Page 48 of Almost Ravaged

“Not tonight.” I rest an elbow on the bar. “Tomorrow, though.”

I’ve volunteered at Better Yet for more than a decade. Being on call involves being set up with my laptop and phone so I can reply to inquiries from LGBTQ+ youth in crisis. The nonprofit was started by a Holt University alum and has grown tremendously over the years. I try to pick up a couple of shifts a week, usually on nights and weekends when the message volume is highest.

After some calls, it’s hard to believe I’m making a difference, but I stick with it, knowing what having a resource like Better Yet would have meant to me when I was younger.

“We should probably still call it a night. I need to spend at least a few hours on campus tomorrow morning, unfortunately. Unless you need me at the orchard.”

He sighs. “Merce.”

The name brings with it a nostalgic longing. I miss when my best friend could call me “Merce” and it didn’t feel like a heavy shift.

Noah searches my face. “This was always the plan. It was time for you to go back to work. It’s okay.I’mokay.” He nudges my shoulder and lets out a low chuckle. “I don’t need you tomorrow. In fact, after almost ten months of looking at your pretty-boy face every day, I could use a little space.”

The smile I give him is pathetic, I’m sure. I’m supposed to be the one comforting and supporting him, not the other way around.

“Hey, Gordy. We’ll close out,” Noah announces.

I slide my wallet out of my pocket and set my card on the counter, since it’s my week to buy, and the two of us stand.

“Look at this place,” Noah grumbles once I’ve signed the tab. He heads toward the stairwell, adjusting the collar of his flannel, and I follow. “Classes are officially back in session.”

That they are.

Mae’s is packed already, but even as the clock ticks closer to midnight, people stream up the narrow staircase. Noah takes the lead, and when there’s a break in the traffic, he starts down the stairs. I dutifully follow, sticking close to the wall. It’s the easiest method, even if we still have to bob and weave to avoid crashing into people.

“Head’s up.” Noah turns and presses his back against the wall.

I don’t catch on fast enough and get shoulder-checked by an enormous man pushing through the crowd. I turn to allow him to pass, sandwiching myself between the passing people in the process.

That’s when I find myself plastered against the wall, well and truly stuck, locking eyes with the woman who’s complicated my life and taken up residence in my head this week.

“Ms. Davvies,” I croak out.

Without my permission, my eyes drift over her, scanning her outfit. When I gain control again, I note the two giant boys flanking her.

“And Mr. Tremblay.” I arch a brow and stare down the undergrad at Sawyer’s back. The man whose hands are molded to her hips.

A rage I have no right to feel burns in my blood as I force my focus back to Sawyer’s face.

She lets out a huff, the scent of her breath—sweet, fruity—mingling with the warm caramel and cinnamon notes I’ve already come to associate with her.

I inhale on instinct, then take an even deeper breath when the first inhalation isn’t enough. Like a fiend, desperate for that next hit.

“Hello, Professor.”

Fuck. Me.

I don’t have to look at my best friend to know he’s smirking beside me.

Sawyer’s cheeks and chest are flushed. Maybe from alcohol, or the tightness of the space. Or, dare I dream, because of my proximity. I focus on her expressive eyes, cataloging the gold flecks in the light brown irises, willing my attention not to waver.

I will not look at her tits.

I will not look at her tits.

I will not look at her tits.

The command does me no good. Likely because repeating the wordtitsin my head only brought the memory of them and the desire for another glimpse to the forefront of my mind. I’m an intelligent man, but apparently not a smart one.