2. Ryan

It’s more of a tap than a knock. Soft but persistent. A rude awakening, even though I can tell from the force used that isn’t the intention. Miller pads silently to the door, opening it and pulling it almost all the way closed with him and his guest remaining outside. Miller’s voice is quiet, baritone, and smooth. The other voice is muffled. Quieter and deep. Very deep. Deep like a man. I can’t make out their words, but Miller comes back to bed a few minutes later, alone.

I fume silently, adding this to the catalog of issues I’m going to add to my formal complaint.

It’s five fucking AM on a Sunday!

Who in their right mind entertains at this hour?

One of the servers called in sick at the last minute last night, and I managed to pick up his shift. Money-wise, it’s a relief. The restaurant was super busy and working a double will take the pressure off a little next week, but my limbs were leaden by closing time, my feet were throbbing, and I was unable to hold on to a thought and follow it all the way from start to end. It was the kind of tired that physically hurts and makes you question whether being able to afford food is really such a big deal after all.

The last thing in the world I need is to be woken at this hour. It’s so close to morning that there’s no way I’ll fall back asleep. No way at all. I know myself, and my whole day just got fucked, thanks to Miller.

Okay, so maybe I did end up going back to sleep.

I must have because when I open my eyes again, it’s light enough that my retinas retract in protest. I’d probably cave and lie back and grab a few more minutes of sleep if it weren’t for the fact Miller is sitting up in bed less than a few feet away from me, pale gray eyes boring a hole into me.

“What?”

He shrugs and smiles as if any problem I may have with him is a figment of my imagination, but the look in his eyes doesn’t match the rest of his face. “Coffee?”

“Thanks. I want the pink mug though.”

“Sure thing,” he says agreeably. “I could go for some dick today.”

Ah, yes. Think I forgot to mention that. Miller is bisexual. Flagrantly bisexual. Of course he is. Out and proud and fancy-free. Not that I mind that he’s bi. I might be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole. What I mind is that everyone accepts it wholeheartedly because he’s Miller MacAvoy. The good Lord’s favorite. Genetically blessed and disgustingly privileged, while the rest of u—while other bisexual men have to spend their time ducking and diving and dealing with an inordinate amount of shit ranging from bi phobia to flat-out bi-erasure on a daily basis.

It’s fucking infuriating.

The coffee maker gurgles and hisses, and the heavy aroma of a rich, nutty dark roast weaves its way to my side of the room, filling the air and tantalizing my senses. Leaving me so grateful that I actually smile when he hands me the mug.

He smiles back, bigger and wider than the situation calls for, making me instantly regret it.

He curls up on the sofa, leaning against the far arm, and faces me. A profusion of long limbs and golden skin draped over marble, with nothing but a tiny scrap of royal blue covering him. His eyes travel up my body and face. He studies me wordlessly, watching me as if I’m a curiosity to him. A rarity. No, an oddity.

I shift uneasily in my bed, pulling the covers up a little higher even though, unlike him, I consider sleeping shorts and a T-shirt polite when sharing a room with a complete stranger. I think about telling him that it’s rude to stare, but honestly, I hate wasting my time. Absolutely hate it. Try to avoid it at all costs. I’m going to be down at Student Services the second they open at eight-thirty tomorrow. There’s no reason to think I could change him by then.

“So, what’s your story?” he says after a long silence that makes me uncomfortable but doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.

“Story? What story?”

Yeah, yeah, I admit it. My intelligence is unremarkable before the first kick of caffeine hits my blood stream.

“What’s your life story?” He says each word slowly and clearly as if speaking to a child.

Oh, please, can we not.

His gaze turns from weirdly intent to expectant.

“Oh, you know,” I say, “not much to tell. Just normal stuff. Was born. Went to school. Worked for a couple of years till I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.” Factually untrue. I still have no clue what I want to do with my life. The anxiety of falling behind, working a dead-end job while everyone else was progressing in their studies started getting to me, so when I turned twenty, I put a pin in social sciences and applied to the best schools I could think of, secure in the knowledge that the chance of me getting in anywhere was slim to none.

Trust me, no one was more surprised than me when I got in here.

“Parents?”

Seriously? Are we doing this?

“Yep, have two of them. Both blue-collar workers, always tired, always stressed about money, but nauseatingly happy together.”

“Must be nice,” he says wistfully.

Yeah, tired and stressed about money is nice, Miller. Real nice.

“Siblings?”

“A sister. Jenna. She’s five years older than me. Lives in Maine. Moved there after she graduated, so we don’t see her as much nowadays.”

“You get along with her?”

She’s the best person I know. My life fell apart when she left home. She’s only five foot four, but I always felt safe when she was around. I thought it was just a feeling. I had no idea how much she looked out for me until she left to study in Maine, and everything changed.

“Yeah.”

Something I can’t quite place passes across his face, narrowing his eyes and digging a tiny crease in his cheek near his mouth. “I always wanted a sibling.”

“Well, there it is.” I smile broadly—the buzz of caffeine making itself known and doing its damnedest to erode my filter. “We’ve finally found something Miller MacAvoy wants but doesn’t have.”

He looks at me strangely, eyes lidded and guarded. “There are lots of things I want but don’t have.”

“Yeah, right.” I reward him with a little chuckle. Even I’m willing to admit that was funny. “So, you’re an only child?”

“Technically, yeah, but I mean, it’s probably unlikely. If you met my dad, you’d understand. He’s one of those stereotypical workaholics. Always too busy for family and only too happy to throw money at people who become problems. I’ve always suspected he cheats.”

There’s no emotion in his voice whatsoever. It’s exactly the same as it was when he asked if I wanted coffee.

“How does that work for them?”

“Well”—a cavalier shoulder rises and falls—“they’re very unhappily married. Can’t stand each other, really.”

“Does she know he’s cheating on her?”

He laughs softly, and for the first time, the look in his eyes almost matches the look on his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able to catch him at it, and believe me, I’ve tried.” He deliberates for a second then a dark glint takes hold. “He was super weird about it when I came out at sixteen. He said all the right things, but he just kept looking at me in this weird way. It was Thanksgiving, so he was stuck at home with us. Trapped, you know. It was hell. He spent the entire weekend looking and looking but not saying what he was thinking. It pissed me off big time. It pissed me off so much I threatened to tell my mom he was having an affair with his PA. I made an appointment to see him at work and everything. Called his PA and had her arrange it.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “I made him transfer a considerable sum of money into my bank account to keep me quiet.”

“You did not.”

“Yeah, I did. And he paid me too, so I must have been right.”

“You blackmailed your own father? Wasn’t he mad?”

“Nah, not at all.” He looks perplexed by the suggestion. “In fact, I think he was proud. It was a dick move on my part, sure, but I saw a way to make money, and I took it. That’s kind of my dad’s entire religion.”

Well.

Let’s just say Miller’s family and mine are nothing alike. They’re miles apart. Worlds. Light years.

I can’t imagine living in the kind of house Miller lives in. Or should I say, houses. I’ve heard rumors of homes in LA, the Hamptons, Vale, and the South of France, among others. But I also can’t even imagine living in a house with parents who hate each other and where a propensity for blackmail is seen as a positive attribute. “Why do they stay together?”

He smiles at me like I’m adorably na?ve. “Same reason they do everything. For the money. For what people think. For how it looks.”

There’s a knock so loud it sounds like someone is punching the door. I jump. Miller moves unhurriedly to open it.

“Mac. A. Voy. Mac. A. Voy,” chant both guests with near equal gusto, falling over each other as they make their way into the room.

The first one in is Dan…Dane…Dwayne? Something like that. I’ve seen him hanging around with Miller in the quad outside the library. His hair is short and dark and over-styled for eight in the morning. He has that I know how to use all the equipment in the gym look about him in a very big way.

I don’t know the other one, but I’ve seen him around campus quite a bit. Redheaded and pink-skinned. Usually spotted with his hand stuffed deep into a packet of Cheetos.

Yo Bros, if ever I’ve met them.

“D’you know Dean and Trip?” Miller asks me.

“‘Sup,” says Trip.

“Yo,” says Dean.

What did I tell you?

“Hey, I’m, uh, Ryan,” I say before diving headlong into panicked indecision as to whether I should get out of bed to greet them or stay in bed, sipping my coffee like a kept woman.

It doesn’t seem to matter either way. They aren’t vaguely interested in me, nor do they pretend to be. They pepper Miller with questions about his night as he throws on a pair of athletic shorts and a tank. They’re headed out the door in a matter of minutes. Miller turns and gives me a cocky wave that turns into a mild bastardization of a salute. He drags a few fingers through his hair before lowering his hand, and dammit, it stays exactly where he puts it. Again.

I only relax completely once their loud banter and the metronome squeak of their shoes in the hallway have faded to nothing. I drain the last of my coffee, indulging in a lively internal debate about the merits of getting out of bed to hunt for the granola bar I’m pretty sure is still in my bag versus staying right where I am and letting my stomach lining gnaw at itself until I pass out.

It’s a tough one.

I’m up and showered, sitting at my desk working on a sociology paper due on Friday, when Miller and the Yo Bros return. They pile into the room, smelling like a ripe gym locker. Trip and Dean take a seat on the sofa. Trip digs around in his bag for his water bottle, has a few gulps, burps loudly, puts it back in his bag, and whips out a packet of Cheetos.

Jesus.

Miller lies back on his bed, bending an arm under his head to prop himself up. He looks at me for a while and then gives me a slight up-nod. “I like your Superman glasses.”

“Actually, they’re not Superman glasses. They’re Clark Kent glasses. Superman has x-ray vision, heat vision, and telescopic and microscopic vision, so he doesn’t need glasses. Clark Kent wears them as part of his disguise.”

If you haven’t already formed a robust personal profile of me, I bet it’s coming into crystal-clear focus now, huh?

The Yo Bros’ jaws drop slightly. They’re not in the least bit impressed by the cheek of me. Trip’s brow draws down while he slowly masticates the bright-orange sludge in his mouth, waiting to swallow before dealing with me. His smile has turned into something I recognize. Something threatening. Something nasty. Something I know all too well from this kind of person.

My heartbeat quickens, an early warning of fight, flight, or freeze about to engage. I wish it didn’t. I wish to God people like this didn’t affect me, but after all this time, they still do.

Before he opens his mouth to rip me a new one, he glances at Miller.

Wait. Does he need Miller’s approval to be a dick to me?

Whether he’s looking for permission, approval, or encouragement, I honestly can’t tell you, but either way, he doesn’t get it. Miller smiles broadly at me and then looks at Trip with steely gray eyes that don’t flicker or blink.

Permission denied.

It’s hard to say who’s more surprised: Trip, Dean, or me.

“Hmph,” says Miller lightly. “Guess I like your Clark Kent glasses then.”

For the next twenty minutes or so, I pretend to work while the Yo Bros scrape the barrel for dregs of stimulating conversation. They come up empty. Still, anthropologically speaking, their behavior is not completely without interest to me. There’s the posturing. The pecking order. The undercurrent of worship. Believe it or not, there appears to be clear rules governing this buffoonery. Jokes, topics of conversation, and even who speaks or how loudly they laugh all seem to depend on Miller. His reactions are minute. Well-practiced and all but hidden. A suggestion of a cocked brow. The slight crease of a frown.

Yes.

No.

He doesn’t say a word, and you could be forgiven for missing the interaction, but it’s there. Believe me, it’s there.

I have a trio of dicks in my midst, and they’re reigned over by my insufferable roommate.

One dick to rule them all, if you will.

God help me.

Though I try not to, I lose control of my face as they leave, turning my nose up at the stench of cold sweat and fake cheese.

“Not a fan, huh?” Miller grins after he’s let them out.

“Uh, I-I—”

“It’s the fucking Cheetos, right?”

He smiles as if we’ve made a connection and he considers that a victory. Even though I badly don’t want to engage, I can’t find it within myself to let him have it. “Nah, just can’t stand people like that.”

“People like what?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The unspoken words people like you hang in the air like a blimp with a huge sign trailing out of its ass.

I turn back to my assignment and do my best not to react when I feel the light breeze of Miller’s gym clothes flying through the air and into his hamper.

He comes out of the bathroom a while later, clad in nothing but a white towel. A towel that’s wrapped so precariously low on his hips that my breathing falters for a second. He leans against the foot of his bed, a sprinkling of water droplets glistening on his shoulders and chest. His hair is wet, towel-dried and messy. His face is perfection. Flawless skin, pink lips. High cheekbones and hard masculine angles. Hooded eyelids and narrowed eyes that give him an almost Slavic look.

He catches me looking and smiles, reaching down and playing with the corner of the towel tucked in at his waist, flicking it this way and that.

His torso curves as he does it. Muscles tense, drawing long lines down the middle of him. A dark shadow where his navel dips in. Smooth, tanned skin. A fine trail of golden hair catches the light as he moves. Tiny curled hair all but insisting that one look lower.

His lips peel back, exposing full square teeth. “Protein shake?”

“Gguck.”

Not sure what’s happened to me, but for some reason, something in my brain or my eyes has malfunctioned. I can’t drag my gaze off the hand on his towel. It’s not that I don’t want to. I want to. Believe me, I do. It’s just that right now, right this very second, I can’t seem to remember how to do it.

He flicks the towel again. Metacarpals protrude. A thick vein meanders just under his skin. Long fingers curl.

The towel drops to the floor.

A fluffy white puddle pools at his feet and a vast expanse of gold skin shimmers from the overhead light.

You better believe that reminds me how to move my eyes. My head too. My whole body, in fact. I whip around in my seat so fast that my chair scrapes against the floor. I don’t move again. I sit completely still, head twisted sharply away from Miller as I stare at my screen, trying to make sense of the utter bullshit I’ve written this morning. I can’t follow a single sentence. The room is silent. Dead quiet. No sound to be heard other than those coming from inside me: shaky breathing and the slightly too-fast beat of a heart.

Still, I know Miller’s smiling.

I can hear it.

I don’t know how because he’s not moving or speaking, but I can hear it. Loudly.

I look up to the top right of my laptop. It’s ten forty-one a.m.

Twenty-one hours and forty-nine minutes until this hell is over.