by Cara McKenna
“Probably something like that.”
“Still, I don’t mind hanging out till he gets home. My dad’ll be at the bar until midnight, at least—those old guys gossip like a load of high school girls. I’ve got time.”
“Cool.” And kind. So why am I just a little disappointed? It didn’t take too much thought to answer that question—she’d wanted to snoop in Mica’s room before he got home, didn’t she? Her body was practically tugging her in the direction, like some nosy strain of gravity.
“Feel like a drink?” she asked Vaughn.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll get them. You want whatever it is you brought?”
“Please. It should still be cold from the store.”
“Want to hang out in the den?”
She considered it. “Nah, let’s just chill here.” She pulled out a chair at the table. There was an open box of dominoes there and she grabbed a few, constructing a little Stonehenge while Vaughn filled their glasses.
“How’s your show coming along?” he asked.
“It’s official—I know that much. I still need to find, like, ten more models by the end of the summer, which is crazy, but the slot’s mine and I can hustle. I mean, I’ll have to. It’s the biggest break I’ve ever gotten. No way I’m wasting it.”
“That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
“I don’t know about amazing, but thank you.”
The dominoes were dark wood with white pips, their container a tattered cigar box. Everything about them screamed 1970. “These are ancient,” she said when he sat down with his whiskey and her wine in hand.
“They’re my dad’s. I borrowed them for a game night at a friend’s place last week. I thought I’d return them tonight.”
“It’s a miracle it’s still a full set.”
“I know, but that’s my old man for you. He always told me, ‘We might not have a lot, but what we do have, we take care of.’”
“Did you take that to heart?”
He nodded. “I did. I still do.”
“Were you one of those kids who’d go ballistic if someone stepped on your new sneakers?”
“Minus the ballistic part, yeah. Totally. And one year for Christmas my grandmother got me the number one thing on my list—a Steelers jacket. One of those puffy-ass winter deals, all satin and shit, black with gold sleeves.”
“Rowr.”
“Dude, it was the shit.” His face was aglow with bygone pride. “I can’t remember which year it was, but it was a real nasty, nasty winter, and it felt like it snowed every damn day. But I wouldn’t wear that jacket out if it was raining or snowing, because I didn’t want to ruin it. I bet I only got to wear it ten times before it was too warm again, and then the next year, well, it was last year’s model, you know?”
“So you didn’t pick up all the chicks you’d envisioned?”
He laughed. “Hell no. When it snowed I wore my ratty old coat from the year before, looked all scrubby. I swear to God I spent more time wearing the new one in front of my mirror in my bedroom than I ever did at school.”
“Bummer. You still have it?”
He nodded, his sheepish smile telling her he felt like a doofus about it. “Yeah, I do. Mainly because my grandma died the next summer, so it’s kinda sentimental. But yeah. You want to see?”
“Obviously.”
He sipped his neglected whiskey and got up, disappearing down the hall for a minute. He returned sporting the garment in question.
“Wow, very nineties! But it still fits,” she marveled.
“Well, only because the style then was to wear everything two sizes too big like a gangbanger. What do you think?” He turned around, showing her the back—shiny black satin with STEELERS in gold across the shoulders.
“Very nice. And it looks like you’ve never even worn it.”
“That’s practically true.”
“Well, I’d have gone to the Christmas dance with you for sure.”
He shot her a cheesily flirtatious eyebrow over his shoulder. “Oh yeah?”
“Totally. And judging by the vintage we’d have slow danced to Boyz II Men.’”
“‘I’ll Make Love to You,’ naturally.”
She smacked the table, toppling some of her dominoes. “Oh my God, that song. I was about ten when that was a hit. I think I still thought making love was mostly to do with lighting a shitload of candles.”
Vaughn laughed. He draped the jacket over the back of his chair and took a seat.
“Between the song and the coat,” she said, “you’d have been beating the pussy off with a stick.”
“So long as it didn’t snow,” Vaughn said with a smile. He grabbed a fistful of dominoes, doing as she was, using them like building blocks. They chatted about the nineties, about middle school, about Pittsburgh and their parents and peers half-forgotten. It was easy and pleasant, and he made Clare feel charming and clever and welcome, but with every minute that passed, her hopeful mood cooled. She didn’t try texting Mica, and Vaughn didn’t suggest it. Perhaps they both knew but didn’t want to say: If he knew he was running late—or if he cared that he was—he was the one who ought to reach out.
By the time quarter to nine rolled around, Clare was downright glum, now certain she’d been stood up. It wasn’t lost on Vaughn. He set a domino carefully atop the tower they’d been building, cleared his throat. “You, um . . . Are you okay, Clare? You look like you’re more than just disappointed.”
She sighed, gathering her curls into a pompom, then letting them spring free. “I dunno. I seriously have no idea anymore.” She sat back, sucking and releasing a long, slow, lamenting breath.
“About?”
“Him,” she said, flapping her arms in defeat. They both knew he wasn’t coming. No point pretending. “About me and him.”
Vaughn raised his brows, inviting her to go on.
“It’s like, when I’m with him—actually with him, in bed, or messing around beforehand . . . Nobody’s ever made me feel so much like the center of the universe, you know? Just totally spoiled, totally like his focus is entirely on me. Like I’m the most alluring woman in the world. Then I go from that to this. I go from feeling like I’m absolutely fascinating to nonexistent the second he drifts into another room.”
“I hear you.”
“But I also feel like, I know all that. I know this is how he is. I knew it before we even slept together, from the way I was waiting around for his call so I could photograph him. Totally at his mercy before I even knew I stood a chance at sleeping with him. I sure as hell knew it that morning after we first hooked up, when he just left me in his bed. It’s not a surprise, like, at all. But the way he can make you feel when it’s just the two of you, or the three of us. When it’s about the sex . . . Shit, why is it so fucking hard to keep it straight? Why does it feel so real, every single time?”
“I don’t know, but that’s how it is. He knows exactly how to make people want him—by wanting them at, like, a million volts. And he does want you, and wants you to want him. Except there’s a threshold, and the second you want him to a point of needing more than he can give . . .” Vaughn made a motion with his hands, a snap of two fingers as another pair clipped some invisible tether. “The second he senses that demands are coming, he’s out of there.”
She groaned, scrubbed her face with her palms.
He laughed. “It’s fucking aggravating. Trust me, I know.”
“It’s worth it, though—that’s the crazy thing. Being disappointed tonight isn’t going to stop me from running over here the next time he texts.” She drummed her wineglass with her nails. “It’s not even like I haven’t tried to date guys who’re like that. But they didn’t have that, like, sex voodoo, the way he does, you know? The second I sensed I was with some flaky dude who wasn’t going to offer what I was after, I was done. Maybe bummed out, but
over it almost immediately. But with Mica . . . I dunno, it just feels so good, the way he wants you.”
“I know. I mean, I’m straight. Not bi—not with anybody but him, not even curious. Never was. If anybody knows how strong that fucking sex voodoo is, it’s me.”
“Christ, how do you handle it, though? I don’t think I can do it anymore. If it wasn’t all doomed to end when he heads back to LA anyway, I might need to just go cold turkey. I couldn’t take the whiplash in the long term, the hot and cold. I mean, thank God he’s leaving. That’s given me permission to jump whenever he tells me to, because I want whatever he’s offering for as long as I can get it, knowing it can’t last.”
“I hear you . . . I think I can handle it because, whenever we’ve messed around, the next day I’m almost always a frigging wreck. Like, identity-crisis-level wreck.”
“Sure.”
Vaughn opened his mouth, closed it. He was chewing on something, she could see it. After a long pause she prompted, “Was there more to that thought?”
“Loads more, but you probably don’t want to hear about it. Not if you’re working through your own shit with him.”
“It might make me feel like less of a fool.”
“Or me like a huge one. I’ve never talked to anybody about this stuff before.”
“Try me.”
“Well . . . With him,” Vaughn said heavily, “I’m the one who keeps us at arm’s length, sexually. I’m the one who gets spooked, because I seriously don’t know what to do with that aspect of my life. What to make of it.”
“Sure.”
“And I think that keeps him wanting me. Like a game, almost. Like he gets something extra out of it when I let things go that way. Except I don’t think he thinks about it that deeply. I don’t think he’s evil about it, trying to get me to do things that I don’t mean to. He knows I want him. He knows I don’t always want to want him. But it’s not conscious. It’s just some dark, hurting part of him, needing proof that someone he cares about wants him bad enough to go there.”
“You’ve thought a lot about this.”
He sighed, nodded. “Tons. It’s the most conflicted part of my entire life.”
“Were you worried about inviting him to stay?”
“No, I wasn’t worried.”
“Really?”
“No. I was terrified.”
She laughed.
“I even told him we weren’t going to be that way, if he came to stay. That stuff stays in the desert. That side of me doesn’t exist in Pittsburgh. If there are two versions of me, the one I am here and the one he, like, manifests, when it’s just us, out on a climb . . . Those two guys will never meet. That guy from our trips will never set foot inside this apartment, this city.”
She smiled. “Oops?”
“Yeah, fucking oops. But big as I talked when I laid that all out for him this spring, before he came out . . . I was scared, deep down, praying I was that strong. I didn’t want him to know it, but I had no clue if I could keep that promise to myself, if he decided to try something.”
Clare got lost in her head for a moment, imagining the things Mica had dirty talked with her about. All the things he wished he could do with his best friend. She eyed Vaughn’s body, its strong planes behind his shirt, and shivered. She would have liked to see those things too. But it seemed their ship had sailed. Stand me up once, shame on you. Stand me up twice . . . ? She wouldn’t be giving Mica the chance.
“What about him do you think makes it so hard to keep away?” she asked Vaughn, needing to know her own answer to that question, curious about his. “If that’s what it feels like to you, that is.”
“It’s not keeping away . . . It’s more like resisting him when he’s close, and when I know exactly what he wants. Something about the way he wants you. The way he looks at you, like you can feel his hands on you.” Vaughn laughed. “The way I’m describing it, it should be creepy, but I dunno. I can just feel the heat coming off him sometimes. And I remember everything that’s happened, and how fucking good he can make you feel, you know?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“But for me it’s not a question of keeping away. When we’re apart, when we talk on the phone or whatever, he’s just my best friend. It’s when I’m near him that things get complicated.”
“See, I’ve got it way worse. I mean, I’m not staring at my phone every second I’m awake, waiting for him to text me, but I’m not far off. It’s like when you can’t stop craving a certain food. Like he nags at the edges of your senses until you can barely concentrate. Like you won’t be able to focus again until you get another taste—”
She cut herself off, shocked at a sudden sharp sound—the click of the door lock flipping.
And just like that, there he was. The man who kept her up nights and blurred the terms of his best friend’s sexuality. He held so much power, yet looked so unassuming, strolling through the door in gray corduroys and a black henley, dreads pulled back.
“Hey,” he said, looking between them.
And? she wanted to demand. Anything else? Any sign you’re surprised to see me? Delighted? Disappointed? Any flash of comprehension, as you remember we made plans? “Hey” was all she said.
“Lose track of the time?” Vaughn asked him.
Mica’s brows rose. He looked to Clare, then the microwave clock. “It’s five of.” Those dark eyes jumped back to Clare. “Didn’t we say nine?”
“You said eight.”
“Did I?” Mica slipped his messenger bag over his head and hung it on a coat hook. He walked to Clare, stood before her and squeezed her shoulder, held her gaze. Just that little contact and she was a goner. “Sorry. I’m famously shitty with times. Why didn’t you text me or something?”
“It’s okay. Vaughn kept me entertained.”
“And now I really better head out.” Vaughn stood.
“What for?” Mica said, more a demand than a mere question.
Vaughn met his friend’s eyes squarely, his hand on his keys where they waited on the counter. “Swing by the bar. See my dad.”
“You can see him any night. But who knows when or if we’ll all be here again. The three of us. Clare doesn’t want you to go,” he said, then looked to her sharply. “Do you?”
Interesting question. Mica was intense tonight. She saw that in his eyes. Much as she’d been wanting him to herself, Vaughn would take some of the edge off. Plus, all the things they’d talked about, and all the things Mica had told her when they’d spoken on the phone, all the things he wanted to do with his friend . . . all the things she suspected Vaughn wanted right back.
She shivered. She swallowed and caught Vaughn’s stare, held it. She spoke the truth, much as it surprised her.
“Stay,” she told him softly. “Please.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vaughn could have stayed strong if only she hadn’t said that.
Stay. Please.
Fuck. Mica, he could resist—he was mad enough at his friend to set their attraction aside. He’d just listened to Clare tell him about how helpless the situation had her, and to watch Mica waltz in, claiming to have gotten the time wrong when he’d likely forgotten about her completely . . . and there went her resolve. It burned him, bad. Maybe burned him because he knew just exactly what it felt like, being under Mica’s spell.
But she was helpless, like she’d said. And Vaughn was a little helpless himself, when it came to her. And so he shot Mica a killing look and tossed his keys back in their spot on the counter.
“That a yes?” Mica asked.
Vaughn glanced to Clare. “That’s a yes,” he said, wondering if she knew. If she had any clue how weak she made him. That makes two of them, he thought, gaze jumping back to Mica. Though it was only his body that wanted Mica that way. With Clare there were far more complicated forces at work.
&nb
sp; He watched his friend stride to the fridge and return with a glass of wine for himself. “What have I been missing?” he asked Clare as he pulled a third chair over from the corner.
“Just talking. A little modeling,” she added, nodding to the jacket on Vaughn’s seat.
Mica scooted close and set his glass by Clare’s, straightened the nearest domino tower. “Talking about what?” he asked her, though his eyes went to Vaughn. What on earth was that stare wondering? Or demanding?
“A little bit of everything,” she said. “How was barista-ing?”
“Same as always. A few more burns, a few more tips.”
Vaughn bet that for all Mica’s faults, his coworkers loved sharing a shift with him—no doubt he brought in tips worthy of a lap dance.
“Living room?” Mica asked Clare, his voice already low and mischievous.
She nodded. The spell had been cast, Vaughn could tell. Hell, he could feel it himself. Maybe two ounces of whiskey and he felt heat creeping through his veins, tightening his collar. They’d taken things further than he’d expected, last time, let Clare see more than he’d ever intended. What came next? he wondered, following them into the next room once he’d freshened his drink. As always, Mica’s sexuality scared him even as his body primed.
Clare sat on the couch, Mica on the coffee table before her. The lamp in the corner was on, the radio droning softly. Vaughn sat on the middle cushion, the glass in his hands feeling like the frailest tether of self-control. The second he tasted the wine on Clare’s lips, he’d be free-falling. And only Mica ever seemed to know where they’d all land.
“I fucked up,” Mica said to her. “Tell me how to make it up to you.”
“You’re here now.”
“Tell me,” he said again, bringing his face close to hers, smiling to let her know how absolute that offer was. Though Vaughn knew better. Even if Clare seemed to be in charge of this evening’s debauchery, it was always Mica pulling the strings. Always.