18. Creed

CHAPTER 18

CREED

The hum of the highway mingled with the low chatter of morning radio as we headed back to Chicago, the sun just beginning to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange. I glanced over at Avery—hair tousled, dressed in a crisp shirt that made him look every bit of a man who had it all together. He focused on the road, but there was a tension in his jaw, a tightness in his grip on the wheel.

I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable, but my thoughts kept dragging me back to this morning, to the way his hand had brushed against mine as he handed me the envelope. The weight of it was heavy in my jacket pocket, heavier than it should have been. He didn't say much when he gave it to me, just gave me a soft, almost apologetic smile. But I'd seen the look in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. Hell, I'd felt a twinge of my own and I almost burst into tears, clutching that damn envelope.

He'd paid me, just like we agreed. Paid me to play pretend, to act like I belonged in his world for a weekend. It was more money than I'd seen in months. But that didn't stop the shame from clawing up my throat, mixing with the bitter taste of pride. I could practically hear my father's voice echoing in my head, mocking me for needing a handout, for taking money in exchange for playing pretend with Avery. But I pushed the thought away. I needed the cash—God knew I needed it—but the memories of the past few days, of Avery's touches, his kisses, they wouldn't stop replaying in my head.

I'd made sure to take a long, thorough shower before we left, letting the hot water pound against my skin, as if I could scrub away the weight of everything I was feeling. I lingered under the spray until my fingers wrinkled, trying to savor every second because who knew when I'd find a place with a working shower again? I'd even caught myself pressing my forehead against the tile, breathing through the tightness in my chest, fighting back the tears that kept threatening to spill over.

It wasn't like I didn't get anything out of the weekend—Avery's touch, the way his mouth moved over mine, the heat of his hands on my skin. I couldn't deny how much I'd wanted it. And the way I'd reacted—my body arching into his touch, my lips parting for his—confirmed what I'd known deep down but never dared to admit, even to myself. I was gay. The very thing my father despised, the reason he'd lashed out at me all those years ago, calling me things I couldn't repeat without tasting bile.

"Everything okay?" Avery's voice cut through my thoughts, tentative, like he was afraid of what the answer might be. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and I forced a nod, looking away quickly, focusing on the blur of trees outside the window.

"Yeah, just tired." It was easier than saying the truth—that my head was a mess, that every mile we drove felt like another mile closer to a life that didn't fit right anymore. That I didn't know how to deal with wanting him, with wanting more than the transaction we'd agreed on.

"Good... good," he muttered, the words trailing off, and I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, the same uncertainty that twisted up inside me. He shifted his grip on the steering wheel, fingers flexing and relaxing, like he wanted to reach out but didn't know if he should.

We fell back into silence, but it wasn't the comfortable kind. It was thick, heavy, filled with all the things we weren't saying. I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me last night, how his touch had lingered even after we pulled apart. How he'd made me feel like... like maybe I wasn't a screw-up. Like I was worth holding onto.

But that was before he handed me the envelope. Before the real world came crashing back in.

I glanced sideways at Avery, watching the way the morning light caught in his hair, turning it a warm gold. I wondered if he was thinking about it too—about the way our bodies had fit together, how his breath had hitched when I kissed him. Maybe he was thinking about Japan, about the business trip that would take him away for a month, far from the mess that was me.

"You'll have a good time in Japan, right?" I forced out the question, my voice sounding rough in my own ears, trying to make it seem like I wasn't already counting down the days until I'd see him again. Until we'd be back in each other's orbit.

Avery glanced at me, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. I mean, it's for work, but... I'll try." His hand brushed the gear shift, as if he wanted to reach for mine but thought better of it. "I'll see you at Christmas?"

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat, but I couldn't keep the sadness from seeping into my voice when I realized that was still four weeks away. "Yeah. See you at Christmas."

The words hung between us, filled with a kind of desperate hope that made my chest ache. He gave me a lingering look, and for a moment, it felt like he might pull over, drag me back into his arms, and kiss me again. But he just turned back to the road, his smile fading like the warmth of Thanksgiving.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the low crackle of the heater filling the space between us. My thoughts drifted back to those moments we'd shared, the quiet intimacy, the way Avery's fingers had traced my tattoos, lingering over the scar that cut across my shoulder. A jagged souvenir from shrapnel during my last deployment, one I usually kept hidden under layers of muscle and silence. But he touched it like it didn't bother him, like he wanted to understand the story behind it. Maybe someday, if I was lucky enough to keep him around, I'd tell him about that scar—and all the others.

But now, with each mile that pulled us closer to the city, the warmth of that memory faded, replaced by a cold, creeping doubt. What did a guy like me have to offer him? A dishonorably discharged vet with a past I couldn't outrun, and a future that felt like a question mark. He had everything—a world of high-rises and tailored suits, a family that expected perfection. And me? I had a shitty car and a jacket that had seen better days.

When we finally pulled into the parking lot where my beat-up car waited, the moment hung in the air between us, fragile as glass. I reached for the door handle, pausing when Avery's hand brushed my arm—just a fleeting touch, but it sent a shiver down my spine. I turned to face him and his gaze met mine, searching.

"Take care, Creed." His voice was softer than before. He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek, and for a second, I thought he might kiss me again, right there in the car park.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. "Yeah... you too, Avery." My voice was barely more than a whisper, rough around the edges. Part of me wanted to reach out, to hold onto him for just a little longer, but I couldn't. So instead, I forced a smile, one I hoped looked a lot less broken than I felt.

He lingered, like he had something more to say, but then he pulled back, slipping into the shadows of his own thoughts. I got out of the car, my boots crunching on the gravel, and watched as he drove away.

Standing in the parking lot, I did the math in my head—again, like I'd done a hundred times since I'd folded the bills into my pocket. It wasn't enough for an apartment, not in this city. Chicago wasn't cheap, and my options were limited. I'd get maybe a month or two in a decent place before I was out on my ass again. But if I found a room—just a room in someone's rundown house, or maybe in one of those old buildings that smelled like mildew and bad decisions—I could stretch this money further. Three months, maybe four. Enough time to get back on my feet, to find work and start piecing together whatever the hell my life was supposed to be now.

The thought made my chest ache, a deep, dull throb that settled under my ribs. I missed Avery already, missed the way his presence had filled the empty spaces in me, even just for a little while. But I shoved that feeling down, focusing on the numbers instead. Numbers didn't care if you were lonely, or if you missed the way someone's touch made you feel like maybe you weren't entirely broken. Numbers only cared if you had enough to get by.

With that thought in mind, I started looking for a room. I scanned through ads pinned to coffee shop bulletin boards and scribbled numbers and took the little tear-away strips left by hopeful landlords. I even tried calling a couple of places listed in the classifieds, but either they didn't pick up, or they hung up before I could finish asking about the room. It was as if they could hear the strain in my voice, my desperation leaking through the phone line.

Eventually, I found a posting at a run-down laundromat, the kind where the machines rattled and squealed like they were about to fall apart. "Room for Rent – Cash Preferred – No Questions Asked." It wasn't exactly promising, but beggars couldn't be choosers. I took a deep breath, pocketed the slip of paper, and dialed the number.

The guy on the other end sounded about as friendly as you'd expect from a man renting out rooms at rock-bottom prices. He grunted something that might have been an address and told me to meet him there in an hour. No questions, no small talk. Just the time, the place, and a dial tone.

I found the building on the outskirts of town, squeezed between a liquor store with bars on the windows and a boarded-up pawn shop. It looked like it hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. A rusty fire escape zigzagged down the side, and the bricks were crumbling away in places, as if the whole structure was barely holding itself together.

A man leaned against the doorframe, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. He was short and stocky, with greasy hair slicked back from his forehead and a stained shirt that stretched tight over a beer belly. His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down, sizing me up like he was assessing just how much trouble I would be. I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"You're looking for a room?" He flicked the cigarette butt, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

"Yeah. I—uh—got the cash up front." I patted my pocket, trying not to let the nerves show in my voice.

He snorted, a sound that was more like a grunt. "You can take a look, but no funny business. No parties, no friends, and definitely no cops."

He pushed open the door, and I followed him up a narrow staircase that creaked under our weight. The walls were stained yellow with age and smoke, and the air reeked of stale sweat and something sour that I didn't want to identify. At the top of the stairs, he unlocked a door with a key that looked like it hadn't turned smoothly in years.

"This is it. Take it or leave it."

The room was about the size of a closet—barely big enough for a twin mattress pushed up against one wall, a chipped wooden dresser, and a window that looked out over the alley. The carpet was threadbare and stained with what I hoped was just spilled coffee, and the plaster on the ceiling was cracked, sagging like a heavy bridge waiting to collapse. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything.

I tried to imagine myself living here, waking up each morning to this view of dumpsters and graffiti. But it was better than sleeping in the back of my car, shivering through the night, wondering if this was the night I'd finally freeze to death. I forced myself to take a deep breath, tasting the dust in the air, feeling the grit settle in my lungs.

"How much?" I kept my voice steady, even though everything in me screamed to turn around and walk away.

The landlord crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He gave the figure and then said, "Cash, like I said. No questions."

I did the math again in my head—three months, maybe four if I stretched every dollar and stuck to canned soup and discount bread. I couldn't look at him when I nodded, forcing the words out before I could change my mind. "I'll take it."

He grunted his approval, slapping a key into my hand. The metal was cold and worn smooth from years of use. I handed over the cash. Without another word, he turned and lumbered down the stairs, leaving me standing in the doorway of my new home.

I closed the door behind me, and let the quiet settle around me. The mattress creaked when I sat down, the springs digging into my ass. I ran my hand over the rough fabric, tracing the cigarette burns and stains. It was rough, ugly, but it was mine— for now, at least. A roof over my head, a lock on the door, a place where I could be alone with my thoughts.

The envelope in my pocket felt heavier than ever. I pulled it out, thumbing through the bills, counting out the weeks I could stay here before the money ran dry. My chest tightened at the thought of Avery, of the way he'd pressed this cash into my hand like he was giving me something more than just a transaction. Maybe he thought he was helping me, giving me a chance to get back on my feet. Maybe he was right.

But there was no denying the bitter taste in my mouth, the shame that prickled under my skin. I shoved the envelope back into my pocket, leaning back against the dingy wall, closing my eyes against the sight of the peeling wallpaper and the dirty window.

It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd had before. And if I kept my head down, kept my mouth shut, I might just make it to Christmas.