by J. P. Oliver
I felt the bend in the road, the twist approaching in his story.
“But it wasn’t,” I heard myself whisper.
Adrian nodded. “Yeah. No. Not good at all. He really fucked with my head. He cheated on me over and over, and it was somehow always my fault. He was a good talker. Charming and manipulative.”
I grimaced; so far, Jason sounded very distinctly like Winston.
“I know the type,” I murmured.
“And he had one hell of a right hook.” When Adrian grinned at me, it was forced and with bitter humor. “I kept staying around, though. He never made me, I just… didn’t know how to leave or be away from him. He got under my skin and stuck there. For two years.”
“Jesus,” I whispered, shaking; all of me was shaking knowing Adrian had endured that. Knowing someone was out there and that they had hurt Adrian over and over ignited something primal inside me: a need to protect. “Adrian, I’m—”
“Don’t say sorry,” he whispered. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I’m not apologizing for me.”
Adrian considered this and nodded, rubbing his temple. “It’s hard for me to trust people. I trust the men I bike with, but relationships…”
“It’s easier to never find out how shitty they are,” I finished, remembering when he said it to me that night at the overlook.
“Yeah. Our relationship was starting off too perfect, and that’s sort of how ours felt at the beginning—with Jason—so I just kept waiting for things to fall apart, but that never came. And then I freaked out when I realized I liked you. But then I realized who I was dating.”
We held one another’s gazes. The lights of the living room were dim, the blinds drawn shut. The world didn’t exist beyond us and this sofa and these wooden beams, and the smell of him sitting so close to me, exposed.
I thought a hundred things I wanted to say in that moment, but none of them felt as powerful as leaning forward into him, closing the small distance, and kissing him—so that’s exactly what I did.
He melted into it, the kiss slow and powerful. There was no intense desire to rip our clothes off; it was reassuring. I thumbed the smooth cut of his jaw as he gripped the shirt on my shoulder and kept steady.
“I love the taste of you,” I whispered.
Lips twitched into a small grin, his against mine. “I taste like beer.”
“No,” I said. “You taste just like you.”
Adrian pulled back slowly.
“Boyfriends?” he hummed.
“Mmhm.”
Adrian’s lips brushed against mine, electric and teasing, curling into a different kind of smile. “You know what, Savage? I think I kinda like the sound of that.”
Making it up to the bedroom was a tangled, messy procession.
Most of the time, I was happy to have a bedroom on the third floor—great views and having the majority of the floor to myself—but when it came to needing Adrian, it was one hell of an inconvenience.
From the couch, we made several pit stops: I had him pinned to the wall of the foyer for a while, our bodies overheating under our layered clothing. I kissed him until he was grinding softly against my thigh, seeking friction. He palmed against the outline of his cock, straining under his pressed-tight black jeans, and softly, he laughed against my mouth, head tipping back against the wallpaper, and my lips chased after the heated skin of his neck.
“Cutting to the chase already?” he teased, fingers threading into my hair.
I hummed against him, pulled his skin between my teeth.
Precious consequence: his leg hitched up at my hip, letting me slot closer.
“No,” I said, hot beneath his ear. “I plan on taking my time with you, Adrian.”
He groaned, pulling me closer. “Let’s do it here.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
If this was our first time, Adrian might have pushed back, insisted on something hot and fast and rough. I remembered the sight of him, the feel of his body as I slid inside, the two of us braced against the sofa—but looking at him now, something felt so different.
I like you, he’d said. I liked him, too; so much more than I was afraid of liking him.
There was a new sort of vulnerability in his heated green eyes, emerald embers full of desire. I wanted to stoke their fire, feel his heat, smother them, and watch their afterglow. He was beautiful, and in that moment, I realized just how much I trusted him with my heart.
I tipped his chin up to me, more than was necessary. His lips curled in response as he held my gaze, stubborn and sweet. “I want you in my bed tonight.”
“Just tonight?” His brow quirked.
My grin was wiped away by his kiss, slow and passionate. With a soft kick against the wall, he pushed us back, stumbling towards the staircase. We bumped into things, teetered, held each other against the grand oak banister and walls, his hand clutching in my shirt, my hand braced against the curtains. Every step took us higher, brought us closer, until finally we were crashing into the bedroom.
I hit the light switch without looking. The room burst into a cozy, yellowed light as Adrian stepped backwards and peeled his shirt away with one fluid movement. His hands dropped hungrily to undo his own belt, and as it dropped to the wood with a heavy thunk. I swept him up with a push of muscle.
Adrian’s laugh echoed in the room, legs locking around my waist as I carried him to the bed. At my back, I felt him toeing off his shoes—heard them drop to the floor as his tongue stroked sinfully into my mouth. He felt like an invasion, overwhelming perfection, his hands everywhere.
“I want to hear you say my name,” he sighed, eyes fluttering shut as I sucked a mark against the pale skin of his throat.
“Adrian.”
I dropped him onto the bed and pulled my shirt over my head.
He was too much: hair disheveled, eyes dark and lidded, panting slightly, flushed; bare chested and hard in his half-open jeans. A present, waiting to be torn apart.
But he’d had too much tearing.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” I murmured, unzipping myself. “I want to make love, Adrian.”
“Victor…”
I wanted him; wanted to have him and give myself to him, to take care of him; to be the man that none of his other lovers could be to him; to treat him right and give him everything he deserved.
My hands smoothed up his legs. Together, we peeled his jeans down, away, and I groaned audibly at the tent he was pitching.
“Kiss me,” he said.
I gripped his hips and tugged him close, flush against my erection. Adrian pushed up onto his elbows, grin turning flighty as I knelt on the floor, lips grazing the bare inside of his thigh.
Fingers found my hair, stroked through the blond strands.
“I thought I asked you to kiss me,” he hummed.
I nipped gently at the threshold of his boxers. “You never said where.”
His chuckle was warm, dissolving into a low groan as I brushed my nose along his swollen outline. I breathed, hot against the fabric, before sucking at the underside, letting it wet with an obscene amount of spit.
Adrian didn’t strike me as a patient person when it came to most things. He was tough; the type to get things done; a problem-solver. But with head—with me—he was reluctantly patient. He breathed through the drawn-out foreplay until he was panting rougher and asking, voice hoarse with strained desire, “Fucking take them off, please.”
With a soft tug and the lift of his hips, he kicked the boxers down around his ankles. I chuckled and glanced up at him; a tease, a question.
I tasted the silk salt of his cockhead as it pushed past my lips into the waiting heat of my mouth. Adrian’s voice broke, a moan shaking out of him. I sucked Adrian off, indulging in every inch of him; hedonistically, I thought, he could give me the smallest piece of himself, and I would still get off, still be content, as long as it was him.
“Victor,” he said again, fingers twitching hard
enough to get my attention.
I pulled off of him slowly, and I wondered if he felt the same as I did, wanting me as much as I wanted him.
I kissed him hard on the mouth, releasing his cock in favor of pressing him down on the bed. Every one of his limbs wrapped around me, knees locking to my hips and arms flying around my neck to pull me closer. It was like something had broken, some final barrier or wall; he fucked up against me, grinding against the rough fabric of my jeans.
We slid messily up to the pillows until Adrian flopped back against them, grinning, dark hair a feathered fan, a black halo.
Our lips met and parted, seeking, and when our bodies pressed against one another, they were finally bare and heated. Pleasure rippled through me, curled in every corner of my body as our arousals nudged messily together. It felt closer than ever before, the admission of our mutual interest like a drug, making everything feel like so much more.
Adrian blinked up at me, blissed out and looking vulnerable as he asked, “Go slow this time?” I kissed him once, sweet and reassuring.
We shifted quickly, the anticipation building as he parted his legs, my hand smoothing up the back of his knee, parting him so I could sit between them. I liked fooling around, fast and loose, but this was special; this was intimate. Every touch felt like an admission, all the shit we were too afraid to say out loud.
I like you, I said with my hands, slicking with lube and pushing slowly inside him.
I don’t know how to handle something like that anymore, I said, bending over him, our lips meeting and parting like it was the only thing they knew how to do.
My head pushed in. Adrian gasped softly, nails scratching at my hip.
I’m so afraid you’ll hurt me. I’m so afraid I’ll hurt you.
The noise he made was unexpected: a whimper, exploding from him like he’d been holding it in with a hot, bursting breath. He did it again when I wrapped a hand around him, matching the pace of our slow, dragging lovemaking.
“Victor.” He said it like he meant it. “Victor.”
But I want this. Even if it hurts me later, I want this so badly.
I felt myself disappear inside of him until there was no part of me he didn’t own.
Adrian kissed me like he meant it, his fingernails scratching over every piece of me, marking me gently. I wondered what his movements were saying; wondered what things he was afraid to tell me. I felt so good, knowing he trusted me enough to tell me about his past. I felt his walls coming down, the world nonexistent beyond Adrian and his body and his guarded heart. “Adrian.”
“Again,” he panted, our foreheads pressing together as we shared breaths. “Please—”
“Adrian, Adrian, Adrian—”
He cried out, body twitching beneath me. I could have drowned happily in the sea of noise he made as he came, pleasure bursting between us, but nothing felt as good as hearing him whimper my name like it was the only word he knew.
“Victor.”
When it was done—when we were both spent, and our bodies were cooling and still sort of shaking—I pulled out of him slowly.
Adrian shivered and laughed as he rolled onto his side.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head and ran a hand through his messy hair. “That was…”
I quirked a brow. “Yeah?”
Adrian thought about it a long while before nodding. “Yeah.”
“Eloquent.”
“Fuck you,” he said, watching as I stood to clean myself off with a nearby towel. “I don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
I brought the towel to him, wiped him down; dropped it on the floor to be dealt with later, because his body was warm and pliant, and he looked too good not to cuddle with. We slid beneath the blankets and let our limbs tangle. Chest to chest, we kept close, his fingers brushing and wandering in small patterns over my chest.
“It was good,” he said finally, grin full of mischief. “I liked that move. I didn’t know you were that… jacked.”
I laughed, loud and clear, rolling onto my back. “Jacked?”
“Yeah, asshole.” Adrian followed, resting his chin on my chest. “Jacked. You don’t even go to the gym or anything, and yet—what? You can lift me up like that? That’s kind of fucked up. You’re like a bottom’s wet dream.”
Our eyes met.
We both burst into laughter.
“Shut up,” I hummed. “You’re delirious.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Okay.”
He slapped my chest lightly before snuggling closer. “It’s too cold to go home.”
“So stay the night,” I said, the offer natural. Having him here with me in my bed felt like something that was just supposed to be, and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye—tonight or ever. “I’ll make you breakfast and we can have some raunchy morning sex.”
“If I can walk tomorrow,” Adrian hummed, shutting his eyes.
I studied the smile on his face, content and comfortable, before doing the same, ready to give myself over to a good night’s sleep.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “If you can walk.”
16
Adrian
“Emotional damages.”
“Yes.” Chaz adjusted the glasses on his nose, silver wire, pristine. “That’s the technical term, anyway.”
Arms crossed over my chest, I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. Chaz’s office smelled like pine disinfectant, ink, and faintly of the decorative pot of peace lily he kept behind his desk. It was hot as hell in his office; the whole law firm’s air conditioning had shit out that very morning, he apologized, so for now only a small desk fan pushed the stagnant air around.
Chaz Nielsen was my lawyer, a Nashville man, born and raised. He had a city-slicker air about him, like he was a man bred for office work. We differed in that way. I had a natural knack for numbers and business, sure, but he was a details guy, from his work to his looks: clean cut, ash brown hair, and baby blue eyes, clipped clean nails, no visible tattoos. The office, despite the broken A/C, was as well managed as the rest of him.
“So what does that mean for me?” I asked. “Exactly.”
“Exactly.” He adjusted the specs again. “It means they’re suing for compensation for their emotional harm or distress. Often it’s in cases regarding personal injury, but since Troy Sanders’ parents are suing on his behalf, it’s… well, slightly different. Most folks know it better as ‘pain and suffering.’ They’re suing as a component of their recovery, you understand.”
“So they’re suing because they’re upset,” I summarized, irritation and a bit of guilt flickering in my chest. “And because there’s no other claim they can make.”
“That’s one way of putting it, yes.” Chaz pursed his lips and sighed. “Most likely, they’re suing as a way of finding some… atonement. Though they’ll likely argue that it’s to cover the cost of, say, a funeral or wake. Wages lost while taking time off from work to recover from their loss.”
All around it was a grim situation—and the last thing I needed in my life right now. Things were going well. Too well. Of course there was this; this final loose end.
“I want to settle,” I said, decisive. “I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m not looking to take this to court or fight it. I just want it to go away.”
It felt a bit dickish to talk about Troy like this, like he was a problem to sweep away and throw cash at. There was some guilt inside me, knowing that, after everything that had happened, there was a loss. Troy’s parents were the victims in this, and I knew that—but I also knew that Troy wasn’t innocent. That night at the bar, he instigated. He attacked first. He paid the price.
“You’re sure about this?” Chaz asked, leafing through his own copy of the summons. “You’re sure this is the route you want to take?”
“I’m sure.” I’d considered it over and over, every moment my mind wasn’t occupied wi
th something else. I weighed all the options carefully, but this… this seemed best. Avoid conflict and drawing it out. Give Troy’s parents something and let it fade. “Let’s make it happen.”
Chaz nodded and set the summons down.
“I’ll contact you when I hear from their lawyer.”
I had mixed feelings about being back in Nashville.
I hadn’t dared step foot in the city since leaving, wary about running into the wrong crowd on the wrong street corner, in the wrong bar. I altogether avoided the entire neighborhood where things had gone down between me and Troy—between the Falcon Grims and the Raptors. I didn’t want to feel all those feelings again, remember things too vividly. Being in Nashville itself had more than enough memories.
After leaving Chaz’s, I took my truck the long way round to East Nashville. Again, I avoided bringing the bike. It was a cold Monday, and I wasn’t too interested in drawing unnecessary attention on the Harley.
Another long stretch of road, a dozen turns, the same old row of houses. I bypassed all the historic buildings, the colorful and renovated little barbeque joints, the old red brick church with its rose window. No, the place I was looking for wasn’t the kind of place tourists stopped into, or even drove near.
I parked at the curb, crossing the street quickly. I kept my head a little low—you never knew who might be hanging around—though technically this was safe territory; Falcon Grim territory.
The apartment complex was a two-story joint, with little wooden balconies for each unit and in desperate need of an updated paint job. It curved in on itself, with a little courtyard in the middle. A couple kids loitered in their jackets, playing and trading Pokémon cards. They looked at me, skeptical, as I passed by and made for Unit 1C.
I ran the bell twice. Waited. Nothing.
Knocked.
Knocked again.
“Hey, c’mon, man. I know you’re in there, Max,” I called through the glass door. “Your truck’s parked outside, dumbass—oh. Shit.”
The inner door opened to reveal a relatively young girl, probably about thirteen. She was a little goth kid, hair dyed pink and purple, done with cheap convenience store makeup. She leveled me with a look that could kill.
