Page 28 of Finding Grey
“You pretend with everyone, you said so yourself,” he cried. “But I’m not one of your puppets, Dante. You have no reason to pull my strings.” The pointy finger returned, and he used it to punctuate his words. “Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.”
If he had any idea how much I wanted to fuck with him, he wouldn’t be here in my bedroom getting all bossy with me. Bossy Sean was sexy as all fuck.
“I’m sorry things got out of hand the other day,” I said, pulling my wayward libido back from the brink. “All I want is for us to go back to the way we were before. When we were hanging out, enjoying each other’s company. Can’t we do that again?” I couldn’t get any closer to saying the words without actually forming them.I miss you.It sounded so pathetic. The world always assumed I was surrounded by friends. They had no idea.
He stood there for a while, as if considering my offer, and hope sparked inside my chest.
“No bullshit?” he asked.
“Cross my heart.” I used a finger to draw the required X on my chest. “We are a bullshit-free zone.”
He gave a decisive nod. “It’s a deal.”
“And you’ll stop yelling at me?” I teased.
“I do not yell at guests,” he insisted, before rethinking the comment. “Usually.”
I laughed softly. “Now who’s full of bullshit?”
He tutted and headed for the door. “Good night, Dante.”
After he left, I looked around and realised how much of my crap had made it to the floor in the past couple of weeks. I’d never been a neat person. Hadn’t needed to be. When other teens had been nagged to clean up their rooms, Roger had been more interested in whether I’d mastered that week’s chord progression on the guitar, or if I’d managed to get through my singing repertoire without fatiguing my laryngeal muscles. I’d become adept at using a mixing console in the studio by the age of twelve, but never learned to cook a meal or iron a shirt. It made for a bizarre learning curve when I finally grew some balls and moved out on my own after I turned twenty. Over time, I’d learned how to take care of myself for the most part, but I’d never quite cured myself of being a slob.
Prowling around the room, I gathered up my dirty clothing and dumped it into the hamper. Another lap cleared the floor of any remaining evidence of my neglect. Then, I headed for the bathroom and tidied the clutter around the sink.
Returning to the bedroom, my gaze went straight to the phone on the bedside table.Dial 1# for assistance.The typed message was taped beneath the keypad. My direct line to Sean. I hadn’t used it before. Roger had raised me to respect the private time of those who worked for me.Treat people like crap and they’ll sell you out first chance they get,he’d always said.Treat them right and they’ll watch your back when you’re not able to.Tonight, I was sorely tempted to ignore his so-called wisdom and insert myself as far into Sean’s private time as he would allow.
I picked up the handset and dialled without giving myself a chance to think. Sean picked up on the second ring. “I’ve clocked out and I’m already in bed. So, if you’re calling because you can’t find clean boxers, you’re on your own.”
A grin instantly plastered itself across my face. “Actually, I thought you should know, I cleaned my room.”
“I’m so proud,” he drawled. “I’ll be sure to add a gold star to your sticker chart in the morning.”
“You should do that.” Lying down on the bed, I stretched out atop the covers and closed my eyes, so I could picture Sean in the same position on his own bed—but naked. “You’ll need to put on a load of washing right after though, because there’s a ton of it.” A groan of dismay made its way down the line and I snickered. “Sorry about that.”
“You are not,” he scoffed through what sounded like a yawn. “It’s fine, though. What else was I going to do with my morning?”
I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I wanted to. “What do you do when you’re not taking care of me?”
“I spend time with my cameras,” he murmured sleepily.
The answer surprised me. “You’re a photographer?”
“No.” He said the word abruptly, as if he’d given something away and wanted to take it back. “Taking photos is a hobby, nothing more.” He fell silent, then added, “I haven’t been doing it very long.”
“You sound decidedly insecure about your photos,” I said with a laugh. “Are you that bad?”
“Yes,” he agreed, a little too quickly. “I suck, but I’m still practising.”
“Hey, you have to start somewhere. Don’t give up.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Right. Thanks for the pep talk.”
I liked hearing those words come back to me, even if he was teasing. The idea of doing something to help Sean, after all he’d done for me, made me happy. “You’re welcome.” Then, I heard myself say, “I met a guy once who wanted to be a photographer.” My mouth curved as I tried to recall Grey’s face, though it had been years since I’d been able to do so. I remembered every word we’d spoken. I remembered the feel of his body against mine and the way he’d made me crave more. But now, when I tried to picture the face that went with those grey eyes, Sean’s visage came to mind. “You remind me of him sometimes,” I murmured, pushing away traces of sadness at the details I’d never recover.
“Do you think he got what he wanted?” Sean asked quietly.
Sitting up, I reached for the t-shirt that had been discarded on the end of the bed, balling it in one fist. “I wish I knew.”
Silence lengthened between us and I held the phone hard against my ear in an effort to hear him breathing. “I should go,” he said after a while. “I need to get some sleep.”
I angled the handset away from my mouth, so he wouldn’t hear me sigh. I didn’t want him to hang up, I wanted to keep talking to him. For hours. Like people did in movies when they were on the verge of falling in love. Which was ridiculous. Sean had a boyfriend. And me? Not only had I consciously chosen to be a closet-case, but the most meaningful relationship I’d ever had was with a fucking memory. We weren’t exactly made for each other.
“Sean?” I wanted to hear his voice one more time, so I could pretend he lay there beside me.
“Yes, Dante?” The quiet murmur filled my ear and I imagined Sean stroking himself while he listened for my reply. My hand slid down until it filled with my own aching need.
“Sweet dreams.” My voice was low and husky, and I fought against the urge to beg him to stay with me, to come with me.
“Same to you.” The words reached out, barely a whisper, and then he hung up.