Page 8 of Emerson

Dillon takes out one of his earbuds and turns his crouched form more towards where I’m standing. “Emerson.”

“Dillon.”

He smirks. “Were you just yelling at me?”

“No,” I lie.

Dillon unfurls himself slowly until he’s standing at his full, stupid height. It’s all very dramatic and dumb. The whole scene. Him, sweaty from hours of manual labor. Wearing low-slung, worn-out jeans and a dirty white v-neck shirt. Using that shirt to wipe off his glistening face.

All the while, he makes eye contact that feels aggressive and illegal.

“I came to proposition you.”

Wait. What the fuck, Emery? Abort!

“Last time you did that, you ignored me for years.”

“I meant…propose a deal,” I sputter, hands still fully on my hips to keep face. I am absolutely not blushing.

I did, in fact, not come with a proposed deal. Dillon knows it. I know it. We both know it. But he casually leans against one of the brand-new walls and takes me in anyway, like I’m not full of shit.

“A deal?”

“Yes. A deal,” I say, doubling down like the stubborn moron I apparently am in his presence.

“Okay, let’s hear it. What’s in it for me?”

“Me. Helping.”

“Is this a deal or punishment, Emerson?”

“You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m your best friend’s baby brother.”

“You don’t look like a baby to me.”

And this, baes and theys, is why I’ve had a complex about this man since I was nineteen years old. He claims his dick points straight and hetero, but he looks at me like that. Like I’m something he wants to take a bite out of. Like he’s actively undressing me with his eyes.

Maybe it’s delusion? Maybe it’s a little gay. On his part—my part is definitely gay.

I have not one straight thought, especially around this guy.

I want to jump on him and bite him. Claw my nails down his chest. Rip his t-shirt down the middle and…

I clear my throat.

“I’ll help as much as you need me to, as long as you promise to try to fix whatever is happening between you and my brother.”

The fun, sexy look dies a very unsexy death in his eyes at the mention of Warren again. I feel like I can finally take a full breath and raise my chin in the air.

Ha. Emery-1 Boner brain- 0

“It’s not my job to fix shit, Emerson.” Dillon turns, trying to end the conversation. Like I’m going to just let him walk away.

“Well, Warren sure isn’t going to come running back after you gave him a black eye.” I squint one eye at his back, waiting for him to look at me like I’m bat shit crazy for saying he hit his best friend.

He does not.

Part of me is slow-clapping at myself for figuring it out. The other part of me is cringing because he actually did punch Warren in the face. And based on my observational skills, there was zero evidence of Warren fighting back. Which, if you know Warren? That’s crazy.