Page 19 of So I'll Know
“And you’re a transparent rich prick. Can you at leasttryto hide the fact that my apartment disgusts you? You don’t have to feel sorry for the poor little gay boy. Some of us are frugal on purpose.”
My mouth drops open. “You got all that from my face?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Of course you’re wrong!”
“Whatever.” He opens the truck door and walks around to the back.
I jump out after him.
He’s just opening the tailgate, and I reach for the bike, but his glare stops me. “I got it,” Jeremy snaps.
There’s that brat again.
I step back, raising my hands in surrender. “Fine.” I watch him lug the thing from the truck bed. He stumbles as he hauls it to the pavement, and I catch his elbow, steadying him.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “And thanks for the ride.”
I nod and watch him make his way into the building, and as I do, a weird emptiness fills me.
Shit.
Maybe I did want to come inside.
CHAPTER SIX
JEREMY
Ispeed walk down the street, my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, a coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other, and come to a halt when I reach the pub’s back door. I stuff the bagel into my mouth to punch in the passcode and then push open the door with my hip.
I practically run down the hallway, past a closed door that I’ve learned is for extra storage, into the dining room, and almost collide with Marcus, who’s just rounding the bar, his phone pressed to his ear. He stops short, staring at me, his eyes wide in obvious surprise, and I flush because I’m still holding the bagel in my mouth like a dog with a bone. He gives me an amused smirk.
Perfect.
Work has been really weird since the parking lot incident last week, and it’s probably my fault. Being around Marcus all the time is much harder than I thought it would be. I move to one of the nearby tables and drop my bag so I can put down my breakfast and set up my laptop.
Marcus continues his phone conversation, pacing in front of the window. Out on the balcony, which will eventuallyshowcase outdoor seating, a seagull squawks from the railing. “No, I’m good. Please don’t do that, Dad. We can have dinner tomorrow and talk about it.” He pauses, listening to the response, and then presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Thank you.” Another pause. “Yes, I’ll bring the numbers. See you tomorrow.” Marcus punches the red End button aggressively before glancing up at me. “Sorry, investors. Gotta keep ’em happy, you know?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Martin Conner is one of your investors?”
Marcus’s eyes shoot to mine, and I think I see a moment of panic. “He is. Against my better judgment.”
“Well, it makes sense. The guy owns a property investment company. Do you not get along with your father?”
“It’s complicated.”
There’s definitely something emotional behind his words. Marcus walks over to the table and sits down next to me, his knee brushing mine before he moves away quickly. I look at him sideways. He won’t meet my eyes. Instead, he drags a folder across the table, opens it, and studies the contents with great interest.
He’s been “accidentally” touching me like this all week, and it’s a fascinating—and somewhat offensive—thing to watch. His brain clearly has rules and boundaries that his body refuses to follow. To be honest, if we didn’t have this obvious underlying attraction to each other, I would think the little touches and looks were innocent, but because of our history and Marcus’s physical reactions to every little thing, they just charge the air between us like a fucking lightning storm.
And as much as Marcus’s actions piss me off, I remember what it was like when I wasn’t out. I was a kid, of course, and the target of childhood bullies. But even some of the adults in my life—people I should have been able to trust, like teachers and relatives—were obvious homophobes, and it made thethought of telling anyone terrifying. I don’t know what Marcus is so afraid of, but whatever it is, seeing him get so worked up over seemingly innocent gestures tugs at my heartstrings.
What would I have done without supportive queer friends? Would I have come out as early as I had? Would I have come out at all?
These are the thoughts that have kept me up at night—besides Marcus’s tree trunk thighs and huge dick, of course.
I clear my throat. “Did you think more about what I said? About a vision board? I know you’d like it to be relatively cohesive to the vibe established in Vancouver.”
