Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I wish

I could tell

someone

everything.

Reed

Fuck you, Lennox.

You don't know me.

I stand in the darkened hallway, just outside his door as it quietly closes. My skin is practically popping, the script he gave me rolled up in my palm. I squeeze the paper tighter, perspiration from my palm wrinkling the top layer. I don't know why I asked for it.

I don't know why I went to his room.

I don't know why that question about polo got so under my skin.

I'm used to people pushing, prodding, trying to piss me off. My brother's a master at it. The difference is…

What's the difference?

I don't know that either.

I inhale in a three-count breath and then let it out slowly before loosening my hand enough to let the script unroll. I glance back at his closed door.

His room .

The artwork, the drawings, the illustrations. It felt like an entirely different world. Like stepping into a fantasy. So fucking erotic, but that's not even what fully drew me. It was everything . I didn't want to stop looking at his walls.

And then he'd leaned back against his desk, blue light across one half of his face, his dark brown eyes settling on me.

That was… I lick my lips.

Fuck, I don't know .

He pushed me; he annoyed me; he unnerved me. He even pissed me off a little. And I wanted to touch him.

I reached for his hand to show him the positions just to fucking touch him.

Have I ever wanted to touch another guy like that?

Fuck.

I reach up to flip my hat, a nervous habit more than anything else.

My date's roommate and friend. Her guy friend. Who I couldn't stop stealing glances at.

That's never happened to me before. Not with a man.

Although honestly? Not with a woman, either.

What happened to me tonight?

Everything feels surreal, like this offset dream world, from stepping into Randy's, to the hotel and the wombat, to Lennox's hands over his makeup kit in the library, where I couldn't stop staring at the movement of his fingers, the black of his nails, to the way his lips parted when I stepped into the stairwell in urgent care, to here, to standing in his room, his eyes narrowing as he waited for me to answer his question.

I can't explain any of it. I need to get out of here. Back into a world that's familiar. My shared house with my teammates, the pool, the locker room, the gym. All things I know how to negotiate. Because this shit is confusing as fuck.

This isn't my world.

I roll my shoulders, standing up to my full height. I've got this. Whatever the fuck is going on, I just need to get home. Crash in my bed. Wake up and hit the pool.

I take a step toward the stairs, and the floor creaks under my weight. A door opens down the hallway, a light snaking across the carpeted floor.

"Reed?" Indy peeks out of her door down the hallway from me. "Are you still here?"

Oh fuck. My fingers tighten on the script again. I'm a total fucking dick.

"Yeah." I clear my throat and walk down to her. I stop in front of her door and raise the script. "I went to get this from Lennox."

His name feels thick on my tongue. That feeling of being in his room comes back with it, tightening the back of my neck, the skin prickling there, the tension rising up to my ears.

But his name's just a word. Like any other word.

Indy steps into the hallway, cracking her door parkway behind her. "I didn't know you were that interested."

I didn't either .

I mean, the building was really cool, and the filming was fascinating. But I'm not really a sit-and-read-a-script kind of guy.

Or, at least, I wasn't before now. I look down at the rolled papers, debating what I'm really intending to do with it.

"I wanted to see what happens." I shrug a shoulder as I look back up at her. "I was intrigued."

She smiles at me, sweeping her hair over one exposed shoulder. Looking at her sets something in me at ease. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt with sushi rolls all over it and a pair of matching pajama pants, all big clothes that make her look small in comparison.

I wasn't lying when I told Lennox that I like Indy. She's funny and unique and talkative. And she doesn't mind when I'm quiet. She doesn't ask me obnoxious questions that piss me off. She hardly ever asks me any questions, actually.

Contrast that to Lennox, who seems to ask them all.

I let the script fall by my side and reach out to lightly brush her elbow. "How's the arm? Does it still sting?"

"Doesn't hurt." She pokes my chest, her smile flirty. Although I've noticed she has that with everyone. "Maybe next time we won't end up in urgent care. If… there's a next time?"

I imagine going back into that building again. How every bit of my body seemed on alert. How aware I was of everything, every shift in light, every breeze, every movement. Like life was more real. It reminded me of a game in that way—time seeming to move slower, the clarity of everything happening around me.

And he'll be there, too .

Why am I so fascinated by him?

I keep my face passive. It's something I'm good at. Years of practice.

"Lennox didn't seem too positive," I say. "He thought that after you and Jonas got hurt, there might be a conversation."

Her smile fades. "No. We're not going to let Jamie abandon this now. Lennox won't either. I know them both better than that. Once we're in and filming, we're in . No matter what happens." Her chin tilts up defiantly.

I like that part of Indy too.

"How long have you known them?" I itch at the side of my neck, those fucking prickles still there. Why am I asking questions? Why am I so curious ?

What does Lennox do during the day? Does he work? Go to school? Art school?

Where does he draw? At that desk in his room? Had he been drawing in Randy's when we came in?

Indy blinks again, like she's not sure why I'm asking questions either. "I met Jamie first. Four years ago now, I think?"

"In film school."

Her lips curl up slightly. "Lennox must have mentioned that."

I nod, and she shrugs.

"Well, I dropped out," she continues, sweeping some loose hair behind her ear. "But I met Lenn shortly after Jamie, not surprisingly. Where Jamie goes, Lennox goes. And vice versa. Although these days, I'm usually tagging along, too."

"They're your closest friends?"

"For sure." She pauses, her teeth pulling over her bottom lip, her eyes moving down the hallway past me. At first I think she's looking at Lennox's door, but then I realize it's the one across from his. It must belong to Jamie? I don't think he's back yet.

Indy's attention jumps back to me, and she flashes a smile. "So… do you want to text me tomorrow? I assume you have practice?"

"Ah, yeah." I pause to remember what day of the week it is. Tomorrow—or today, technically—is Friday. Shit. "I have a pick up game in about four hours, actually."

I can't wait to get in the pool. If anything will reset me back to normal, it's that. Lennox seemed to think that I don't love water polo. But I do. Sometimes I think the issue is that I love it too much.

That there's nothing else.

"Ooof, good luck." Indy's smile hangs there as she looks up at me, the silence thickening, just a low hum of electronics and the distant vibrations of traffic. "I guess I'll see you later then?"

I roll the script in my palms.

Expectations. I feel them. Hanging around us.

We've been on a handful of dates now, assuming this bizarre night—where I keep staring at her roommate—counts as one. Fuck, I'm a dick.

I need to stop fixating on him.

Besides, Indy and I have easy conversations. Things are simple. She doesn't make me question, she doesn't make me tense. Earlier, she slipped her fingers into mine, and it was nice. Her fingers were warm and dry.

I'm supposed to want to kiss her.

That's what happens next.

I'm supposed to kiss her, and then say good night, and turn and walk down the hallway, and take the stairs down, and feel like a fucking person, like the jock who gets the girl, like I did the thing I was supposed to do, taking part in the life I'm supposed to take part in.

I'm not supposed to be thinking about her roommate, wondering what he's doing behind his closed door. Wondering what he thinks about me. Not feeling all those insecurities that come up whenever I step outside myself—the way I can be so non-talkative, and the way I can feel dismissive or cold when I do talk. I want to tell him that I'm not like that. I want to explain myself.

Why do I care?

I don't know.

My heart hammers in my throat. My fingers are still tight around that script. I should just kiss her and get it over with. That's what she wants. And maybe if I do, things will go back to normal. I'll be on a date with a girl I like. That's how the world makes sense.

"Reed?" Indy's smile waivers, her brows rising slightly.

I clear my throat again and take a step backward. "Yeah, I'll text you tomorrow. Good night, Indy."

Her smile falls, but I'm already moving, turning away as I head for the stairs.

I don't know what I should have done.

Twenty minutes later, it feels like the world is shifting into something more familiar as I smooth a hand over the top of the steering wheel to turn off Brighton Ave and pull alongside the house I rent with some of the other guys from my team.

It's an older house set back from the street with dark blue siding and faded yellow trim. It has a carport that's currently full of my roommates' vehicles and various porches off the front and back.

It's a huge house. Six bedrooms and every one is filled with someone from the team—some still currently playing for BU, some graduated like I have. I spend a lot of time with these guys.

I unlock the front door, smacked with what smells like Chinese takeout. The lights are off, and I slip my keys into my pocket and let out a long breath as I close the door.

I'm glad to be alone.

Or, as alone as I ever am, living with five other guys.

I head past the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights, the old wood floors creaking under my feet. It feels like I've been in a lot of dark places tonight, although the scariest part of this house is probably the dishes in the sink and the laundry left downstairs—half from the gym and half from the pool.

The streetlights from the alley behind playing over the kitchen countertops and sink, a handful of empty beer cans littered on the kitchen table, a couple of those protein shakes that Colin drinks among the wreckage. The scent of takeout is stronger here.

It's all so familiar.

Normally, I would have been here too. Popping a beer and pushing back in my seat, laughing at some shit that Saif and Harrison got themselves into. Even with the guys, I'm not all that much of a talker, but it's nice to kick back and listen to their antics.

I roll my neck, stretching out my shoulders and back. Sighing, I head toward the beer cans, then stack them and take them out the back door and around the corner of the deck to the recycling.

I should be tired, but I'm not. My brain just keeps turning over, again and again.

Lennox's room .

The way it felt in there. The way he stood leaned back against his desk as I studied his art. I wanted to ask a million questions, but my tongue caught in my mouth, like it always does.

What would it be like to put that much of yourself out there? Just right there, for anyone to see.

I used to draw as a kid sometimes—not like he does, nothing to that level. Mostly comic books, half of which were about water polo. Until my brother started getting on me for it, showing it around at school, all my faults and failures—silly drawings that didn't amount to anything. Then I stopped. Not because of him, really. But because he was right. I was never very good at it.

I walk back slowly, distracted, and then step into the house, twisting to pull the door shut.

A shadow passes across the side of my vision. On my right, quick and sudden, my hand comes up. Fuck, a person is there.

" Reed ?"

The lights click on, and I squint into the sudden flood.

Archer's standing in the middle of the kitchen, an aluminum baseball bat gripped his hands, held up at an angle to swing, the bat dark gray with a stripe of orange down the side.

He gawks at me. "Fuck, dude. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were an intruder or something. Why the hell was the door just swinging open?"

My hand's still up, my heart thundering. "I was just taking out the recycling." I glance at the bat. "Jesus, Archer, can you put that down?"

He laughs, swinging it down by his side, the end resting against his ankle.

"Sorry, man. I seriously thought you were an intruder." His eyes crinkle at the corner as he smiles, sharply green, his dark blonde hair sticking out like he's been wrestling with his pillow. He's about my height, about my build, and really good in the water. Fast, and right-handed, so he's the opposite wing to me.

"You're home late," he says. "You had that date, right? With that new girl?"

"Uh, yeah." I cross over to sweep what's left of the take out into the trash and squash it down to make it fit. My roommates are slobs sometimes. That's just the consequence of living with five other jocks.

Archer bounces the bat off his ankle, watching me clean up but not moving to help. "You've been out a few times with her. She must be a Twizzler."

"Uh, sure. I'm not sure what that means, exactly."

He laughs. "Come on, you get the idea."

My forehead lines. I tie the top of the trash bag. "She's cool. Her and her friends are working on a horror film. One of her roommates is this… artist." I bumble out the words weirdly as I tug the bag out of the bin. I never talk this much.

And why did I mention Lennox?

I yank the trash bag up hard, catching it on the edge of the bin, tearing a small hole in the plastic. I sigh and set the bag on the floor, leaning down to tie the edges of the hole to keep everything in.

"Artist friend?" Archer's bat swings against his ankle again. "Maybe I could meet her. We could double up. I could definitely use a dick warmer."

I straighten, leaving the bag on the floor. "That was really fucking crass, dude."

Archer and I are solid in the water, but I have issues with him sometimes. I don't know if he says this shit just to get a rise out of me or not. It's possible. Because other times, he's a really decent guy. But that was not cool.

He just shrugs, grinning at me. "How many dates have you been on? Like three?"

"About that."

"Seems like it's about time for things to get more intense with the hot chick."

I frown, snagging the trash bag out. "You might not be aware of this, but women have names."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Yeah, but they're always so hard to remember. I just call them all Andrea."

Is he being serious? Like for fuck's sake.

" Dude ." I seriously don't know what else to say. That pretty much wraps up my feelings. I grab the trash bag and head to the back door again. Across the lot is our shared dumpster, and I toss the bag over the side, annoyance tightening the back of my neck. When I get back, he's putting a new trash bag in the bin.

"Sorry, Chambers," he says, tucking in the edges, the baseball bat squeezed between his thighs. "I didn't mean to piss you off."

I head to the sink and flip on the water to wash my hands. "Just don't say shit like that."

He finishes with the bag and flashes me a smile before grabbing the bat. "You must really like her."

"Yeah, she's cool." I sigh, looking for a towel to dry my hands. When I don't find one, I tug open the towel drawer to find it empty. "I don't know what's going on with me. I've just been…" Why am I talking so much? I don't know that I want to get into this with Archer. "I'm just tired. I'm gonna catch some sleep before our pick up game."

"Me too." He swings the bat up over his shoulder. "I'll wait to kick your ass in a game, since now that I know you're not a fucking intruder."

He slaps me on the ass with the bat, as I pass by him through the kitchen, and laughs when I give him a head shake. His room is on the first floor, mine on the second, and the lights flip off as I take the stairs up.

I push open my door and head to my small bathroom. I take a piss and shower. I brush my teeth and debate jacking off, but I'm so fucking exhausted that I just lie on my bed, hand on my dick, trying to picture the shit that usually gets me going. I don't come up with much of anything, until I finally let go and scrub my hand over my chest, then face, splaying my fingers over my eyes. I just don't have the desire. Instead, I count my breaths, letting them fill every corner of my lungs. Relaxing into the silence.

Somewhere familiar.

Where I know who I'm supposed to be.

Why don't you like talking about water polo?

Fuck you, Lennox.

But... why don't I? The question lingers in the back of my head.

My eyes drift closed, my shoulders and ass pressing deeper into the bed, my legs and arms unwinding, drifting wider, spreading out like all those wings on his walls, my cock settling against my thigh, my face going slack, my fingers stretching and then relaxing. I float, that half-dream feeling of rising and falling, like floating on water, or the air, or in my own head.

Do you always avoid questions about yourself?

I groan. Why is he still here?

Why does he ask things with such direct starkness? His eyes on mine after the question, like he expects an answer. Like he wants an answer. Like he wants to listen. Like he's not tied down to what he's supposed to be. Looking at me in the soft blue of his room, his artwork all around us, just right out there, for anyone to see, his legs crossing at the ankles as he leaned back against his desk, his face half challenging and half… aware . Attentive. Like he was really looking at me. That curve of his lips, thicker lips, and those dark irises, black brows, a trace of stubble, and his hand sweeping back his hair with those black-painted nails. The hug of his jeans on his legs, the rips over his knees.

He's so crisp, so clear, in the half-world where I'm floating. A place where I'm not tethered to anything, where I'm not stuck on who I'm supposed to be, or who I'm expected to be. I do what I should absolutely not be doing, my hand moving without permission, that exhaustion melting away.

I fucking cum to him.

Twice.