I chose both of the movies we’ve seen,” I pointed out.

  “Well, next time, I’m not saying a word. You are on your own. I’ll have my poker face on, and my body language will reveal nothing!”

  Next time. He wanted a next time. I still didn’t grasp what happened at his apartment tonight, but he’d opened up and seemed to want to continue dating me. I wanted the next time to be as soon as possible and I wanted to help him feel better.

  A plan hatched, so I asked, “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  *Steven*

  This morning I was giving a lot of thought to my poor judgment. Mostly because I was outside in the early hours, meeting Ken at Millennium Monument for a jog.

  A jog.

  Talk about poor judgment.

  Who was I trying to kid? I didn’t run, I didn’t lift. My lean, mean body was one-hundred percent thanks to genetics. Could I have been a little more mean and a little less lean with some gym time? Yes. Was I going to probably pass out a half-mile into this run because my endurance was non-existent? Also, yes.

  So why was I here? Why had I agreed to this madness? I’ll tell you why. Because that sexy weirdo said all kinds of things like, stimulation, physical release, deep breathing.

  He suggested, in that low voice of his, that I consider physical release as an escape from stress or boredom. The words, and the connotation I’d i
magined (because I’m a perv), evoked images of sweaty, straining bodies, heaving breaths, and Ken’s handsome visage contorted in orgasm.

  He’d continued on casually, as if I weren’t on the precipice of a full-blown erotic fantasy, and said, “Running is an excellent way to burn off energy. It releases endorphins which can feel like a high. I love it. You should come with me tomorrow.”

  He presented the idea as if it would be so much fun. At his usual time, there wouldn’t be too many people on the trail, and we’d get to see the gorgeous, morning lake vista. I didn’t bother telling him that I got to see the morning lake view, unimpeded by tourists and joggers, whenever I wanted from the comfort of my living room. I knew he was trying to help.

  His desire to help me feel good, share his love of running, and the promise of seeing him all sweaty and windblown again spurred me to agree.

  Okay, it was like ninety-five percent sweaty and windblown. I was a red-blooded man, after all. And just because he was straight, didn’t mean I was blind. I was aware though, that this was a slippery slope. I shouldn’t allow myself any time to think about Ken in a sexual way. It wasn’t a big jump to go from, Gee, he’s pretty, to I wonder if his ass feels as tight as it looks. And I knew I was skirting a little too close with some of the thoughts I had last night.

  I’d gone to bed, set to do breathing exercises like I promised him I would do before we hung up, but kept imagining his hot hand on my body sliding sinuously up and down my torso. First, it was simply the remembrance of him feeling my abdomen rise, then my imagination started taking it further with him sneaking in a caress of my nipple on the pass and going a smidge lower—past my waist—with each breath. He’d do that several times, each time being bolder, going lower. I imagined I couldn’t see his face at all, just feel his breath on me.

  I finally had to shake myself out of it and give up the exercise because I’d been fully hard and disgusted with myself for going there with Ken in my brain. If I thought I’d made bad decisions about men before, those would be nothing compared with the shattering, consuming, and futile choice of having feelings for a straight friend. That’s stupid. That’s a disaster.

  I should have begged off the run, I thought as I made my way to the monument. But as soon as I saw him standing there waiting for me, energetic and happy and so stinking handsome, I felt glad I’d come.

  He was in a lightweight zip-up sweatshirt and basketball shorts, his toned, hairy calves on display. His hair was blowing in the breeze and his grin was contagious. As soon as I stepped next to him, he reached out and gave me a brief hug. The hug took me by surprise, but I managed to issue a few pats before it broke.

  “I’m glad you made it,” Ken said, stepping back.

  “I think you have mind control powers or something because I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

  He laughed. “Why, because it’s early, or do you not run?”

  “Both!”

  “I’m sorry for the hour.” He twisted his lips in sympathy. “Later on in the morning and afternoon this place”—he gestured around the park—“and the trail gets a little too packed for my liking. But it’s my favorite place to run in the city. The lake at dawn and in the early hours is beautiful. Plus, it’s supposed to get hot today, and I’d rather exercise while it’s still cool,” he explained.

  “I’m glad you invited me to join you, really.” And I was. In that moment, I was stupidly happy to be there with him.

  “As for the jogging, we don’t have to go hard. We can walk if you’d rather. Your company is a bigger draw to me this morning than the workout.”

  Aww, I was touched, and I appreciated the out he was giving me, but I didn’t want to look like a wimp, so I said, “I’m up for it! Let’s do this!” Even knowing I was probably going to be regretting that enthusiasm, I still said, “I’m ready for the cardio.”

  We did some stretches, where I intentionally avoided looking at Ken while he did his, just in case my eyes caught something my dick couldn’t ignore. I didn’t need that embarrassment. It was going to be hard enough to get through the morning without feeling self-conscious about my lack of athleticism. If I made it a mile without stopping, I’d be surprised.

  We set off at a pace I was sure was too slow for Ken but was confident I could maintain for a good while. He guided us through the park and down to an entrance to the Lakefront Trail, where the view was beautiful, and the breeze cooled the sweat on my rapidly heating face.

  Every now and then, Ken—who wasn’t breathing hard in the least—would ask, “Is this pace too quick?” or “Want to go farther?” I appreciated that he didn’t talk other than to check in. By the time we turned around at the Shedd Aquarium, I was sweating so profusely, breathing heavily, I couldn’t have talked if I wanted to.

  He stopped us once we reached the point of the trail where we’d entered. He said we’d gone over two and a half miles, and I felt elated. “That was great,” I panted, removing my glasses to swipe the sweat from them. “My legs probably won’t work tomorrow, but I really enjoyed this, Ken.”

  “I’m glad. I did too. You kept a good pace. I figured we’d use this last half-mile or so back to the monument as a cool-down.” He raked his hands through the curls at his forehead. The hair at his temples looked slightly dampened with perspiration, but that was the only indication of exertion I could detect. He still looked fresh and energetic.

  I was sure I looked like a shriveled tomato in comparison.

  “This is my regular Sunday morning routine,” he continued. “If you ever want to join me, feel free. I always start at the same place, same time. Most of the time I’ll turn around at the Shedd and make my way to the river and backtrack here, but if you come with me, we can do this shortened route until you build up your endurance.” He made the offer with a smile, but then seemed to check himself. “No pressure, though! Don’t feel like you have to come.”

  I chuckled at his quickly worded assertion. “Let me see if my legs will work tomorrow, and I’ll think about it.”

  “The offer’s open.”

  We walked in silence for a bit, then he said, “The movie we watched last night…I’ve been thinking about it.”

  I had hoped Ken wouldn’t talk about last night, because I didn’t want to discuss my paranoid behavior or make any more excuses. He graciously let me off the hook with hardly any explanation, and I counted myself lucky for it. But the movie was a safe topic, and one I was interested in exploring.

  “Oh yeah? Did you like it? I wondered what you thought of it.”

  “I liked it. I mean, it was entertaining throughout, and I was able to suspend my disbelief enough to really get absorbed in it. But…” he trailed off, deliberating his next words.

  “But?” I prompted, eager to hear his takeaway.

  “But the end,” Ken breathed. He looked at me, blue eyes wide. “I was surprised by the level of emotion I felt. I realized I hadn’t known what I wanted for them until it happened.”

  “You didn’t know you wanted them to be together?” I asked. That he hadn’t been automatically rooting for the lovers the entire time was surprising.

  “I felt sad for him,” he explained. “I wanted him to be able to preserve his memories of her and be able to move forward from there because those memories were precious. But when those were gone and all they had were recordings of themselves saying horrible things about each other, I thought, ‘This is your future self—or past self, in this case—telling you the other person is a path to unhappiness.’” He shook his head as if exasperated. “I know people don’t ever take good advice, especially where love is concerned, but if they couldn’t believe themselves, then they were idiots, in my opinion.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!?” I exclaimed in eager agreement. “People never take good advice. They always do what they’re compelled to do. Which should mean you couldn’t have been surprised that they chose to do it all over again, right?” I asked.

  “No, I wasn’t surprised tha
t they chose each other,” he gave another shake of his head. “I was surprised that when they did, I was happy and relieved and hopeful. I didn’t know I wanted that for them until my eyes started welling up.”

  I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk and looked to Ken’s face. He was wearing a rueful, almost shy smile, like he was embarrassed by what he’d admitted.

  “Wow,” was all I could say.

  He let out a self-deprecating huff and said, “Yeah, I guess I’m not immune to feeling sappy about love, even when the evidence is clearly showing heartache and doom.”

  “You’re a romantic,” I declared as we resumed walking.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I guess I am.”

  My insatiable curiosity and unrepentant nosiness, wasn’t going to let the opportunity to dig into his love life pass, so I asked, “Are you constantly in and out of love?”

  “No,” he answered readily. “As a matter of fact, I’ve not been remotely close to being in love since college.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, anticipating a sad story. “Was she the One That Got Away?” Strangely, I didn’t like the idea of Ken pining away for some college sweetheart. It seemed sad and wasteful. Not sweet or romantic in the least.

  He snorted. “No nothing like that. Angie and I had deep feelings for each other, but we were young, and our paths were going in different directions. We’d known it from the start. If we’d been able to stay together, if things could have been easy, I think we would have fallen in love and made a good go of it,” he explained. “But it didn’t get that far and that was fine, too. Everyone else…well, they’ve just been possibilities. Possibilities that didn’t pan out.”

  I was relieved there wasn’t any big heartache in his past. Still, I wanted to know more.

  “What would you say makes you a romantic?”

  “I think it’s because I’m not very interested in casual relationships. I want commitment and a true partnership. I want to put work into something meaningful, not into transient, shallow relationships.”