21. Fischer

21

FISCHER

I t's difficult not to second guess every minute of what went on from the moment Matthew stepped into the apartment this morning to the moment he left. But I am so fucking embarrassed I came in my pants after a few minutes of kissing. He probably wasn't even close.

One nut fucking wonder. Jesus.

But it "doesn't have to mean anything." Any of it.

Therefore, the most sudden, startling, gut-twisting orgasm I've ever had can be chalked up to "whatever."

Granted, it's never taken an act of Congress to get me to come—I'm easy, but this one with Matthew was faster, harder, and he wasn't even touching my cock. Still, every thrust of his tongue went straight to it. When he pulled my hair—I went into complete meltdown mode.

And now, bordering on humiliation, I try once again to parse through his words. It doesn't have to mean anything.

The kiss? My premature ejaculation? The fact that he didn't ask me to return the favor? There's a smorgasbord of doubt to pick from.

All I know is he sounded worried when he left, and I was the one scaring him. It's like the only thing I truly excel at.

I rub my face, unable to bring myself to get off the bed, wanting to text him, forbidding myself from touching my phone. If he wants to see me, he'll reach out. If he doesn't…then I was right about needing him more than he needs me. Win-win. It's actually easier to think about how to manage Raven's expectations than it is to think about what I might have just destroyed by kissing my best friend. Who also happens to be my brother.

I don't know what the fuck I was thinking.

I get lucky because it rains on Sunday, and it's the perfect excuse to have a quiet movie day with Vaughn. I tell him I'm not feeling good, which keeps him from literally bouncing off the walls—he's not completely selfish, but I feel like a terrible father for wanting to curl up into a ball and shut out the world while I should be teaching him how to bake cookies or something.

Vaughn asks if Matthew is coming for dinner, and that's a punch in the gut. Instead of saying, no—Daddy fucked everything up with Uncle Matty , I tell him something along the lines of, "Uncle Matty has a bonkers schedule. Wanna order a pizza?"

We eat pizza, and I start his bath early. Once I get him down for bed after a few more rounds of arm wrestling where I let him win once, I sit at the dining table and try to get some work prepped for the week. Ravenna texts, but I ignore it.

Maggie also texts asking if I have time to go with her, Stuart, and Donna to The Pierre for their florist consultation next weekend, and I agree without argument. Maybe I can convince Nicole to let me borrow Vaughn for a few hours or the night—hand him off to Donna, and kill two birds with one stone. But then I'll just be alone again. Fuck.

I fall apart when I finally drag myself back to bed and pull Matthew's pillow to my face.

It smells exactly like him, and it's so fucking potent, I shudder before my body gives into its convulsive effort not to break down in tears. I should have listened to him. I should have stopped. It was the worst idea.

And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry because I don't what the fuck I'm going to do without him.

Friday night, I enter Ravenna's SoHo gallery determined to jumpstart my stalled out life. Between Matthew keeping his contact with me to brief check in texts and my failed attempts to render our kiss meaningless, we haven't properly spoken all week.

I think I'd rather be in a war zone.

My position on keeping things casual with Raven hasn't changed, but anything that keeps me away from the Eastmoor until Matthew clocks out for the night that doesn't involve one more second at my office felt worth any kind of misunderstanding I might have to undo later.

Like he can tell I'm stepping straight into trouble's arms, his text lights up my phone screen the moment I spot Raven across the room.

Matthew

Working late tonight?

Busted.

He's texted me every day since he left my place Saturday night. I return them, of course, keeping the conversations succinct and impersonal. But I don't know what to say to this one. Would it hurt him to know I'm here? Would he be relieved?

Raven loops an arm through mine the moment she sees me, and I stuff my phone into my back pocket, letting her lead me through the room. She introduces me like I'm her guy. I have a bad feeling this might make the society pages when I see how many people have their cameras out.

Sometimes I forget I'm a public figure and Raven is a Gallo. Matthew was right when he called her a socialite. She's the type who gets invited to all the fashion shows. People copy her outfits and her hair, which looks professionally done for tonight. Her honey-blonde waves fall thick over her bare shoulders.

"Oh, Fischer, this is Harold and Stef March."

I cock my head. "Stuart's parents?" I ask the older couple.

The woman, whose hair is dyed auburn and styled in a twist, smiles brightly, extending her hand. "You know our boy?"

"My sister's marrying him."

"Oh! Of course! How wonderful to meet you."

Harold March, a tall, silver fox with piercing green eyes shakes my hand as well.

"You have a sister, too?" Ravenna asks.

"She and Matthew are twins," I say. "And I was adopted." Just to clear that up off the top. I can't remember if it came up when I formally introduced them the first time.

"Ohhh…"

"Well, we just love Maggie. We can't wait to bring her into the fold. She's such a… free spirit ."

Free spirit coming from Stef March's mouth sounds like a slight step above doorman. My smile tightens.

"You look familiar," Harold says.

"He's a prime time anchor on CPNC."

"Oh, of course. Forgive me. At my age, the pieces don't all connect the way they used to, but I'm all caught up now. You're taller in person."

I fake a laugh.

"Whatever happened to your leg, dear?" Stef asks.

"Suicide bomber," I say, dropping the truth like a grenade.

"Oh my God!"

"If you'll excuse us, I need to introduce Fischer to the artist." Raven whisks me away in as much as she can with me on a cane.

"This is fun," I grumble.

"It's just another hour. Were you serious just now?"

"Did you think I tripped on the stairs?" I ask.

"It's more likely than a bomb ."

"I figured it might have come up with Nicole."

"Well, to be honest, my friendship with Nicole is a little one-sided. It's a lot of her listening to me go on and on about myself. At least I can admit it."

I don't disagree. "So are the Marches into art?"

"Absolutely. They never miss an opening. Also, Stef and my mom are besties from way back."

"Hm."

"There's my artist. Bianca! Let me introduce you to my date."

Jesus.

Everything about this night feels wrong. I should be with him right now, not her , even if we're just watching a show or sharing a pizza. I don't know what I thought coming here would accomplish.

It's safe to say I haven't stopped thinking about Matthew. About touching him. Even passing him in the lobby gives me filthy thoughts. Talking to him would be a step in the right direction, but I've been so overwhelmed with how badly I want him—and how awkwardly I handled him.

I'm not sure I can go back to being his friend, and God knows, we've burned the brother bridge. I feel fucking paralyzed .

"Fischer Elliot, this is the artist, Bianca Garcia."

I scowl at the introduction, shaking my head. Elliot isn't my real name. It's a stage name. A pseudonym. It's fake. Even as I shake the woman's hand, I feel like a fraud whose only blood relative is uptown with his mother and her new boyfriend probably sleeping blissfully and not thinking about me at all.

I can't describe Bianca Garcia except to say she's wearing white. My vision shudders the moment we're introduced. Sudden onset dizziness turns sharply into acute vertigo, and the room tilts sideways. I grip my cane even as I lose sensation in my lips. I close my eyes, mentally stretching my hand behind me and searching for the one thing I need. But his hand isn't here. He's not here.

"Fischer?"

Raven's voice is muffled, drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

I'm in SoHo. My phone is in my pocket. I'm in no danger. Nothing is wrong. I shake her hand off my arm.

When I can manage to string a few words together, I apologize and ask her to call for a car. My hands are trembling too badly to do it as quickly as I feel like I need to. "I'll reimburse you."

"Are you all right? Are you in pain?"

"It's not pain, but I'm not feeling well."

"Would you rather I call an ambulance?"

I promised I'd call him first…

"I'm not dying, I just need to get home."

Saying it out loud helps. Gives me some faith I'll make it out the door on my own two feet. In the time it takes the car to arrive, I've regained sensation in my face, and Raven has turned the rest of her show over to her assistant, determined to see me home safely no matter how many times I tell her I'm fine.

She tries to put an arm around my waist as we leave, but I don't want her touching me. "I'm fine," I tell her again, more firmly this time. My cane hits the doorframe on the way out, causing a loud crack and a yelp from Ravenna, but I remain upright.

She argues when I insist she gets into the car first, but eventually she goes, and I slide in next to her.

"What was that?"

"A panic attack," I mumble.

"Does that happen a lot?"

"I spent nearly a decade in active war zones. It happens."

"Do you need me to stay the night with you?"

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. The aftereffects of an acute panic attack are a little like coming down from an orgasm except without all the pleasurable components. It's a sharp adrenaline spike and a steep drop, but instead of a warm tingling sensation in the cock and sense memory of someone's skin beneath your hands, it's a shadow of nausea, a lingering tickle in the limbs. All the primary symptoms muted but not gone, and the worst part—the threat that they could take back over at any moment and really mean it this time.

"I need to be alone," I tell her.

"I'm not sure you should be." She strokes my arm, and that also feels wrong. It's someone else's job. But he doesn't want it anymore…

I allow her to hold my hand and lean against my arm while I stare out the window as the crowds of Midtown give way to the relative quiet of the Upper East Side. The car eventually pulls up to the Eastmoor, and I get out.

Matthew appears in the doorway, taking in the sight of the two of us, sparing a two second a glance at Ravenna before leveling his stormy blue gaze at me. I feel it like paddles to the heart. He doesn't speak to me, and I'm shaken by that as he walks in front of us to call the elevator.

I watch his hand, his long fingers pressing the up button, his wrist making an appearance from beneath his cuff, and I desperately want to reach for it, but he walks back to his desk, taking it from my sight.

It cuts like betrayal.

In the elevator, Raven insists on coming up to my place.

I allow her as far as the door.

"I can't," I tell her, trying to let her down easy.

"Look, I don't know what happened tonight, but I get that it's probably complicated. I'm here if you ever want to talk. I care about you , Fischer."

I swallow the growing lump in my throat. "Thank you. That's sweet."

She leans in and gives me a soft, non-sexual kiss, which means she does have the ability to read a room. "Good night."

Once I'm safely inside, I let out all my bottled emotion in one loaded blast. Lifting my cane, I slice it through the air, hitting the vase of flowers in the entry hall and sending it shattering in shards to the floor.

Exhaling, finally, I walk on broken glass to my room and collapse on the bed.