Eyes on Me (Salacious Players’ Club)

Garrett

I don’t know what time it was when my phone died, but when I wake up the next morning, the screen is black, so I toss it across the room. It doesn’t matter; she’s not calling, and I’m pretty sure the incessant banging sound in the distance isn’t from my phone anyway.

“Garrett, open up or I’m calling 9-1-1.”

Emerson? What the fuck?

“I’m coming…” I groan as I roll out of bed. When my feet hit the floor, the room tilts a little and I stumble. Probably more from the fifth of vodka I put away last night and not an actual trick of physics.

He bangs again.

“I’m coming!” I yell. I look like shit, smell like shit, and feel like shit, but it’s a little late to fix it now. Emerson Grant is about to unhinge my front door.

When I pull it open, he stares at me, nostrils flared and panic in his eyes. “Jesus,” he mutters.

“Good morning to you too,” I reply. I must look better than I thought.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

I reply with a shrug while he stands on the welcome mat, just looking at me, probably wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to say now. So, I start for him, since I assume he’s here to see why I haven’t come into the club all week.

“Sorry, I haven’t been in…just feeling under the weather.”

He glances down at my clothes and then into my apartment. I squeeze the door closed a little to keep him from seeing the mess I’m hiding behind me.

“You’re sick?” he asks.

“Yeah. Must have caught something,” I lie.

“Huh,” he replies, pulling his phone out of his pocket, “is that why you sent me these messages last night?”

When he holds up his phone, I wince, my text messages from last night staring back at me.

I quit.

I’m sorry.

I’ll sell you my portion of the company.

Oh, vodka. I grimace as I clutch onto the door, faintly remembering sending those texts. The idea about quitting isn’t as faint, though. I’ve been thinking about that for more than a few days. Guess I just needed some alcohol and a serotonin deficiency to finally send it.

“Garrett, what’s going on?”

Fuck it. “Yeah, I just think it’s time for me to move on from Salacious. It does fine without me—’

“No.”

“What do you mean no?” I laugh.

“I mean no.”

“Emerson, you can’t stop me from—’

“What happened with Mia?” He tries to peek around me again.

“Nothing. We’re not…together. We were just fucking.”

“Bullshit. What happened?”

I scoff. “You’re being an asshole today,” I joke, but my head is splitting, and the sooner I get rid of him, the sooner I can go back to bed, where it’s dark and quiet. And there are no friends invading my privacy and bossing me around.

“Why don’t you get showered and come into the club with me?”

“I told you I’m not feeling well,” I mutter, not hiding the irritation in my voice anymore.

“Yeah, well, I think getting out of here might help.”

“Tomorrow.”

He’s staring at me, his brow furrowed, and for a moment, I almost hate him. Because he has no fucking idea.

And just when I think he’s about to give up and walk away, he shoves past me and mutters, “I’m not leaving.” Then, he marches right into my messy apartment.

“Emerson, what the fuck?” The door closes behind me as I follow him into my kitchen, grimacing at the pile of dishes in the sink and the barely-touched spoiled lasagna on the counter.

“You don’t want to go to work, that’s fine. But at least go take a shower. I’ll wait.” I’m mortified as he picks up a bag of two-day-old takeout and tosses it in the garbage. Anger boils in my veins as I glare at him. The fucking audacity of this guy.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I bark.

Turning toward me, he replies, “No. You want me out, you’ll have to throw me out.” As he crosses his arms and glares at me, I realize this motherfucker is serious. I’m not a goddamn idiot; I know why he’s doing this, why he won’t leave, and it’s humiliating. He’s treating me like a child, so I heave a sigh before I actually consider trying to wrestle this well-dressed millionaire out of my apartment.

“Emerson, I’m fine, okay? You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Well, I’m not leaving.”

“I’m telling you I’m fine, dammit.” My voice comes out louder than I wanted it to, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m sorry, Garrett. But I can’t leave.”

“I’m not a fucking child. And I don’t want you to see me like this. So please, just fucking go.” I’m putting up a good fight, but the spiral is too strong—definitely stronger than me.

The asshole in the suit standing in my kitchen doesn’t even budge. Okay, now I really do hate him. A lot.

I hate the fact that for ten years, he’s been too nice to me. Always checking in when I’d ghost for a day or two, always asking too many questions, or trying to care when I clearly didn’t want him to. But he’s never done this. Then again…it’s been a long time since I was this far gone.

And as much as I hate him, I hate letting him down even more. Which is the only reason I relent to his annoying fucking request.

“You want me to go shower? Fine!” Spinning toward my bedroom, I slam the door so hard a picture falls off the wall in my room. Great, now I’m throwing a tantrum like a child. On the bright side, this is the most energy I’ve used in the last two weeks. But it does nothing for my splitting headache.

The shower just makes me tired again, and I avoid the temptation to crawl back into bed. When I do finally come out of the bedroom in a clean pair of jeans and a semi-clean T-shirt, Emerson fucking Grant is standing at my kitchen sink with his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows as he loads my dishwasher.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, rubbing my temple.

“Feel better?”

“Not even a little bit,” I reply coldly. “Will you please, for the love of God, stop cleaning my kitchen?”

“No. Now tell me about Mia.”

When I smell the aroma of coffee, I cross the room and pour myself a cup. It’s not vodka, but it’s the second-best thing.

“I’ll give you one guess,” I grumble.

“She figured out you were the man behind the profile.”

“Yep,” I reply with a sarcastic grin, holding up my coffee cup.

“Have you apologized?”

“I tried, but come on…I don’t deserve her forgiveness. It’s over. I let it go, and so should you.” Taking my coffee cup over to the barstool, I sit in the same spot she sat in that night. The memory of the promises we made hits like a tidal wave.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and when he looks at me this time, it doesn’t feel so much like he’s angry or disappointed anymore. He does look sorry. I think that might be worse.

“Don’t pity me, Emerson. I’ll be fine. I fucked up, but it doesn’t change anything. I still think I should just back off at Salacious.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Look at me.”

“I am. I’ve worked with you for ten years, Garrett. Salacious was a great app because of your ideas, and now it’s a great fucking club because of you. And tonight, we have an epic-fucking-event happening that you put together, so get out of this apartment with me and come see it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“You don’t understand,” I mutter darkly into my steaming cup of coffee.

“I don’t have to understand, and I never will, if you don’t fucking talk to me. Talk to Mia. Talk to a therapist, just fucking talk to someone. But you’re not giving up. That’s not an option.”

I breathe heavily, forcing back the stinging emotion rising to the top, making everything behind my eyes and in my throat ache with the need to just let it out. And after a long, torturous silence, the dam breaks. Tears leak across my face, and I quickly wipe them away before he can see them. This fucking sucks. Then a box of tissues appears in front of me, and I glare up at him with anger.

“I hate you.”

He laughs, a large hand landing on my shoulder. “That’s fine. You can hate me.”

“I spent the last ten years keeping my shit together, and now you just want me to lose it.”

“Eh, you didn’t keep it that hidden, Garrett. I saw it.”

“Lovely,” I reply.

“I tried to help, but you never let me.

“I told you,” I reply, glaring up at him. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“You think depression is something to be ashamed of, Garrett? You didn’t choose this any more than Mia’s dad chose to have cancer. If he was my best friend, what kind of man would I be if I left him alone in his apartment when he was sick?”

For once, I don’t respond right away. I don’t have a quippy comeback or a sarcastic reply. The emotion is so thick in my throat that I can’t seem to form words anyway. It’s a long time before I’m able to clear it and mutter, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just sorry I didn’t force myself into your apartment sooner.”

I let out a small chuckle, and he laughs a little too. The heavy weight of sadness seems to have evaporated a little, leaving us both feeling a little lighter.

“Don’t you have an event to get to?” I ask.

“I’m not going,” he replies as he leans his broad arms on the granite countertop.

“Bullshit. Yes, you are.”

“Not if you’re not.” The look on his face is stoic and unforgiving, and I know that he’s got me. The master manipulator that he is has to just control everything and everyone, and now he has me right where he wants me. Even after that touching moment we just had, I’d still like to punch him in the jaw.

My teeth clench as I squeeze the coffee cup tighter in my fingers. “You’re the world’s worst business partner,” I mutter.

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not here as your business partner.”