Page 9 of My Craving

He’s only four years older than Declan. I should probably find a dozen reasons this is a bad idea. All I can think about is the way he looked at me and how much I wanted his hands to stay exactly where they were.

This didn’t start today. I remember his ID photo coming through before his first day, and I stared at it longer than I needed to. I noticed him before he ever walked into my office. I put him on the executive floors. Now I know he’s meant to be mine.

I push away from my desk. I’ve made enough mistakes for one afternoon, and forcing myself to keep working will only create more. After buttoning my cuffs and straightening my tie, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

A familiar head of messy dark hair catches my attention when I walk out the front door. Nash is laughing with another employee as they head toward the parking garage, and when he bumps his shoulder against the man’s, I stop.

I’ve never seen him before. I don’t like the way he’s looking at Nash, and I like Nash touching him even less. I have no claim on Nash after one afternoon with his hands on my back, but apparently that doesn’t matter to whatever part of me already wants the other man gone.

My driver has the rear door open by the time I reach the car. I slide into the back seat, still watching the parking garage.

“Home, sir?” Kenji asks.

I’ve spent months watching Nash come and go inside my building. Today, I want to know where he goes when he leaves.

“No. Pull down from the garage and wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kenji pulls down far enough that we can watch the garage without sitting directly in front of it. He doesn’t ask why. Employees start filtering out a few minutes later, and then a silver Frontier turns onto the street. I recognize Nash behind the wheel immediately.

“Follow him.”

Kenji looks at me once in the rearview mirror before pulling into traffic a few cars behind the truck. Nash turns at the next light, and I keep my eyes on the little truck as we follow. I want to know where he’s going.

Chapter 5 Nash

Only six cars are scattered across the church parking lot when I pull in. Small groups can go either way. I kill the engine and sit for a minute, staring at the light spilling from the fellowship hall windows.

Tonight’s support group is for survivors of sexual assault. After two Families of Suicide meetings in a row, I needed a break. Too many of the stories were starting to sound familiar, and I’d rather not spend another night picking apart everything I could’ve done differently with Joey.

I grab my keys and climb out of the truck. I never walk into one of these meetings knowing what I’ll hear or whether anything will come from it afterward. Sometimes I leave with nothing except another story I wish I could forget. Other times, someone gives me enough to start looking.

The church is old, even by Philly standards. Every other building in this city seems to have a plaque claiming George Washington sneezed there or Benjamin Franklin once sat his ass in the front row, and this place looks old enough to have one of its own.

I follow the handmade signs through the hallway until I reach the meeting room. A small Pride flag is pinned to the dull brown bulletin board beside the door. Joey would’ve liked that. He was never subtle about who he was, and once he came out, he made damn sure nobody expected him to be. My fingers brush Joey’s silver chain around my neck before I push open the door and head inside.

Nearly fifteen people are already gathered inside, some standing along the walls while the rest sit in a circle of mismatched folding chairs. They range from people who look barely old enough to drink to a few who have to be in their sixties, and nothing about any of them would tell me why they’re here if I hadn’t followed the sign on the door.

I find an empty chair near the back and sit. Quiet conversations carry around me, mixed with polite introductions and small talk as everyone waits for the meeting to begin.

An older man with thinning gray hair walks to the chair at the head of the circle and smiles at the room.

“Let’s go ahead and get started.”

Conversations fade as everyone takes a seat. His voice is calm and easy to listen to, reminding me of one of those late-night radio hosts who can talk you to sleep before you ever figure out what the hell he was talking about.

“I’m Sam. For anyone who’s new, you don’t have to speak tonight. Listen if that’s all you’re comfortable doing, and let everyone else finish before you respond.” He looks around the circle. “Who wants to start?”

A petite woman who looks to be in her late twenties raises her hand.

“Go ahead,” Sam says.

She nods once. “Hi, I’m Claire.”

“Hello, Claire,” several people answer.

Claire takes a shaky breath and looks around the circle before dropping her gaze to the floor.