Page 23 of Pretty Poison
It was true that not much had changed for Rocky during the year they’d been apart. It both irked and delighted him that his husband still found his habits endearing. The ornery gleam in Asher’s eyes and the responding tightening in Rocky’s core made him second-guess his decision to let Asher stay.
It’s only for a few days,a voice inside him whispered.What could go wrong?
Unfortunately, it was the same voice that always led Rocky astray. Even knowing he should change his mind, Rocky casually shrugged as if an epic battle between want and need weren’t raging inside his brain. He wanted Asher there more than his next breath, but he needed him to go away.
As if Asher picked up on his inner turmoil, he narrowed his eyes and studied him. “Ford?” What was he asking? If Rocky had changed his mind about the divorce? Or if he regretted leaving Asher? Maybe he wanted to know if Rocky still loved him. The questions fired one after another until Rocky’s brain hurt. Asher tapped the stack of menus in his hand. “What do you feel like eating?”
Asher’s tense posture, knitted brow, and borderline grimace said his husband was worried about more than just Rocky’s food preference. He looked like he was prepared to battle. Or was he braced for rejection? This was the moment to speak up. He could tell Asher to go, and he would. Then what? They’d pretend to be strangers whenever they ran into one another? Would his soul continue to bleed out every time Rocky thought about everything they’d lost? Or could he use these few days to find some closure? His heart said hell yes, but his brain called him a fool.
“It sounds like you’re jonesing for barbecue. Trish’s Diner is the best. If you don’t mind, I’ll let you call in the order while I shower and throw these jeans out.”
“Are you sure?” Asher pressed.
“Positive.” Thanks to Miss Marla, Rocky suddenly craved cube steak in its best form—pounded, double breaded, and fried. “Can you order a chicken-fried-steak dinner for me?”
The tension melted from Asher’s broad shoulders right in front of Rocky’s eyes. “Of course. Mashed potatoes and cream gravy, green beans, and a roll for your sides, right?”
Rocky smiled. “You don’t have to specify cream gravy with Trish. No self-respecting Southerner puts cream gravy on their meat and brown gravy on their mashed potatoes. Mixing types of gravies is illegal in these parts.”
Asher nodded. “Good to know. Is there some kind of handbook to give a Yankee like me? Sounds like I could use some pointers on how to navigate my new landscape and negotiate with the natives.”
“Not that I’m aware of, but it’s probably because we wouldn’t want to encourage hordes of Northerners to flood our beautiful city. All those harsh tones and clipped syllables.” Rocky shuddered in mock horror.
“Yeah, it’s much better to turn a two-syllable word into ten,” Asher replied. “We wouldn’t want to get directly to the point, would we? It would be best to meander down three generations of history before we tell a person to turn right at the next light.”
Rocky laughed. “I feel so seen, and yet I find it so cute that you think we’d ever give such simple directions, even after extolling three generations of history. We use landmarks here. God help us all if anyone changes the paint colors on their homes or businesses or if lightning takes out the weirdly shaped tree that signifies you should be turning left.”
“Jesus,” Asher muttered.
“Having regrets yet?” Rocky asked. “Maybe it’s not too late for Director Bradshaw to take you back.”
Like earlier outside the SUV, a myriad of emotions washed over Asher’s face before settling on one that made Rocky far more nervous than the lust he’d witnessed. Determination furrowed his husband’s brow.
And it spelled big trouble.
It’s only for a few days.
Ashower was as good of an excuse as any to avoid Asher long enough to regain his equilibrium. Standing beneath the spray, Rocky felt like he’d been punched in the face by a prizefighter. He was seconds away from being ruled down for the count. He took his time washing his hair and body, then sat in the bathtub while the hot water rained down on him. Rocky pulled his legs to his chest, wrapped his arms around his calves, and rested his chin on his knee. Steam filled the bathroom, creating a private fog that matched the landscape of his overtaxed and fatigued brain.
He couldn’t hide here forever, but he could hold out until the water turned cold. Lucky for him, he’d replaced the hot water tank not long after he’d moved in. The new model was larger than the original, but all good things must come to an end. At the first sign of a temperature drop, Rocky rose to his feet and shut the water off. He ran the towel over his hair and body before wrapping it around his waist and stepping out of the shower.
Not willing to leave the serenity of the steamy bathroom, Rocky wiped a circle in the condensation on the mirror to study his reflection. He looked as tired as he felt, and he couldn’t believe no one had remarked on the circles beneath his eyes. The baby blue irises people described as mischievous or seductive looked dull and flat to him. Looking at who he’d become reminded Rocky of where he’d been and what he’d lost. Those trains of thought would lead to others equally as morose and depressing, and he was tired of existing in the quagmire of his own making.
Rocky hoped therapy would help because he didn’t feel any closer to the man who’d fearlessly tossed those dice onto the craps table. He wasn’t any closer to being the kind of man Asher deserved. Maybe he’d never been that guy and had just fooled himself.
Rocky slammed on the mental brakes before he caused himself more harm. He busied himself by turning on the shaving gel warmer his parents had given him for his birthday. Michelle might technically be his stepmother, but she was the only mother he knew. His father, Roger, had remarried when Rocky was five. Michelle had never tried to take his birth mother’s place. She’d preserved Amelia’s things such as the journals she’d written in, her favorite vinyl albums, the photographs his mom had taken, and the artwork she’d painted. Michelle had given them to Rocky when he was old enough to appreciate the keepsakes. He loved her with every fiber in his being, even when she’d presented him with a little sister when he was eight. CeCe was still giving him hell all these years later.
Rocky worked the warm cream over his face, then shaved with the straight razor from the kit. He’d been nervous as hell about attempting a barbershop-style shave on his own, but after several YouTube videos, he’d worked up the courage to try it for himself. He’d never go back to disposable razors or electric models now.
He had to wipe the mirror a few more times while shaving because it kept fogging back up. Opening the door would let the steam out, but it could also let his unwanted company in. Rocky set the razor on the countertop and leaned closer to his reflection to study his handiwork. He tilted his head to the left and right and lifted his chin to inspect his neck. Rocky ran his fingers over his skin, feeling for any stragglers, before applying aftershave to his face.
With no more legitimate excuses, he picked up his dirty clothes from the floor—sans the jeans he’d tossed into the trash—and stepped into the hallway. The unimpeded trip he’d hoped for didn’t happen because Asher stood a few feet away.
He waved his hand in the air, dispersing the fog rolling out of the bathroom. “Christ. It looks like a scene from a Cheech and Chong movie.”
“You know how I love my long showers,” Rocky said glibly.
“I do.” Asher’s gaze roamed over Rocky’s bare skin, lingering on the towel wrapped around his waist. He felt the gaze just as strongly as if Asher had reached out and trailed a finger down his torso. Goose bumps popped up all over Rocky’s body, and something warm and not entirely unwanted unfurled in his core. He wanted to make sure he’d tightly tucked the end of the towel at his waist but didn’t want to draw Asher’s attention to his discomfort.