Page 12 of Chasing After You (Twisted Desires #3)

Josh

I was due in at Wild Roast at noon. I woke up later than usual, had a long, indulgent shower, and took my time getting dressed. I felt oddly at peace.

It was funny because, as far as I knew, I could be dead by the evening.

Or irreparably emotionally damaged.

The anxiety that had made its home inside my chest still lingered, but was noticeably much quieter as I went about my morning. For breakfast, I fried a few eggs, zoning out as they popped and sizzled in the pan. A shot of espresso went down easily.

I was actually a little excited.

Part of me wanted to throw myself at Dorian, to tell him that I’d want nothing more than to be his brother again. But I had learned long ago to keep my expectations low, bottle up any excitement so that I wouldn’t be too disappointed later when things inevitably didn’t go the way I’d hoped.

And so, I left my fate up to Dorian.

From the very first time I had seen him, I knew that I’d do anything and everything to make him happy.

Maybe that was why I was uncharacteristically calm today.

Whether he screamed and berated me, cursed me, hit me, killed me, cried in my arms, told me that he loved me, laughed with joy with me, I would accept it.

If he needed to hit me with his car or if he needed me to turn myself in for his father’s murder—anything, I would go along with it for him.

I just hoped I could make him happy.

That’s all I’d ever wanted.

“Are you high?”

I turned away from my breakfast, taking in Hudson’s tall form in the kitchen’s doorway. He had an eyebrow raised as he leaned against the door frame.

I swallowed the bite of egg I’d been chewing on and answered him, “No? Why?”

He gave me an odd look, then strolled into the kitchen, opening the large fridge to grab the water carafe. “You just look high. You’re normally all jittery, and you’ve never once sat down to eat while you’ve been here.”

“Oh. Do you need the table?” I asked, ready to give up my seat at the small breakfast nook.

They had a formal dining room, but I’d never seen it being used.

It made sense since they never had guests.

Well, upstairs guests—the kind that were treated to lavish dinners and fancy plates and cups, and not knives and guns and stuff.

Hudson stared at me as if I were stupid, then sighed. “No, I’m just taking some water up to Oliver. You can sit there.”

I settled my butt back in the cushioned bench. “So…”

“I am not having small talk with you,” he said, turning and walking back out of the room with a large glass of ice water in his hand.

I finished my eggs in silence after Hudson left, feeling a mix of confusion and fondness towards him.

There was always something about the way he spoke—like he was constantly teetering between teasing and deadly serious—that made it hard to know how to respond.

Both he and his brother were so hard to read, and I was already terrible at reading people.

At first, I’d been utterly terrified by them, and I sort of still was, but their teasing jokes and the little ways they cared for Oliver made them feel more human to me in a way.

Sometimes I found myself laughing at how robotic and awkward they were when their masks were down.

They seemed like aliens who were trying, and hilariously failing, to blend in with the human race.

They acted with deliberate intent, even if it made no sense to others.

Their actions were entirely self-serving. Yes, they did a lot to make Oliver comfortable, healthy, and content, but was that not also self-serving? Happy wife, happy life? Or, I suppose, happy husband, happy life, in this case.

It was nearing 11:30 a.m. when I packed up and grabbed my things. Oliver was already downstairs, slipping his canvas shoes on by the ornate glass door.

“Ready?” he asked, smiling at me as I walked down the staircase towards him.

I nodded, looping the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive to Wild Roast felt different today. Every red light, every turn, every slow pedestrian crossing the street felt like the universe stalling for time.

Or maybe it was actually me stalling, stretching out the minutes before I’d have to step inside and face whatever the day had in store, and I was just blaming it on the universe.

When we arrived, Oliver followed me inside, brushing past the familiar bell above the door.

The cafe was in that pleasant place between being slow and busy, with perhaps ten or so customers scattered throughout, sipping drinks, chatting quietly, and typing away on their laptops.

Kellie looked up from the pastry case as we walked in and grinned.

“Hey, boss,” she called. “Hey, Oliver.”

“Morning,” I called back, heading behind the counter while Oliver made himself comfortable at a small table near the front window.

He pulled a book from his bag and began to read, but I could tell he was glancing at the door every few seconds, just like I was. Did he also feel like it was going to happen today? I should’ve asked him on the way over.

I pulled on my apron and went about my duties, pretending not to check the time every ten minutes. Pretending not to glance outside every time a figure moved past the glass. The anticipation was coiled tightly in my chest, like my body knew he was coming.

Today felt like the day. I was sure of it.

The air carried a kind of pressure that was hard to describe. It was the same feeling that occurred just before a thunderstorm.

“Hey, Josh,” Kellie said as she came over, holding a steaming cup of chai. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, not even convincing myself.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve gotta stop lying to me, dude. It’s been like you’ve been walking on eggshells for months, and now you’re just weirdly chill and quiet today. Did you get some medicine for your anxiety or something?”

“My… roommate said he thought I was high this morning. I didn’t take anything. Just woke up relaxed, I guess? No meds or anything,” I replied, shrugging. Why did everyone think I was fucked up today?

“Oh, that’s good then. I woke up on the floor today, so I can’t relate,” she sniggered, slapping my back playfully before returning to the register to take a customer’s order.

* * *

The hours passed slowly as I poured lattes, wiped down counters, refilled the milk pitchers and sugar trays.

I chatted with some of my regulars. Oliver continued to read at his table, and I was convinced he’d end up finishing his book by the end of my shift.

Around 5:30 p.m., I took a short break to sit with him and share some pastries.

Customers came and went. Evening shadows lengthened across the front of the cafe. I hummed along with the songs that played from our speakers.

By 6 p.m., I started to think maybe I was wrong, and he wasn’t planning on ever showing himself.

Disappointment settled in despite my attempts to evade it.

I felt deflated.

Maybe I was stupid for thinking he’d come.

Maybe his plan was to keep me on edge for the rest of my life, laughing at me from behind the scenes as I pitifully waited for him.

Maybe he’d planned on coming, but changed his mind due to something he saw me do or say.

I did stupid stuff sometimes. Maybe he decided I wasn’t worth his time after all.

By 7:30 p.m., I was sweeping the front area, making lazy arcs with the broom. Yes, we had a vacuum. And no, the floor wasn’t dirty. I just needed something to do to keep busy. To keep my mind off Dorian.

Oliver had gone to use the restroom, and the entry door hadn’t opened in nearly half an hour. Kellie was holed up in the back doing manager stuff. Don’t ask me what. That’s her job.

I turned my back to the window to sweep beneath one of the tables, feeling more than ready to flop into bed and watch some corny reality shows. Maybe I’d pick up a pint of ice cream from the grocery store on the way home.

The bell above the door chimed.

I looked over my shoulder to greet the customer coming in, hoping they wouldn’t order anything that needed me to use one of the machines I’d already cleaned.

The broom slipped out of my hand, clattering against the floor.

Every hair on my arms stood up. My breath caught, halfway in and never quite out.

I shifted to face him.

Dorian.

His hair was even darker than I remembered, longer too—he wore it half-up and half-down. He wore black. All black. Designer brands. His shocking blue eyes locked on mine, and I swear the world stopped.

Or maybe my brain glitched.

Either way, my body seemed frozen to the spot. When I opened my mouth to speak, no words came out, only a small, distressed noise that had no business coming out of someone like me.

He stared at me with an unreadable expression, making no attempts to move closer. So, we just stood there, five feet apart, not saying anything at all.

I took stock of his physical changes, wanting to acquaint myself with each and every one. He wore long pants and a hoodie. His skin was as pale as it’d always been, but tattoos peeked out of his clothes, adorning his neck and hands with intricate designs.

His ears were pierced and decorated with silver jewelry.

He looked like a modern-day grim reaper. It was fitting.

Finally, after who knows how long, his mouth began to open.

“Fuck,” Oliver cursed from behind me, coming out of the bathroom.