Page 25 of So I'll Know
But being around Jeremy Hart is the sweetest form of torture.
His soft fingers slide under my shirt and graze the top of my waistband, tracing over the ridges of my abs. I tense, my breaths quaking. If I move my head back, I think he’ll kiss me, and I can’t let that happen. His hand moves lower, and my heart beats so hard that it’s painful.
“N-n-no.” I pull away. “We can’t do this.”
Jeremy’s eyes meet mine, his pupils blown wide, and they flash with frustration. With a flick of his wrist, he knocks my hand off his throat and straddles my lap, towering over me. My hands grip his thighs, and I’m surprised how strong and muscular they feel.
“We can’t do what, Marcus?” His voice is silk, and his cock is hard against mine. “You grabbed mythroat—again—and started this little game of fucked-up foreplay.” His silver hair curtains around his ears as he looks down at me.
He smells like the ocean.Maybe he really is a merman.
I shake my head at the stupid thought and sink lower into the couch, trying to put some distance between our bodies.
“I’ve been with your type,” Jeremy continues quietly. His hand touches his reddened skin where I gripped him moments before. “You’re not the first person to try to dominate me because I’m small, and I doubt you’ll be the last. Stop teasing me. You think you’re straight? Fine. Believe what you want. To me, you’re just another hookup on the down-low. Nothing. More.” Aggression pours off him in waves, and it’s making my dick even harder. But his words hurt. A lot.
With one swift movement, he slides off my lap and stands. “Get the fuck out.” He sounds so tired that guilt creeps into my chest.
His rejection is heavy as I stand and adjust myself, running a hand through my sweaty hair. “I’m sorry, okay?” I know my apology is worthless because I’m such a fucking hypocrite, but my body and my brain are pulling me in two very different directions. “This isn’t one-sided, Jeremy. It’s just I?—”
“You’re right. It’s not, and I’ve tried to be understanding. I know you’re scared. I get that. Truly. But no one is watching us right now. The difference between you and me is that I’m not ashamed, and I refuse to hide in the closet. Been there. Done that. Figure out your shit, Marcus, or you’re going to break a lot of hearts.”
My lips tighten, anger simmering under my skin. I hate that I have no control around this kid. Even when I try to control him, he somehow has all the power. Even at work, when Ishouldbe in charge, our dynamic feels unbalanced—tipped in his favor—no matter what I do. It’s almost as unsettling as this attraction to him that I clearly can’t shake.
He points at the door. “I said, get the fuck out.”
“See you Monday,” I growl and turn on my heel.
I open the door and slam it behind me. Then I kick the neighbor’s stupid hot dog mat as I pass and stomp down the dank hallway.
When I step outside, I let the cool air calm me.
I don’t want to go home yet, but it’s not because of my washer. It really did flood my apartment, but it was fixed earlier today. The reality is when I left work, I felt lonely. I’m used to being alone. Ilikebeing alone. Other than Sebastian, I don’t really want people around. But Jeremy left a few hours before me, and I weirdly missed him.
The wind whips up as I find myself heading toward my favorite bar.
He’s driving me to drink.
I shove my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders as my thoughts continue to spiral. What do my feelings around Jeremy say about me? That I’m starved for attention? Starved for touch? It’s not like I haven’t dated. My ex-girlfriend, Ash, was fine. We didn’t have crazy chemistry, but I’ve only ever found that with Norah, so I figured it was just a me problem.
I smile thinking about Norah. We always joke that she’s my Midwest variant because we’re so similar and have this uncanny connection to each other’s feelings. Norah has a penchant for all that woo-woo stuff while I’m much more practical, but I indulge her because she’s one of my best friends. She’s always been convinced that Jeremy is my soulmate. She’s going to have a field day with this situation the next time we talk.
I shake my head in dismay as I reach The Pine Box. It’s an elegant historic building with towering white pillars, which make its flashy beer sign seem out of place. The building was originally a funeral home that opened in the 1920s and closed in the early 2000s before being repurposed, hence the name The Pine Box, a euphemism for coffin. Apparently, Bruce Lee had his service here, which blew my mind.
I pull my coat closer as I climb the steps and yank open the large double doors. The bouncer waves me in without checking my ID. He knows who I am.
Inside are a mix of booths and high-top tables, and though it’s so crowded I can hardly move, the vaulted ceiling gives the space an airy feeling. The buyer always has a couple of rotating sours on tap, which are my favorite. Unlike almost everyone else in Seattle (or the Pacific Northwest, for that matter), I don’t like IPAs. Being that it’s almost American Thanksgiving, I order a pint of the cranberry gose and sit at the bar.
I don’t recognize the bartender tonight. He must be new. I watch as he fills my glass and try to see him through a new lens.
Am I attracted to him?
He’s a nice-looking guy with tattoos snaking up his forearms, an earring in his right ear, and shaggy brown hair. He flashes me a knowing smile when he passes me my drink, like he knows I’m checking him out, and I flush and nod at him in thanks.
But I like that he noticed.
Maybe I am attracted to men. Or maybe I am just starved for attention.
I stare moodily into my cup. My whole life, I’ve had some sort of control—over my relationships, my feelings, my goals, my ambitions.
