Chapter Four
Jake
My helmet is in my lap, and I hate that I don’t remember bringing it to Trailhead with me, but then Darren starts the car, and I get distracted by a few seconds of whatever generic pop song catches me off guard. He silences it and doesn’t explain his poor taste, nor do either of us attempt a conversation, the drive to my house not long enough to require one. I give him the directions he needs and ignore the ache I feel from head to toe, eager to crawl into my bed and start over again tomorrow.
But Darren will be there, too. Tomorrow. Or later today, I suppose. And the quiet roads make something about that loud.
He knows things about me now, and while I don’t think I’d ever meant to keep any of it a secret, I’d held on to those confessions for years, and I’d be lying if I said the words hadn’t fractured something in me on their way out. Now I need to figure out whether I want to tuck the honesty back inside before I heal, butpart of me thinks that choice was made before we left the bar.
Darren will be there tomorrow. Or today. And I’m okay with that.
“Nice neighborhood,” Darren says, a glance thrown my way as we turn onto my street. “Don’t think I imagined you coming home to a place like this.”
“Is this where I ask why you were imagining me at all?”
Another glance is followed by a quick half-laugh and the shake of his head. “Which one is yours?”
I point toward my spacious Spanish-style house, partially hidden by the surrounding greenery, and the long driveway leading to the garage. Darren parks and gets out, and while I expect some exaggerated praise or a long, low whistle, he’s quiet when he stands next to his open car door and studies as much as he can see from there. I stop studyinghimand fight my own body until it unfolds from the passenger seat, then I slam my door and take tentative steps forward without worrying about whether he’ll follow. My front door is up a small series of steps I don’t want to climb, and I’m preemptively pissed off about having to make it upstairs just to sleep in my bed. Fortunately, I’m only a little breathless when I let us in—surprised and grateful that my keys made it this far—and hear Darren flip the lock behind me.
Maybe I should’ve done that myself, but I don’t feel like turning around.
When he takes the helmet from my hands for the second time tonight, he doesn’t ask me to.
Putting distance between us again, I prop myself against thewall to struggle with my boots, and Darren’s kind enough to ignore me while he kicks off his own shoes. When I finally chance a look over my shoulder, I gesture aimlessly at everything that lies ahead before we walk again.
“Sorry, I’m not up for giving you a tour of the place.”
“I didn’t come here for one,” he says. “I can see the couch and blankets from here. Once we get you settled, I’ll be fine.”
I stop abruptly at the bottom of the staircase, frowning at the idea of him spending the night down here, but when Darren’s hand is firm against my lower back, I move again and do my best to respond.
“I’ve got a guest room upstairs,” I tell him, and if he wants to say something about my admitted lack of guests, I never get to hear it. “There’s a nice bed and plenty of blankets in there, and you can borrow something to sleep in.”
Even as I make the offer, I try not to wonder too much about what it means—Darren wearing my clothes while sleeping in a bedroom down the hall—and I’m strangely glad that each slow step hurts as much as the one before. He probably can’t see my scowl, but I know he hears all the small sounds I don’t bite back, and he moves impossibly closer with each one while I remind myself to be frustrated by his proximity. There’s no real risk of me falling, but my pride is a hell of a thing, and I think having his body pressed to mine will put me in danger of some other deadly sin if I don’t tell myself to stay mad about his reaction to my injuries instead.
We reach the top of the stairs, and I lead him to my bedroom,his touch gone even if I know he hasn’t fallen far behind. I get rid of my leather jacket without Darren’s help and toss it over the back of a chair, and then I pause in front of my dresser, and he wanders across the room.
“Hell of a view,” he says.
“It is,” I agree. I’ve got a balcony, and it overlooks the pool and gardens and firepit and dining area below, and if this were any other night—or if I were any other man—I think I’d encourage him to step outside and enjoy it as long as he’d like. Of course, it’s not and I’m not, so I focus on my open drawer. “Will a pair of shorts be okay? Or I have pajama pants if you’d prefer those?”
“Anything is fine. Or nothing. I can—I mean, I’ve got my underwear, so—”
I don’t have time for an entire back and forth with someone trying to be gentle, so I grab whatever’s on top for him and something beneath it for me, and I don’t bother with a shirt for either of us. When I turn around, I find him standing near my bed, and I want to laugh at how ridiculous it is to have this man in a space nobody has occupied in nearly a decade. Darren Wheeler—bartender extraordinaire—is unapologetically promiscuous and too willing to share experience that extends far beyond the ability to pour perfect shots without looking. He could’ve been in anybody’s bedroom tonight, and waiting in mine makes no sense at all.
I’d give him a way out if I thought he’d take it, but then he walks up to me with a curious grin and pulls a pair of sleep shorts frommy hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“For?”
“I zoned out for a minute. It doesn’t usually take me this long to pick out something to wear.”
“Maybe not, but I already told you it’s a hell of a view,” he says.
“That was about the balcony.”
“And it’s true all over again.”