by Tyler King
“Fair enough,” he says. “But that changes nothing. I’m still a fan.”
“I do feel better, now that you know.”
“Great, because I feel like a jackass. I promise to stop dragging you to bars and—”
“No,” I say, looking up at him. “That’s exactly why I don’t tell people. I got clean before I was ever old enough to drink, so it isn’t like I know what I’m missing. It’s precautionary. And anyway, I don’t want to change your life.”
“You already have.” Soft and tender, he brushes the back of his hand across my cheek and weaves his hand into my hair. “You’ve been changing me since the moment we met. I’m not the same person I was, and I never will be.”
And that’s the moment it happens.
Ethan hooks the back of my knee to drape my leg across his and reaches for the lamp on my nightstand, plunging us into night.
“Are you staying?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
The moment I fall in love with him.
19
The Agitator
Thursday morning, I wake to the tender, teasing ministrations of Ethan’s fingers trailing up and down my arm. I lie draped across his chest in nearly the same position as when I fell asleep.
“Morning,” I mumble into his bare skin.
Not sure when he took his shirt off last night, but he’s still wearing his dress pants.
“I like this,” he says, “waking up with you. I missed it when you weren’t the first thing I saw in the morning.”
One of the best parts about Ethan: he doesn’t even know how unusually sweet he is. His words aren’t flattery aimed at a purpose, they’re simple and kind and spoken with honesty. Like it wouldn’t even occur to him to merely talk a woman into bed. I don’t think he could be that disingenuous.
I kiss the hollow place beneath his collarbone, and my hand roams his chest and down his stomach. Muscles squeeze and flex beneath my palm.
“Fuck, Avery.” He hisses the words then sucks in a sharp breath. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
He reaches for my leg and hitches it up across his lap. I feel his erection hard beneath my thigh and it sends a shiver of want coursing hot through my limbs. An ache building deep inside as flashes of memory play behind my eyes.
“You barely touch me and I get so fucking hard it hurts.”
“Is that bad?” I say, dragging my thigh up and down, nails skimming the ridges of his abs.
“No.” Voice hoarse, his heart beats faster. His chest rises and falls on slow, ragged breaths. Both of his hands rise to weave through his hair, then hug the pillow. “Just different.”
“Different than what?”
“Anything. Anyone.”
His hips rise off the bed just a fraction but immediately fall, pressed into the bed as he attempts to restrain himself.
“I want you to know,” I say, and unbuckle his leather belt. “I appreciate how well you took things last night. And that you stayed with me.” Next I undo the button of his pants. “And that you understood what I needed most was not to be alone.” Then slide down the zipper. “I also want you to know that I don’t take your generosity for granted.” Slipping my hand inside his boxers, I free his long, hard length.
“Avery,” he says, almost choking on the word. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t.” I stroke him from base to tip, slow and deliberate, the way he did with me. “That’s the point. You never ask for anything. You give because you want to.”
“Because I care,” he says, swallowing thick. “Because you’re special to me.”
“And so are you to me.”
Against all my better judgment, I’ve fallen for Ethan. Deep and fast in a way I’d promised myself never to do again. But even if I’d seen him coming, I don’t think I’d have had the will to avoid him. Ethan is a life-altering event. The kind of man who marks a place in time in which all else is referred to as before and after. Pre-Ethan and post-. And though there are three words on my tongue I’m desperate to express, I don’t want to put him under the gun. Right now, there’s nothing more I need from him than what he gives. So I show him. Taking my time, I give him the pleasure he’s shown me. Not just my body, but every aspect of my life that’s become brighter, richer because of him.
“Avery…” Ethan’s hand tangles in my hair. His stomach clenches, and his penis jerks in my palm. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come.”
He pulls me up to reach his lips, kissing me, desperate and frantic as I pump him to completion. Then his entire body goes slack, exhausted and satisfied.
“Goddamn, Avery.” Ethan exhales against my lips. “You’re fucking amazing.”
* * *
Once Ethan’s cleaned up and dressed again, he heads home to change for work. I’m digging through the bags of clean clothes on my floor before getting in the shower when I hear the front door open and slam shut. I jump, startled at the sound, and barely step out of my bedroom when I see Ethan standing in the living room with his phone to his ear. He’s gone pale. Ghostly. But I see the rage register on his face and the tension straining his neck.
“Carter, I’m at Avery’s. You need to get down here. No, fuck the cops. You need to see this.”
“Ethan?”
His head jerks up. In a few quick strides, he’s right in front of me and pushing me back in my room, kicking the door shut behind him. He rattles off my address to Carter as my legs hit the bed and I sit on the edge. Ethan stands above me, hand on my shoulder, like he’s shielding me from something. Nervous energy chokes me, fingers buzz with anxiety. Then he ends the call and shoves his phone in his pocket.
“Ethan, what’s wrong?”
“Avery?” Before he can answer, Kumi calls my name. All the slamming doors have woken her up.
“In here,” I call.
Ethan goes to the door and lets her in. She flinches at the sight of him, not used to finding a man in a suit standing in my bedroom at six in the morning. But then I suspect it’s the harried look in his eyes that sends her gaze shooting past his shoulder to question me.
“You two should both stay here,” he says, stepping back to urge Kumi inside. “Carter’s on his way.”
“Who’s that?” Kumi’s still in her pajamas. An oversized SU T-shirt and a pair of Batman lounge pants she stole from an ex. “What was all that slamming?”
“Carter is Ethan’s friend,” I answer cautiously. “And FBI.”
“The hell?”
Kumi whips around to stare at Ethan, who stands completely composed, hands shoved in his pockets. The only sign of concern is buried in his eyes and the deep crease through his brow. The tightness bunching his shoulders.
“Ethan,” I say, “what is it?”
“There was a note on your door.”
“Okay…”
“A death threat.”
* * *
An hour later, NYPD show up to take a statement. Carter throws his weight around to get a look at security camera footage from the bodega and the restaurant downstairs, checking for any angles that might have caught who came and went from our building last night. Out of an abundance of caution, I suggested Kumi stay with her uncle for a few days. Though the note is probably just an idle threat meant to intimidate me, Carter doesn’t want us taking any chances. I hadn’t bothered to check social media lately until Ethan looked at my phone. My Twitter feed has been flooded with threats and vile hatred in response to my essay on Phelps.
Now Ethan sits with me in my bedroom as I stare at the floor, trying to piece together a plan. The worst part: Carter had agents contact my mother to be on the lookout in case anyone suspicious starts creeping around Aster.
“My mom is freaking out,” I tell him. “She wants me to quit and move in with her.”
“She’s worried about you,” he says, rubbing my back. “She’s your mom. It’s what they do.”
“Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is a failed experiment and I h
ad no business trying to make a career in news. It’s too visible.”
“Fuck that. If anything, this bullshit proves you’re doing something right. People wouldn’t be trying to intimidate you, shut you up, if you hadn’t struck a nerve. Far as I’m concerned, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
“But look what I’ve done to Kumi. It’s one thing to accept that deranged assholes come with the job, but she didn’t have a choice. If I were in her place…”
“She’ll be fine. It’s a disruption, sure, but nothing insurmountable. Don’t take it as evidence that you’ve done anything wrong. This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it, though? I brought this on myself. I can’t put something out there and not expect consequences.”
“Listen to me.” Ethan lifts my chin to make me look at him. “It is not your fault. Speaking your mind is not an invitation for death threats. People want to disagree, call you names, boycott the magazine—fine. It’s a free country. But that freedom stops at violence. Don’t you dare blame yourself, Avery. I won’t let you.”
There’s a knock on my door, and I look up to see Carter standing at the threshold.
“Just want to let you know we’ve wrapped up here.”
“Thank you,” Ethan says pointedly. “I appreciate you handling this yourself.”
Carter nods as he slides a sympathetic glance toward me. “Avery, you might want to consider staying somewhere else for a couple of days. As a precaution.” He takes out a business card and leaves it on my desk near the door. “My cell number is on the back. Anything you need. Don’t hesitate.”
Once he’s left and I hear the front door shut behind him, I stand up from the bed to start packing up some clothes.
“Stay with me,” Ethan says.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ethan reaches for me and pulls me to stand between his legs. “Give me a good reason.”
“Because. We’re…”
“Dating,” he says, smiling. “Engaged in a monogamous relationship. Are very good at sharing a bed together. Madly attracted to each other. Please, stop me when I get to the problem.”
“Ethan, come on.” My fingers comb through his hair, rising against the grain at the back of his neck. “It’s been one date. You don’t want me crashing.”
“Why, do you pee with the door open?”
“Be serious, please.”
“I am serious. Stay with me.”
His hands move to my ribs, holding firm while his thumbs glide up and down my stomach. He knows what that does to me, and it isn’t fighting fair.
“At least I’ll know you’re safe. It’s that, or let me get us a hotel together. I’m not letting you out of my sight until this thing blows over.”
“Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.”
“You do,” he says, eyes soft and pleading. “But I’m hoping you’ll take pity on me. I won’t be able to function if you’re alone and I’m not there to protect you. Give me some peace of mind. Please.”
I can appreciate his desire to swoop in and save me. Play the hero and reap the rewards. Of course I want to say yes. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with Ethan. Going to bed beside him. Waking up to his face in the morning. Just lying on the couch, watching TV, my head in his lap while his fingers trace patterns down my arm. But too much too soon is an easy way to ruin a relationship before it begins. Even two people who are otherwise compatible can crumble under the stress of cohabitation. Some people just aren’t meant to live together.
Then again, it isn’t permanent. This state of emergency can’t last forever. A few days. A couple of weeks, at most. Things will go back to normal—Ethan in his space and me in mine. If we can’t survive that, perhaps it’s better to know now. Because the longer Ethan is in my life, the harder it gets to imagine it without him.
“Okay,” I tell him. “But this is just temporary.”
* * *
We don’t bother going into the office today. When Ethan calls Ed from my apartment, we’re warned to lie low until Monday. Seems a crowd of protesters has gathered outside the building, and the phones have been ringing all morning with crackpots calling for my head. Just as well. I’d rather not have to face Cyle and his inevitable I told you so.
Instead, I gather up my stuff, and we head to Ethan’s place to work from there. When he lets us inside, I’m struck by its austerity. Ethan’s loft is empty. Not just sparse—bare. Surrounded by exposed brick and cement floors, nothing hangs on the walls. On one end, the shiny stainless steel kitchen with a long marble island. At the other, his king-sized bed and single chest of drawers. There are two rolling racks of clothes equating to a closet. Dividing the two areas is a worn leather sectional couch facing a TV on a short entertainment center filled with books and vinyl records. There’s a small desk off to the side next to a huge standing lamp. But otherwise, the sprawling layout is uninhabited. Against the wall beside the front door are several stacked cardboard boxes, the unpacked remnants of his move a year ago. He owns just enough furniture to make the place livable.
“Not much for decorating,” I say, tossing my duffle bag on his bed as I walk the space.
“Clutter gets distracting. I make it a point not to keep too much stuff around me.”
Physically, maybe, but inside the rooms of his mind, he’s climbing over piles of debris.
For most of the day we sit on his couch, music playing in the background, while we put the finishing touches on our article. But every few minutes I peek over at Ethan’s laptop screen to see him combing through pages of message board threads about Phelps and all the ways his supporters would like to see me publicly debased. He’s obsessed, torturing himself with the vitriolic tirades of sad, impotent people.
“Ignore it,” I say, because it’s impossible for me to tune it out when he’s sitting right beside me. “There’s no point subjecting yourself to it.”
“Someone leaked your address. I want to know who.”
There’s no reasoning with Ethan once he’s set his mind on a project. Fact is, we both know the answer. Either someone I know leaked my address, which pretty much narrows it down to a neighbor or someone at the magazine, or I was followed.
“Don’t worry.” Ethan glances at me. Whatever he reads on my face prompts him to shut his laptop and lean over to kiss my forehead. “Carter knows what he’s doing. This will be over soon.”
“I know.” Faces flick behind my eyes, a catalogue of potential traitors. A scrapbook of liars. “I’m not worried.”
If only I could make myself believe that.
“How about a bath?” Ethan weaves his fingers through my hair, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “Relax, unwind. I’ll make us dinner.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Though I try to quiet the suspicion circulating through my head, I can’t get past the question of who. A deep sense of betrayal wraps itself around my neck, squeezing, choking off everything else until only the paranoia remains. This must have been how my father felt, fearing the FBI closing in on him. Knowing that one of us, the people closest to him, had sold him out. The people he ate breakfast with, the people he built homes and cultivated a life with. Sometimes it was even good. But he had pressed us too far. Years of authoritarian rule, starving people of their individuality and free thought. He held on too tight. And if his life was over, he wasn’t going alone.
While Ethan gets to work in the kitchen, I grab my copy of his book and soak in a warm tub. Maybe it seems silly, I already know how it ends, but the more I read of Enderly, the more I understand the man who wrote her. Ethan is a romantic, concerned with spirit and expression. With fairness and truth. If he could stop the world long enough to fix it, move the pieces around, he’s certain he could create something wondrous and beautiful. But he’s chained by pain and pessimism. Like a penned whale swimming circles in a tank, a magnificent creature dulled and stunted, he has only vague primal insti
ncts that whisper fantasies of what life could be. Great open spaces and miles unhindered. Ethan wants that for Enderly. In every word, he imagines for her a place where she runs toward the horizon just because she can.
It’s a lovely notion. One I think I even constructed for myself when I answered Ethan’s email and accepted the interview at the magazine. I had imagined a reality where who I was, who my father was, didn’t matter. Like I could outlive his memory and what it meant to people. But it was an illusion. We can’t cut out pieces of our past and pretend we’re a whole person without those artifacts in place. Without our history, we’re incomplete. We’re flat facsimiles—no depth or dimension. I understand that now. Though the question remains, Where do I go from here? What are dreams worth if they hurt the people around you?
Later that night, lying in bed with Ethan asleep beside me, I stare across the darkened room still unable to quiet my mind. Too much noise and activity colliding inside my head.
“You awake?” Ethan shifts next to me in bed beneath the blankets. “Something wrong?”
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
He rolls to his side, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Talk to me.”
“Really, it’s nothing. I’m just restless.”
“You’re safe with me.” His fingers slide under the hem of my tank top to lightly brush bare skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“No, I know. It isn’t that, I’m just…”
I don’t have the words to articulate it. Even if I could, I’m not sure it’d make sense.
“What can I do?” he asks, trying to understand.
Ethan needs a problem he can fix. Something with bolts and buttons. Something he can take apart, reassemble, or knock with a hammer. People aren’t as easy.
Instead, I kiss him. My lips against his, it isn’t a solution, but it makes me feel better. Wrapped in blankets, secluded in darkness, he overwhelms my senses. The taste of mint on his tongue, the clean, rich scent of his skin—they drive all other thoughts from my mind. I feel only his mouth, his tongue teasing mine, and his heart beating under my palm.
