The Deal Dilemma

Last night I did something I never do, something my dad would ream me out over, but it felt necessary. I slept with my headphones on, “putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation,” as he always said, because I knew if I didn’t, I would obsess over everything I heard, trying to decipher whether Crew took my offer for what it was.

A not-so-subtle confirmation that I am aware he lied to me in the truck, not that he had any reason to look for one. He had no idea I knew he moved, let alone he was living at the bar he worked at.

Is he there because he wants to be?

Has to be?

Likes to be?

Doubtful. Crew might not have come from a safe, heartening place, but he was brought into one with my family, and while the adjustment was extreme, he came to crave the calm a quiet night under a warm, clean comforter provided.

I go about my normal morning routine, making my bed and laying out my clothes for the day on top, before heading to the shower.

The apartment is silent when I step into the hall, as it was when I woke with my earbuds wrapped up beside me, so there’s nothing off the bat that indicates he’s here, and I refuse to look inside the bedroom.

Besides, the door’s closed.

So I climb into the shower, take my time under the spray, and when I get out, there’s still no sign of the man. Returning to my room, I dress, brush out my wet hair and twist a small section on the left, adding a hot-pink, double-cherry hair clip and head into the kitchen.

As I’m squeezing the Hershey’s strawberry syrup into my glass of milk, a door in the hall is torn open and heavy footsteps pound against the floor.

Crew stalks into the kitchen like a bat out of hell.

I catch the excess drizzle from the tip of the bottle with the pad of my middle finger and swipe it along my tongue, while using a straw as a stirrer. I look up at him, and his glare comes out to play.

“Want some?” I offer.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Well, okay then. He’s had time to process.

I don’t bother speaking. He’s sure to continue, and it only takes two-point-five seconds of silence for him to get to it.

“You have been living here by yourself for a year and you didn’t fucking tell me? Does your dad know? I’m betting he doesn’t, because if he knew, then I would know. He would’ve done what you should have done and told me. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

He drags in a quick breath, crossing his arms over his chest, as I draw the straw between my lips, watching as an array of emotions flicker across his face.

“Davis,” he snaps.

Tearing a napkin from the holder, I fold and set my drink on it. “I have a final in about an hour, a four-hour shift at the diner after, and this evening, I’m celebrating acing said final with pizza night at Jess’s, so I’m going to get going.” I move around the corner and his eyes follow. “The room is yours if you want it, for as long as you want it.”

“Davis,” he calls at my back, but my keys are already in my hand, and I’m out the door.

I’m half surprised he doesn’t follow and force me to talk to him, but I have a feeling he knows if he does, I can direct his questions right back at him.

We both know he’s not interested in answering, so for the first time, possibly ever, I have a leg up.

Knowing Crew, though, that will only last so long.

It’s almost midnight by the time I’m shoving my key in the hole that seems to have shrunk since the last time I used it; the dang thing doesn’t seem to want to fit. The key grows heavy and slips between my fingers, bouncing off my purse and clanging against the doorframe and my Willy Wonka doormat.

“Ugh!” I bend down, using the knob as support, and just as I’m at full bend, the knob is turned, the door tugged open, taking me with it.

“Ah!” I fall sideways, right into warm, waiting hands.

My eyes snap up, connecting with a pair of deep, marble ones.

I smile at Crew. “You stayed.”

Small creases form along his temple as he helps me stand, his arm shooting around my middle when I trip over his foot. My chest crashes into his with one single yank, and those creases deepen.

“Aww, you’re like a worried dad, waiting up and stuff.”

“You’re drunk,” he notes softly.

“Mmm.” I tip my head back and forth. “I’m a hair past buzzed, at best.”

“Only a hair, huh?” His attention moves to my hair then, and he lifts a knuckle, freeing the strands sticking to my ChapStick-covered lips. His gaze holds on the cherry hair clip, before returning to my eyes. “Better?”

I nod.

“This what you normally wear to pizza night?” He flicks the waist of my yoga pants, as his eyes focus on the falling strap of my baggy tank.

I shrug.

He frowns at my outfit. “Wouldn’t even call those pajamas.”

“Frozen pizzas, remember? We never leave the apartment, and it’s literally right next to mine. Shocked you didn’t hear us laughing through the wall.”

Crew shifts, gripping the wide collar of my top, his knuckles scarred from one too many fights in his life, creating a roughness that softly scratches over my skin as he lifts the thin material back onto my shoulder.

Heat floods my veins, my body growing heavier.

“If a guy grabs me like this, what’s it mean?”

Crew’s frown is quick, and he tenses slightly. “What?”

“You know, if I’m out with someone, and they haul me into them, all caveman, like you just did. What’s it mean?”

His teeth clench. “Someone grab you like this before?”

“I wish.”

A beat passes, his lips forming a tight line as he stares, and then he jerks closer, drawing a short gasp from me.

“If you’re out with a man and he holds you like this.” His grip tightens. “It means he wants to be close to you, to feel you. It means he wants to touch you and for you to touch him back.”

“Touch him how?”

He gives a slow shake of his head. “Davis—”

He cuts off when my palms come up, pressing over his pecs. I expand my fingers, closing my eyes as I picture it, me in the strong arms of a man who wants me there—I imagine it’s Crew who wants me there. My hands drift down to his sternum and back up until the pads of my fingers meet the heated skin of a firmly corded neck, discovering a tiny scar at the nape of it. I soothe the spot with my fingertips, slowly dragging them toward his throat.

A grin pulls at my lips, and my lids peel open, locking with his. “Like that?”

Thick veins flex against my fingertips, his gaze piercing, voice low and raspy. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because that was fun and I kind of feel accomplished now, like I took a pop quiz and made it my bitch.”

“Jesus,” he whispers, shaking his head with a low, huffed chuckle as he slowly releases me and moves toward the kitchen.

My kitchen.

Our kitchen?

“So, are we back to old times?” I close my hands over the back of a chair, kicking my shoes off. “Me and you under the same roof?”

Crew nods, setting a glass of water in front of me with a stern gleam in his gaze.

I drink it without argument, and with each slow swallow, a heaviness settles over the man before me. One last swallow and I set the glass back down.

“I’m pissed at you, Davis.” He looks away, running his tongue along his lips. “How fucked up is that?”

“Pretty fucked up.”

His head snaps my way, and he settles slightly when he’s met with my small smile.

“You mad at me, too?” he asks.

“You know I’m not.” My tone is soft. “A little sad I’m not a part of your life anymore, but not mad you chose not to tell me.”

“Stop.” He shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“No, really, I’m not mad. How fair would it be if I were?”

He pins me with a pointed look. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I shrug.

Crew regards me, something I can’t quite read, shadowed behind his eyes.

Unsure of what else to say, I circle around to the couch, and Crew follows, but remains standing when I flop onto the cushion.

Okay, maybe I’m a hair past buzzed.

“You know,” I drawl teasingly. “This is pretty ideal. I basically have a live-in tutor now. I’d have killed for one of those my freshman year, when I didn’t do my research and signed up for Mr. Moreno’s English class. Talk about a tough grader.” I narrow my gaze on Crew. “Are you going to be super tough? Make me do things over and over until I’m, I don’t know, immune to blushing or something?”

It takes a moment of his staring for him to respond, and when he does, his tone is lighter. “I doubt we could ever get you past that.”

“Really? You think I’ll forever be plagued with sharing my inner ‘he’s so fine’ and ‘that did not just happen?’”

He settles into the spot beside me. “I hope so.”

I frown. “What, why?”

His lips pull up, and he peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “I like it when you blush.”

I fake gag, and this time, he laughs louder.

Both of us grow quiet, understanding passing between us.

I’m a little hurt, he’s a little hurt, but we both made the choice not to inform the other person of our situations and the reasons why are ours alone. You would think the distance and time apart would make the lack of sharing irrelevant or expected, but it isn’t. Maybe it’s because we’re connected on a deeper level.

Maybe it’s because I want to know him and for him to know me better than anyone else.

For me, I was trying to respect the distance he made clear he needed for himself, so why say a word when he could still find me if he wanted to? Had we been talking every day, like before, he’d have known the moment I knew, but we weren’t.

Plus, he would have so told my dad, and he’s right: the parentals have no idea.

My dad’s far too paranoid for that. Being a sergeant at a men’s prison will do that to a man.

Why Crew didn’t tell me about his situation is as obvious as it is depressing—he simply didn’t want to, not that it crossed his mind to begin with. And that’s okay. Sad, but okay.

He used to call me for no reason, so for him to not call when there was one further confirmed he was settling into a life I wasn’t wanted in. Or so it felt.

I know if I needed him, even if ten years of no communication passed, I could still call, and he’d come. I can depend on no one like I can him, cut from his circle or not.

Perching my elbow on the back of the couch, I rest my head on my palm, a small smile on my lips. “When the bar reopens, will you go back to staying there?”

“When you finish school in a few weeks, are you moving out of here?”

“No.”

Crew shakes his head, his voice low. “Then, no, I won’t be.”

“So, we’re officially roommates again, only, this time, I won’t have to sneak into your room for movie nights when my brother and parents go to bed?”

“Looks like it.” He holds my gaze. “Think you can handle me?”

“I literally bribed you for the opportunity to try.”

His brows snap together so fast, my laughter cannot be tamed.

“Hey, you have to be careful of your choice of words or things might get a little tricky around here.”

He scoffs, running his palms down his face. “Yeah, no shit.”

Relaxed, I start browsing through Netflix, settling on a murder documentary, and instead of getting up and walking out, Crew leans back.

We sit in silence, but about fifteen minutes in, something comes to mind, so I press pause and turn to Crew.

“Not to be a cockblocker or anything, but your cock is officially blocked in this house. I can’t listen to someone else get boned down when you refuse to play me like a puppet.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles, then shoves to his feet and hurries down the hall.

“Oh my god, you don’t have to pout about it!”

“Good night, Davis!”

Could be a better one…