11. Ryan

Bev closes her eyes when she sees me and whispers something that sounds a lot like, “Give me strength” under her breath.

I wasn’t planning on stopping by today on account of the fact that I’ve completely run out of ways to complain about Miller that don’t involve me disclosing that he’s repeatedly offered me money for sexual services. So I’m here empty-handed. Totally cake-less. A decision I regret as soon as I see Bev’s face. Big brown eyes, short curly dark hair, and a thin line where her mouth should be. She takes her readers off and drops them onto her desk. She massages her temples for a few seconds, then looks up and says, “Come on back.”

I can hardly believe my luck. I’ve never been invited back before. Best-case scenario in the past has always been being offered half the cupcake I’ve brought for her. She opens the door that reads Staff Only and waves me in, offering me a seat next to her desk.

“Can I ask you something, Ryan?” She staples a few pages together and drops them into her outbox, not waiting for an answer. “Are you happy here?”

“No.”

I don’t even need to think about it. I’m definitely not. In some ways, it’s like a continuation of high school, which I hated more than life itself, and in other ways, it’s like being faced with the goddamn apple tree in the Garden of Eden. There’s temptation and possibility everywhere. Low-hanging and ripe. Close. So close, I sometimes feel like I could reach out and take it, but my old friend the fist is quick to remind me that it wouldn’t be wise.

She purses her lips and nods several times. “Well then, let me ask you another question. What do you do for fun?”

I admit I have to think for a while, but I manage, “I like to lie on my bed and look at the ceiling.” Technically, I like to lie on my bed, look at the ceiling, and relive arguments and altercations long past, fantasizing about delivering the perfect, cutting retort instead of being struck mute by social anxiety, but whatever. Close enough, I think.

Her expression changes from judgment to something that looks a lot like pity. “What’s stopping you from having fun?”

“Um, it’s called anxiety, Bev.”

“Yeah, I know, and I get that. You know I do, but you’re not doing it right. You’re letting your anxiety take over your life, and you’re only taking on the bad parts. You’re not letting the good parts in.” Good parts? When has anxiety ever had good parts?

“That shit makes you funny as hell, Ryan. It makes you interesting. It makes you real, and you’re supposed to let people see that about you. You’re not supposed to hold it all inside you. No wonder you’re like this.” She waves her hand around in the air near my face. “You’re supposed to let loose once in a while.”

I nod and do things with my eyebrows to suggest that I not only understand what she’s saying, but I agree wholeheartedly. Neither is true.

“How do you recommend I do that?”

“I don’t know. It’s different for everyone. For me, I like to let my mind wander and then just jump in and do the first thing I think of. Something fun and spontaneous. Remember that cruise I told you about, the one Mal and I took last year? Well, I’d been feeling stressed and generally blah for a while, and when I gave myself a quiet moment, going on a cruise was the first thing that popped into my head. Did my credit card love it? No. No, sir, it did not. Was it worth it? Totally. It was the most fun I’ve had in years. I met amazing people. I danced like I haven’t danced since my twenties. I gained ten pounds in seven days, and you know what my only regret is? That I didn’t gain more.”

I’m about to tell her that a cruise is light years out of my budget when she adds, “It doesn’t have to be something big or serious. It can be something silly. You’re at the age where you should be doing something stupid at least every other week. It’s practically a coursework requirement.” She shakes her head despondently. “Can’t believe I have to tell you this.”

I suddenly feel overly aware of my mouth. I can feel where my top and bottom lip touch, and it feels strange. My lips are tingling, twitching at the corners.

Did someone say stupid?

Because, man-oh-man, do I ever have something stupid in mind.

I mean, I’m not going to do it. Obviously, I’m not going to do it. That would be ridiculous in the extreme, not to mention illegal, I think.

I should probably Google it, but yeah, I don’t think this is the kind of thing Bev was suggesting at all. I bet she’d be shocked shitless if she knew. She’d have to leave work early this evening to get home to tell Mal all about the new craziest roommate situation she’s ever encountered. That’s what she’d have to do.

I’d love to tell her, and if not for the fact I fell into the grip of temporary insanity last week and inadvertently took money in exchange for sexual services, I absolutely would.

I’ve just Googled it, and sex work is definitely illegal outside of Nevada, and even there, it’s tightly regulated. So, things being what they are, I can’t mention anything about Miller and his deviant behavior to Bev on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

I’m in the quad outside the library, toying with the idea of going inside. I love the library. It’s easily my favorite place on campus. The quiet maze of books, the judgmental hissing of librarians shushing students, the musky smell of old pages, the endless possibility of thousands and thousands of lifetimes lived through ink on parchment. I love it. I love all of it. Even so, since I moved in with Miller, I’ve been spending so much time there that I think I’ve finally worn myself out. It’s a nice day today, and I don’t feel like being cooped up.

I drift around the quad for a while. My favorite bench—the one almost hidden from view by an unruly row of conifers—is occupied by a black-haired girl with her head down and shoulders sloping. She’s blinking slowly, not looking up. Loneliness emanates off her in waves. I watch her for a few seconds and let myself feel what she’s feeling. It’s an emotion I know all too well. Empty and unsure, uncomfortable here by herself, but probably more uncomfortable somewhere with more people.

My palms start to itch with sweat as I approach her. I’d love to stop and do just about anything else, but I made myself a promise a long time ago that if I see someone isolated like this, I’ll wave them over or sit beside them for a while. I swore it, and I make myself do it no matter what the fist has to say about it.

I start walking in her direction, wiping my hands roughly on my jeans as I do, but before I get to her, a lecturer from the economics building takes the seat next to her. I keep an eye on them for a while, and when I see the lecturer offer her half his sandwich, I walk away. I find a spot on a bench that’s practically in the middle of a busy walkway and sit on it instead. I feel like a dork in a display cabinet, so I bury my head in my phone and try to ignore the omnipresent certainty that people are looking and laughing at me.

I see a message from my friend, Ben. Funnily enough, he’s someone I met because of this very same promise. He was hiding in the corner of a coffee shop just off campus during freshman year at the same time I was. I took a seat next to him, and though we didn’t talk much, I liked being in his presence. He felt chaotic but unthreatening and nice to be around. I found him in the same spot the next week and the next. Each week, we talked more, and over time, we moved from being acquaintances to friends. We spent a lot of time together last year, but sadly—or happily, depending on your perspective—he got together with this girl named Nicole at the end of the year, and that changed our dynamic a lot. Don’t get me wrong, Nicole is great. She’s a really lovely girl. I’m happy for him, especially since he was so besotted with her that he was pretty much convinced he was on the brink of death by unrequited love for most of last year.

I’m glad they got together, and I like seeing how happy they are. It’s just that it would be nice if they could get their tongues out of each other’s mouths long enough to hold a short conversation.

Ben: Nic and I are watching The Empire Strikes Back tonight. Wanna come over?

That sounds like a fun time. It’s the kind of thing we used to do all the time before he got together with Nicole, and even since then, they make a point of inviting me over every other week or so. Every time is the same, popcorn and a few beers, a cult classic on Ben’s crappy old laptop, followed by a lively debate on the pros and cons of the movie. I spend the entire time pretending not to notice that their hands are under the big crocheted blanket Nicole left in Ben’s room when she first started staying over. Or that their eyes are slightly glazed over.

So, it’s not that it’s not nice—it is super nice of them, and I know it will be a good night—it’s just that it doesn’t feel like something new or fun.

Or stupid.

Another message pops up, and my first thought is that it’s Ben again. My heart sinks when I recognize the number. The quote for my truck repairs is finally in. I’m in no way religious, quite the opposite if anything, but I admit I do offer up a silent prayer on the off chance someone is listening before clicking on the message.

“What?” I say it loudly enough to draw a worried look from a girl walking by.

One thousand three hundred and seventeen dollars.

What the fuck?

The guy said he would do his best to keep the cost down. He said he thought he could do it for “around a thousand.”

I explained my position—I’m a broke-ass, sad motherfucker—in granular detail. There’s no possible way he could have misunderstood. In what world does three hundred dollars not make a huge difference to someone?

My ears and hands start feeling warm and there’s a thin buzzing layer of thick hot air all around my face.

What am I going to do? Even a thousand was miles out of my budget.

I can’t call my parents and ask them for help because they’ll help me even if it means going without themselves, and I can’t stand that. They told me I should go to our local college for this very reason. Unexpected expenses, they called it, and goddammit, I hate it when they’re right about this kind of thing.

I’m so wired I can’t sit still, so I take off at a brisk pace. Going where? I couldn’t tell you. I just need to move. I need some air. Old stone buildings and half-naked trees fly past me as I speed by.

A short while later, I find myself at the door of The Pardon, the bar that happens to be geographically closest to the library. I guess I should have had some inkling that I’d end up here. God knows I could use a drink.

“Tequila,” I say, putting a ten down on the bar.

“What kind? We got…”

“Whatever’s cheapest.” And there you were thinking I had shame. Wrong. I don’t.

He pours a shot of some distinctly nasty-looking stuff, and I knock it back without bothering with salt or lime.

“Again,” I say.

In case it’s not abundantly clear, I’m staring down the barrel of willfully making a very bad decision here. I know it. You know it. The only person who doesn’t know it is Miller fucking MacAvoy.

Correction. The only person who doesn’t know it yet is Miller fucking MacAvoy.

I put my key in the lock, but the door is snatched open before I have time to turn it.

“Where’ve you been?” Miller asks as if it’s not only his business but his right to know where I am at all times.

“Out.”

“Student services again, huh?”

“No.” I mean to sound cool, calm, and collected in my lie, but it doesn’t come out quite like that.

His eyes are unreadable. Steel-gray and hard, mouth slashed into an easy smile. A smile that I’m more convinced every day is less of a smile and more of a threat. A storm of nerves gathers in my belly. The fist threatens but doesn’t clench.

Thanks, tequila—love you, long time.

I hand an open-mouthed Miller my messenger bag as if he’s the hired help and step around him, flicking my hair out of my face as I do it. I walk to his desk with purpose and a little sway of my hips.

Don’t ask. Just don’t. You won’t like the answer, I can promise you that.

I look down and blink. There have been two stacks of cash on his desk for almost a week. I’ve seen them there morning and night. I’ve spent every waking hour trying—and failing—not to think about them. I’ve woken up in the night, and when I’m absolutely positive he’s asleep, I’ve reached out and touched each pile, just a light touch, a brush of fingertips, no more. Cautious and careful not to disturb them in case he’s memorized their position.

He’s exactly the kind of prick who’d do something like that.

My point is that there were two. There were definitely two.

“Where’s the other one?” I demand.

He sets my bag next to my desk and leans against my closet, arms crossed. “The other what?”

“The other—” Shit, I don’t know what to call it. Is it a stack, a strap, a roll? “The other m-money.”

“Ah,” he says sympathetically, “the offer on the hand job expired. You took too long to make up your mind, so now, if you need cash, you’ll have to earn it on your knees.”

I’m not sure I fully understood the word balk before, but I do now. My entire body reacts, tensing and recoiling before I have time to act cool. I recover quickly, although not well. Surely, that’s the only way to explain what I do next. I reach out and take hold of the money on Miller’s desk. I pick it up firmly and decisively, not like it’s something that could burn me or bite me, despite that being exactly what it feels like. I yank the money pin off the notes and throw it down on his bed roughly, then I count the money and stuff it as deeply into my back pocket as I possibly can.

“Where’s my tip?” I ask haughtily.

He doesn’t skip a beat. “Careful, or I’ll give you a lot more than the tip.”

I balk again but shake it off quickly and get to work.

In case you were thinking there’s a graceful way to get on your knees to blow a guy you hate, you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I mean to be slick about it, but kind of crumple instead. One knee gives way first, followed quickly by the other.

Miller’s eyes narrow with joy, lips parting in a huge smile. He looks positively radiant. I swear to God, he might actually be glowing. He saunters to the door, locks it, and turns off the overhead light. His study lamp casts a long, moody light over the room, changing the atmosphere from almost clinical to sultry in the blink of an eye.

“You don’t need to do that,” I start but falter when I hear how affected I sound. I change course, attempting to deflect with humor. “I’m kind of a sure thing.”

A Pretty Woman quote?

Jesus Christ.

Thanks a lot, Bev. This is what you get when you tell someone like me that he’s funny.

Miller’s chuckle is low and throaty. Unfairly attractive. He sits on the sofa and leans back, beckoning for me to come closer with a single crook of his finger.

“Factually untrue,” he murmurs. “You’re about as far from a sure thing as I’ve ever met.”

That buoys me a little. At least it would if I wasn’t currently attempting to crawl seductively across the floor. Let me tell you, it’s a lot harder than porn would have you believe. It’s hell on the knees, and if I wasn’t already feeling stupider than ever before, this would certainly do it.

Miller watches with interest, eyes traveling down my face and arms and back up again as he undoes the top button of his pants and eases his zipper down.

By the time I’m at his feet, knees supremely grateful for the thick pile of the rug under them, he’s scooping his dick and balls out of his boxer briefs.

I swirl my tongue around my mouth and swallow the pooling saliva. It’s one of those swallows that doesn’t go down all that easily.

Miller is hard. Fully erect. Swollen and straining up toward his navel. He’s uncut. His foreskin is almost fully retracted to expose a dusty pink head. An emotion I cannot name washes over me. It’s like a splash in the face, but instead of sobering me, it makes me drunk. It hits me in the face first but runs down my limbs until I feel it in my hands and feet.

Miller watches expectantly. Gray eyes glitter like metal in the sun, laughing at me, daring me. I can tell he doesn’t think I’ll do it, and God knows, I wish he was right. But I can’t stand it when people underestimate me, no matter how much their opinion of me is born in truth, fact, or prior experiences. It drives me insane.

Instant fury in less than a second.

I guess you could say it’s a trigger for me.

I watch, removed, as my right hand floats through the air and circles his cock at the base. I have that feeling again. The splash. But this time the water is hot. It hits me in the chest and trickles over my skin, burning a trail down my body and settling in my groin.

He’s thick and warm in my hand. Impossibly warm. Hot. It feels wrong. Very wrong. It’s obviously madness to do something like this to someone like Miller. Anyone could tell you that. I should stop. I should definitely stop. I should give him the money back, drop out of college, go home, and never think about this again. That’s what I should do.

Instead, I drag my fist up, tugging the loose skin on his shaft up so only a glimpse of his head peeks out, then sliding it down again to expose it completely. I do it again. And again. I can’t look away. I’m mesmerized. Hypnotized as silky skin slides over solid steel.

Dick-matized. That’s what I am.

Ordinarily, it would take a lot more than this simple act to fascinate me to this extent. In many ways, I’m the kind of person who struggles to stay on course, to focus. But holy shit, I could play this lewd game of peek-a-boo all day.

Years of wondering, of inquisitiveness, of burning curiosity are powerfully sated. Having someone else’s dick in my hand feels just how I thought it would. Exactly how I thought it would. But better. Better because when my hand glides down over taut muscle and veins, Miller MacAvoy shifts in his seat. When it slides up, his jaw tenses and his eyelids droop when I get near the tip. My entire body is twitchy, but my mind is unusually relaxed.

“Ryan.” His voice is soft and hoarse, but it jerks me out of my stupor. “I paid for your mouth.”

God!

He’s right.

I lean forward tentatively, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.

Can I do this? Can I actually do it?

My heart races when I get close to him. Beating so hard it’s making it difficult for me to get a good breath. My eyes don’t leave his dick. It’s harder now, even harder than it was when he took it out of his pants. The head is dark pink, and there’s a tiny glint of precum leaking out of his slit. I swallow hard. Nerves flurry, gathering together, attracting each other like magnets and turning into something big and scary.

My belly flip-flops, and I start freaking out.

I don’t know what I’m doing right now. I don’t have a clue. Even if you take away the Miller-ness of it all, I still don’t know what I’m doing. I factually don’t know how to do this shit. I’ve never done it before.

What the hell am I thinking?

I pull back slightly to collect myself, and as I do, the movement pulls my jeans tight against my ass. The thick wad of cash nudges me, a none-too-subtle reminder of why I’m here.

I’m on my knees with a man’s dick in my hand, and I’m doing it for money. For some reason, that makes it better. The fact that I’m doing this for money, not because I want to, makes it feel slightly better. It frees me from a heavy shackle society put on me when I was too young to realize it was happening. It takes away the whisper of guilt. The suggestion that it’s wrong. The money makes it feel plausible. Possible. Doable even.

I bow my head, and when I’m a breath away from his cock, I let my tongue peek out. My head’s already moving, bowing toward his lap, and I don’t do anything to stop the momentum. I run my tongue cautiously up his slit. I do it quickly and lightly, hardly touching at all, but tasting all the same. A salty burst. An unfamiliar flavor. The taste of a man. The taste of Miller.

Unmistakable arousal roars through me, arching my spine and tightening my hand around his cock. Blurring my thoughts, dulling self-preservation, and replacing it with something that feels a lot like—almost certainly misplaced—confidence.

The second time I lean in, I open my mouth and take his whole head in. He fills me completely, pressing my tongue down and forcing my jaw open wider. Smooth skin in my mouth, loose skin gathered beneath his head, tantalizing my lips.

“That’s right,” he whispers. “Just like that.”

I try not to be annoyed by the fact that my chest swells at his words. In fact, I try to block everything other than his cock out. That’s a mistake. Because without Miller attached to it, this cock is perfection. It’s the cock of dreams. My dreams. My wet dreams.

I keep my hand on him, moving it slowly as I take him into my mouth, little by little, a little deeper each time. His hips tense, and my free hand pushes his T-shirt up of its own volition. He gets the message, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the floor at my knees.

Fuck me. He’s beautiful.

Hard muscle, soft golden skin. I know that it’s soft now. I don’t have to wonder or imagine it because my hand, the one with its own mind, is roaming over the washboard of his abs, inching up toward his nipple, reveling in the silky smoothness of him and the flat hardness of his chest. Saliva fills my mouth and spills down his shaft.

“Mmm, oh yeah, nice and sloppy, just like that.” He drops a heavy hand on my shoulder and slides it to the back of my neck. I tense even though I actively try not to. “Give me lots of lips.” I do, making my lips soft, pouting, and dragging them gently over his swollen head. It makes him moan. He’s looking at me when he does it. Right in the eyes. His pupils are big black holes into his soul. His lips part and the sound finds the light. It’s a soft rumbling sound. A sound that would be sweet if it came from anyone else. He smiles when he does it. A big, goofy grin that shows a full constellation of teeth. It doesn’t fade when the sound does. It doesn’t get smaller. It gets bigger. It lights up his whole face. Even his eyes.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for looking at me like this.

And fuck him for making my dick so hard it hurts.

My jeans are unbearably tight. Constricting to the point of insanity. To the point that I can’t think of anything else. My hand drops, and I press the heel of my palm against my erection, gasping from the instant relief. It makes him smile more. Bigger. Sweeter. Worse.

I yank my hand off myself even though I suspect the loss of it could seriously harm me.

You’re not here for fun. You have a job to do, I remind myself. Keep working. I bob my head, filling my mouth with Miller until I feel him at the back of my throat. I work him over and over, gagging, almost choking. Earning my money.

I do it until my lips feel numb and oversensitive at the same time. Until my jaw aches and my eyes water. Until he says, “Swallow!”

His voice breaks something inside me open. It makes me come unstuck. Suffocating pressure gives way. The tightness around me and in me is ripped from me. Torn. Spilling out of me in a hot burst as the taste of Miller floods my senses.

I yank my mouth off him as soon as I’ve swallowed the last of him down. His abs are powerfully engaged, clenching in fits and starts as his dick pulses sporadically in my hand. His eyes haven’t left me the entire time. He gives me a sleepy smile, and for the first time, his smile and the look in his eyes match perfectly.

Oh, fuck this shit.

He looks happy. Miller looks unbearably happy.

That, along with the humiliation of having come in my pants, insights something dark and twisted inside me. I keep moving my hand, sliding it up and down Miller’s softening pole. I do it until he winces and sucks air in through clenched teeth.

I should stop.

I should definitely stop.

I don’t.

I jerk him three or four more times. His head flies back, and a thin, desperate wail leaves him. His eyes fly open, and he wrestles his flagging cock from my grip.

Once he’s shoved himself back in his pants and zipped up for added safety, he starts to laugh. A low, echoing sound enters my body from the ground and travels up. He leans forward while his laugh is still vibrating through me and cups my face in both hands, squeezing my cheeks just hard enough to squish my lips into a lopsided pucker.

The smile is still plastered all over his face, but his eyes have changed. The light in them dimmed back to their usual smirk.

“Totally worth it,” he says smugly.

With that, he’s on his feet, beating me to the bathroom. He leaves the door open, something I quickly realize isn’t an accident.

In addition to the shock, horror and disbelief rapidly descend on me. I find myself left in the most horrific predicament. I just came from having Miller fucking MacAvoy’s dick rammed down my throat, and there’s a growing wet spot between my legs.

Christ above.

What next?

The humiliation I feel is big and hot. It’s a real, living thing. It swells inside me until I feel pressure behind my eyes. Discomfort is everywhere. I feel shaky and sticky. I am shaky and sticky. I glance around the room furtively, not moving until I have a plan. It takes a while because, if I’m totally honest, I’m not at my best right now. My thoughts are moving slowly, swimming toward me as if they’re moving through cotton wool.

Hamper!

Yes, thank God, yes.

That’s it. I simply need to get to my hamper, dump my stained jeans, and then get changed for bed. I grab Miller’s T-shirt and hold it over my crotch as I skitter to my closet, opening the door near the bathroom to use as a shield for my nudity. I undress as fast as I can.

Miller is in the shower. The water is running, and I can hear him humming something. It’s a song I don’t recognize, but it sounds like something I know. Something I do recognize. The happy-smug satisfaction of a guy who just came in my mouth.

I put on a pair of sleeping shorts and get into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.

Look, if you’re going to judge me for not brushing my teeth, honestly, I can’t stop you. Go right ahead. You can’t possibly judge me any harder than I judge myself.

I roll onto my side and close my eyes when Miller comes back into the room. I know he’s naked. It’s like his smile. I can hear it even when I can’t see it.

“You okay?” he asks as he turns off the lamp. The darkness is a relief. It often is for me. Respite from the light. From the speed and the sounds of the day. I open my eyes and stare into the black. “Hey, Haraway, you okay?”

Oh fuck. I need to say words.

Before I can do it, I have to take a second to remember how to do it. I move my tongue around in my mouth and will my dick to ignore the fact I can still taste him.

I should have brushed my teeth.

Karma really is a cruel little bitch.

“I’m fine,” I grunt.

“You done that before?”

Well, shit. I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t really want him to know he’s my first, in case he thinks it’s a big deal to me. But I think it might be worse to tell him that I have done it before in case I was total crap at it and he thinks I’ve been going through life blissfully unaware that I’m shit at giving head.

“No.”

“Oh.” He has the decency to sound surprised. I give myself a strict warning about feeling good about that. “I wasn’t sure. You seemed a little nervous, but you made me feel really good.”

I’m not smiling.

What? I’m not, okay.

My lips just feel a little weird from the blowjob. I mean, yeah, my organs feel a little too big for my rib cage right now, and I’m a little floaty, but that’s perfectly normal after giving a dude a blowjob, right?

“Was it okay for you?” he asks.

“It was fine,” I snap. “I needed the money, so I did what I had to do to get it. No big deal.”

The insanity of what happened is starting to dawn on me. It’s crashing over me and landing in big, heavy waves, knocking me sideways, pulling me under, and spitting me out when my lungs feel like they’re screaming. Even if you take the fact that Miller is the owner of this particular dick out of the equation, I still had a dick in my mouth tonight. There’s no getting away from that. I crossed a line. A major, life-altering, big fucking line.

After all this time, I did something with a guy. After years of thinking about it, I actually did it.

And it got me off hard.

Relax. It’s not like it’s ever going to happen again, I tell myself over and over. It was one time. You earned more than you earn in a whole week at Pepe’s. It was a good thing. You’d have been crazy not to do it.

As of tomorrow, life goes back to normal.

I try to force myself to fall asleep. I use every ounce of my strength, but I can’t drift off because Miller won’t fucking stop talking.

“…new to being with a man…feel weird about it…talk to me…”

He drones on and on. Seriously, he goes on for what feels like an hour, and it drives me crazy. Talking about it is making it feel too real and too close.

It makes Miller feel too real and too close.

“Please stop talking,” I grind out when I can’t take it anymore.

He cracks up, laughing quietly from low down in his belly. Laughing like we”re on the same team. The sound bounces off the walls and tries to get into bed with me. I can’t stand it.

I throw my covers off and stomp to the bathroom, brushing my teeth with more toothpaste and vigor than is strictly required. I spit several times and brush my tongue an extra time to be on the safe side.

Miller doesn’t stop talking the whole time I’m in the bathroom, despite the fact I tell him I can’t hear him twice.

“D’you want to do something tomorrow? We could hang with the guys, or we could do something else. It’s up to yo—”

“Please go to sleep.”

He laughs again. “Okay, fine, I’ll go to sleep, but only if you tell me one thing.”

That’s classic Miller for you. A taker. Always wants something and never hesitates to ask for it. Must be nice, actually, sailing through life getting exactly what you want because you have the gall to ask for it.

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you like? Things, people, what makes you happy? Tell me. I want to know.”

Oh God. Please make it stop.

“I like books and Guy Richie movies. TV too. British comedies, especially. Want to know why I like them? Huh? Do you?” Ooh, I seem to be going off course a little. I can feel myself veering, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I answer my own question before he has time to. “Because I can close them. Or mute them. That’s why I like them.”

“Ah,” he says as if he not only gets it but agrees completely. He answers his own question back, even though I distinctly remember not asking. “Me, I like people. I like watching them. I like working out what they want, what makes them tick, you know? I find all people interesting…but rude and complicated people? Hmph, that’s a sweet spot for me.” I ignore that, though I’m pretty sure it was aimed squarely at me. “I also like everything bagels. Fuck, I love that seasoning! You know what I wish? I wish you could buy it. Just the seasoning. There’s a million-dollar idea for you. I’d put that shit on everything I eat.” I make a firm decision never to tell him he could live his life’s dream simply by taking a stroll through the spice aisle of the nearest grocery store. “And I like old tumble-down houses with soul. And cats.”

I’m not sure what to say to the old house thing. It seems like an odd thing to say. Strangely intimate and interesting. Not endearing. Definitely not endearing at all.

“I’m a dog person,” I lie. “Can’t stand cats.”

He chuckles tolerantly. “Hmm, that’s weird because you, Ryan Haraway, throw black cat vibes in a very big way.”

He’s mercifully quiet when I don’t answer. I breathe the silence in, inhaling it like a drug and only exhaling when my lungs start to protest. I feel my body relax, shoulders unclenching, spine melting into the mattress as sleep asks and I answer.

“Night,” he chirps a few minutes later, wrenching me out of the sleepy cocoon enveloping me. “Sleep tight.”

“Piss off.”