Middleman

by Jayne Rylon

  There’s no evading. I still give it a try. “Why is it important? That was then. This is now.”

  “Hey, no judgment. I guess I’m trying to understand who you are and if I’m the right guy to give you what you need. For longer than a night or two, I mean. Unless that’s not something you’re interested in. In which case, I should go.” He glances over his shoulder toward the door.

  Panic turns my skin icy and makes my heart stutter. “Wait, don’t.”

  “Then explain.” He holds his hands out, palms up, his fingers curled around that damn cast. “Please. I’m kind of confused. My whole life, as far back as I can remember, I knew that someday I planned to grow up and marry a boy. In the same respect, I knew I liked it when they took charge. Not in a sexual sense, of course, that came later. But in subtle things. I’ve always been strong-willed. So when there was another guy around who could challenge that part of me and tame it, it just felt right. It’s part of my nature. Something I never consciously struggled with. Fortunately, my family was very supportive and encouraged me to do me. I get that it’s not like that for everyone. Hell, probably not for most guys. I understand they like variety. I assumed, since you seemed to be so dominant, that you were like me. A one-way street. I shouldn’t have. Is your preference something that changed over time? Or have you always liked to switch things up?”

  Is he wondering if those fundamental tenants of his personality might shift because of his disastrous relationship with Ronaldo? It’s not right to let my shit plant those doubts within him.

  “Everybody’s different, I suppose.” It’s a cop out. Compared to his rambling attempt to show me where he was coming from, my response seems defensive and curt.

  Probably because it is.

  I debate a deeper explanation, but choke on the words. Especially Cortez’s name. I haven’t talked about him in years. With anyone.

  I don’t think I can. It’s so much a part of the story that I don’t see how I can clarify without doing it. Like a superstitious old lady, afraid of speaking a demon’s name out loud for fear of drawing its attention, I’m not willing to drag that pain into the present. Make it fresh again.

  Cortez, and thoughts of what I lost, still has the power to harm me. He’s better left in the dark recesses of my mind.

  That’s fucked up.

  Admitting it isn’t going to make Rogan want to hang around anymore than avoiding the truth. So why bother?

  Rogan’s face falls. “Hey, it’s okay. I shouldn’t push. You don’t owe me anything. I understand if it’s something you’re not comfortable discussing.”

  He edges toward the door. I don’t blame him.

  It still cuts me. Why? Why do I care? We fucked. It was great. Time to move on.

  Right?

  Some part of me is shouting, “NO!” Fuck.

  I’ve been with enough guys to know that he’s different.

  I try to offer him something. An inadequate scrap. “You know how you didn’t want people to see your cast and assume shit about you?”

  He nods.

  I raise my hands then let them drop, irritated with him for making me address feelings that are better left buried. At Cortez for making me experience them in the first place. And primarily at myself for being unable to get the fuck over it. “Well, it’s kind of like that.”

  His face softens, losing the hard lines of tension that had been there a moment ago. “It’s tough to be so vulnerable. I’m sorry Ronaldo dredged up bad memories. If you want to share with me, I’m here to listen. Maybe even help you get past some of it, like you did for me the last two nights. Like I said, without judgment. It seems like you’ve found ways to cope with the situation instead of coming to terms with it. I guess that’s what I’m afraid of, getting involved—well, more involved—and then having you change your mind about what you’re looking for. Can you tell me enough to show me that isn’t what’s about to happen here?”

  “I’m sorry, Rogan.” I swallow hard. “I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to. I can’t. I’m not ready and I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  I can’t promise him things I’m not sure of myself. It’s impossible to imagine being brave enough to risk kneeling for a man ever again. Is that out of fear, because Cortez killed that desire in me, or because what I want evolved with my need to control the situations I put myself in? What if someday I change my mind again? Would it be fair to bet Rogan’s happiness on something I’m not entirely confident about?

  No. It’s not. So I don’t say anything else to convince him to stay.

  He crosses to me and enfolds me in the warmest, sweetest hug I’ve ever been given before kissing me on the cheek. “I’m sorry he scarred you so bad, Kaden. Stole something so important from you. And that there’s not a fix as simple as a cast to repair the damage.”

  Thank God Rogan understands and won’t hold it against me.

  Except when I go to hug him back, he evades my embrace, retreating several feet away, out of my reach. Probably forever. “That’s why you have a No Do-Overs policy, right? To avoid exactly this.”

  Shit. Fuck. Damn.

  I can’t deny it because it’s true. “Yeah.”

  “Then I’ll stop making this hard for you. Although it’s nice to know I tempted you enough to bend your rules for me.” He gives me a sad smile that takes the shards of my heart and breaks them into even smaller slivers. “Thank you for everything—for taking care of me, for some great memories, for coming to my rescue, and extra thanks for lending me your phone. By the way, don’t ever lose that thing or you’re going to be the internet’s most famous amateur porn star.”

  I wish I could appreciate his attempt at levity.

  I can’t when my spirit is turning to lead and plummeting toward my feet, leaving me hollow inside. Because it’s obvious what he’s going to say next before the words even leave his sexy mouth, which is still swollen from my coarse kisses.

  “Goodbye, Kaden. I wish you the best. Truly, I do.”

  It hurts so much to watch him leave that I’m incapable of calling him back again.

  What would it change? He deserves someone who isn’t damaged. Someone who can love him freely and openly without secrets or regrets.

  I’m not the man for him.

  The bells above my front door toll as another amazing guy walks out of my life. I wait until I hear his car zoom out of the alley before I dash into the gallery, climb on the window casement, and rip those motherfuckers off the wall. They jangle dully as they hit the bottom of the trashcan.

  Before I realize it, I’m back in the studio, whipping the sheet off my easel.

  The beginnings of the image there taunts me. Haunts me.

  There’s no point in trying to sleep. I might as well paint some more. It’s better than riding my bike around the city at night until I find a liquor store that’s still open, or maybe someone who will sell me something stronger.

  At least I’m not quite as fucked up as I used to be.

  Progress, right?

  Sadly, it doesn’t feel like it.

  17

  Kaden

  A few days later

  Rogan has ignored my avalanche of texts. The apologies, the questions about how he’s doing, the offer for him to sleep over until he finds a place of his own. That one was ridiculous. Transparently desperate. Born of a weak moment. I’m not surprised he didn’t respond.

  It might be borderline stalkery, but I run my finger over the phone number listed on the business card he gave me the day we met. What the hell?

  I dial it. I don’t have to wait more than an instant before his assistant answers. Of course Rogan doesn’t give out his private line. Sometimes I forget how powerful he really is and how out of his league I am. I still can’t believe he let me have him. And that I threw him away.

  I’m an idiot.

  “Hello?” she repeats.

  “Um, yes. My name is Kaden Finch. Mr. Clearwater commissioned a portrait from my studio. I was wondering
if I could speak to him, please?” No, really. Please.

  “Hello, Mr. Finch.” Is it my imagination or does she seem frostier at the mention of my name. Uh oh. “He’s tied up in meetings and won’t be able to accept or return your call.”

  Well, that answers that. His assistant is clearly under orders to cock-block me. Even if she doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing or why.

  Damn.

  “Okay, thank you.” I sigh, prepared to disconnect and throw my phone against the wall.

  “He did, however, leave a message for you,” she adds right before I demolish my cell.

  “He did?” Pause.

  “Yes, sir. Do you have a piece of paper?”

  I rush to my sketching table and grab a lilac colored-pencil. “Shoot.”

  She rattles off an address that I scribble frantically on my pad.

  “What’s that?” I ask, noting to myself that it’s not too far from here. A mile or two at most.

  “Where he’s staying.” Definitely frosty. I wager he’s a fantastic boss. Has he been moping around like me? Can she tell it’s at least partly my fault? A double whammy. First Ronaldo, then me. I can’t believe I piled on to his misery.

  So why is he telling me how to find him? “Um, is there anything else?”

  “It just says, ‘When you’re ready.’” She seems as confused as me. “I assumed you’d know what that means.”

  “Oh, I do.” But am I? Ready to lay myself bare? No, not really. Maybe he’ll give me a break and appreciate that I’m trying. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Is there a message you’d like me to return to him?”

  Somehow I don’t think he’d appreciate the things I’d like to communicate, like, “Sure, tell him I’m obsessed with his ass and I’m dying to fuck it again.”

  Or, “Make sure he’s home at ten. Naked.”

  Or, “Let him know I can’t stop thinking about how sexy, kind, and fun he is.”

  He’d probably especially hate that last one.

  So instead I say, “Nope. I’m good. Thanks again.”

  About twelve hours later, I’m rethinking that decision. I probably should have had Rogan’s assistant give him a heads-up that I was planning to drop by. But I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to go through with it.

  Even now, I’ve taken a couple extra spins around his fancy block. Each time I pass his place, I slow down, peer at the lit windows, then peddle like I’m leading the Tour de France, hoping he hasn’t spotted me. By the tenth lap I’m starting to get dizzy.

  Probably because of the lack of oxygen caused by my near hyperventilation.

  Without him or someone else—except no other man will do—to top this week, I’m stockpiling my anxiety. I have no way to prove to myself that I’m in charge of my world and that I don’t need anyone.

  Because clearly…I might.

  Fuck.

  Rogan has to let me in. He has to let me fix us both. Unless he’s figured out how to help himself already. In that case, I’m screwed since I apparently have relied on drugs, booze, and finally sex for too long to come up with any other solutions.

  Without my final crutch to lean on, things are getting too real in my head.

  A flash followed by a giant clap of thunder startles me. Fat raindrops begin to plop around me. One lands on the top of my head and rolls into my eye. The leaves on the trees lining Rogan’s street rattle as wind whips through them, heralding a summer storm. This is going to get nasty, quick.

  No more time to delay.

  I skid to a stop on the sidewalk, less than ten feet from Rogan’s door. One booted foot plants on the cement as I pause to admire the array of colors featured in the immaculate landscaping. It would be nice to paint.

  The edge of his curtain dips inward before falling straight again.

  Shit. He couldn’t have missed me. I’m sitting right there, staring at his house like a dumbass. Or worse, an obsessed ex-lover.

  Shortly after, I hear the rattle of what sounds like some serious locks turning. Is he always that cautious, or has Ronaldo continued to harass him? I don’t like the thought of him being alone.

  If things go right, he won’t have to be tonight. Neither of us will.

  When he steps onto the small porch at the top of three slate stairs, I can hardly breathe. He’s even more handsome than last time I saw him. His hair is a tiny bit less sculpted and his posture is more relaxed.

  I can’t say the same. In fact, I don’t think I can even bend my leg enough to swing it over the seat of my bike. So I sit there, gripping the handlebars hard enough I think I might bend them in half.

  “Hey.” Lame. Why don’t I know how to talk to him anymore? From the moment we met, that hasn’t been a problem.

  “Hi.” Seems like he might have the same issue now, though.

  He also doesn’t invite me in.

  “I, uh, came to see how you’re doing.”

  “Fine, thanks.” He swipes the slightly longer strands of his hair back from his forehead like he styles it when he goes to work. I guess it makes him more confident.

  I hate it. I like it tousled and soft. Sexy.

  Staring at him, I forget I should say something else.

  “I have to be honest here, Kaden. You look like you might be the one struggling tonight.” He peers through the intensifying rain at my bedraggled ass. No kidding.

  I roll my bike back a few inches, tempted to leave and pretend I hadn’t come crawling over here like this. Is this how my hookups felt when they tried to proposition me into tossing them another sweaty bang?

  Ugh. I don’t want to think about that.

  “Are you okay?” Rogan leans forward a bit then, putting his hand out toward me.

  “Yeah. I just needed to tell you that…” I scuff the toe of my boot on his sidewalk and stare at his socked feet on the welcome mat, feeling decidedly unwelcome. Especially since he doesn’t make a sound. Instead he’s staring at me as if there’s not much I can do to bring back the guy I’ve spent two of the hottest nights of my life with.

  The emptiness inside me actually hurts. My stomach cramps, making me spit out part of the truth. “I miss you.”

  “Miss me? Or miss fucking me?” The fingers of his good hand are about to crush the edge of the door. He hasn’t let go of it or allowed it to close behind him, as if he might need an escape hatch from this discussion. It doesn’t appear he’s about to ask me to come inside even though it’s pouring now.

  What the hell?

  At least he’s warm and dry beneath the overhang covering his porch. I’m getting soaked. My fingers are turning blue. I could lie my way into his sanctuary. But I won’t.

  I guess I thought he might need me too. Enough to relax his standards and slum it with me one more time. Clearly, that’s not the case. Coming here was a bad idea.

  Except now that I have, it pisses me off that he knows I caved first.

  “What do you want from me, Rogan? I swallowed my pride. I’m here. Begging like I haven’t done for a guy in years. You have no idea how hard this is for me.” Rain drips down my spine through my soaked clothing. I’m cold. Freezing inside.

  “If you want to discuss why that might be, you can come in.” Golden light spills from his temporary home onto the sidewalk at my feet. It’s so tempting to crawl into his shelter.

  Until I ruin even that glimmer of hope.

  Talking isn’t what I have in mind. I blow out a huge breath and shake my head.

  I still can’t.

  Rogan doesn’t budge. I admire him for his resolve even as it crushes me. “I’m not going to chase you like those other guys did. Or settle for something less than what I really want from you. At least I’m being honest about how I feel when we’re together. I’m not trying to trap you or pressure you into a relationship you’re not interested in, so please show me the same respect.”

  Well, shit, when he puts it like that… “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “No, you sho
uldn’t have. I mean, it was you who reminded me I’m worth more than that. I don’t deserve to be used. If we keep sleeping together even though you’re not looking for something that lasts out of bed, I’m going to get burned. You’re not that selfish.” Rogan shrugs. “It’s bullshit that you forced me to face my fears when you’re still running from yours, whatever they are, and that you’re stubborn enough to reject what comfort I could bring you. Not only for as long as it takes to blow your load, but potentially forever. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Well, that’s frank. The man chooses to submit. That doesn’t make him a pushover. My mistake for forgetting. It makes me more amazed that he gave me the reins, even for a little while.

  He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to in order for his insults to hit home.

  Rogan couldn’t have stunned me more if he pulled out a sledgehammer and swung it at my head. It might take something that drastic to get through my thick skull. But I can’t dispute his claims. He’s right. Absolutely.

  When I don’t say anything, don’t budge despite the storm raging around us now, he tries again. “Tell me about Santiago Cortez. I did some research, called in a few favors. There’s not a lot to find, though. Is he in the military? Has some kind of special assignment that called him away from you? Is he coming back? Is that why you’re trying not to get attached to anyone else?”

  Sadly, I don’t really know. He didn’t disclose much about his career to me. That alone stings. How could I have given my soul to someone who didn’t share such important things with me?

  I doubt everything I felt. And the things I’m starting to think I could feel for Rogan. They’re too similar. Exposing the flaws in one makes me think I could be repeating my mistakes.

  Why can’t it be enough to share physically? Why does he have to keep peppering me with impossible questions?

  I shift my gaze until I can watch the puddles growing on the sidewalk. Rings spread outward from drops that splash into their depths, disrupting the still, calm surface. Just like Rogan did to my life when he cannonballed into it.