In the Middle of Somewhere (6 page)

I decide I just need to get out of the house, so I throw on shoes and grab my beat-up copy of
The Secret History
. I’ve read it a hundred times, but it fits perfectly in my back pocket and it’s a comfort book: as long as I’m reading it, it doesn’t matter where I am. Besides, the main character of the book leaves his home in California to go to college in a small town where he’s never been before, so it seems particularly relevant to my life right now. I figure I’ll take a walk and find a park bench to read on or something.

It really is beautiful here once it’s not sweltering. I’m actually looking forward to the winter; I bet it looks like a storybook village when everything’s covered with snow. The quiet freaks me out, though, so I pop in the earbuds of my beat-up iPod, saying a tiny prayer to the music gods, as I do every time I use it these days, that it’ll last me just one more year.

That was my mantra all through grad school. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everyone at Penn came from good colleges that had prepared them for the classes. I went to community college for three years, then transferred to Temple and squeezed all my remaining credits into one year since it’s all I could afford. I’m pretty sure I only got into grad school at Penn because they needed to fill a quota of first generation college students or something. I was totally unprepared, but I told myself that after one year, the playing field would have evened.
One more year
. Then, when I was so exhausted from doing all my reading and writing for coursework while bartending five nights a week, I would tell myself,
Just one more year and then you’ll be done with coursework and starting your dissertation
. When I felt like I would never finish writing, I told myself,
One more year; you just have to hang on for one more year
.

Now, here I am. If I can just deal with my crappy apartment for one more year, I’ll have enough money for a nicer place. If my car will just keep running for one more year, I’ll be able to get a new one—well, a less-used one. Et cetera.
One more year
.

I’ve walked farther than I meant to, away from campus, and somehow, even though I’ve always associated Tom Waits with the city, his voice like pavement and whiskey and heartbreak, listening to him makes me see the winding road in front of me in a new light. He’s the perfect soundtrack to this deserted place, the only light now from the moon, the trees encroaching.

I’m looking up at the moon, feeling a bit smug and rather impressed by myself for, like, being in nature, when I’m knocked over from behind.

I pitch forward, barely catching myself on my right hand, and jerk my earbuds out, whipping my head around to see where the attack is coming from. I should have fucking known better than to be walking alone at night when I couldn’t hear someone coming. I’ve known that since I was twelve years old. I can’t believe I thought it was safe here just because there’s nothing to fucking do. Serial killers, Daniel! Remember?

All this runs through my mind in the second it takes me to see that I am, in fact,
not
about to be serial killed. Because what knocked me over was a dog. A brown and white dog that is now licking my face and trying to put its paws on my shoulders.

“Marilyn! Marilyn, here, girl.”

I know that voice. That low, commanding voice. Not as gravelly as Tom Waits, but so much more welcome.

Rex.

August

H
E
COMES
crashing through the trees and, from my current position on the ground, he looks even bigger and more imposing than I remember.

He practically skids to a stop when he sees me.

The dog—Marilyn, apparently—barks once at Rex and then sits down next to me, one paw on my knee.

My head is swimming, and it’s not from being knocked over. He’s here. He’s really here. If I’m being honest, I’ve thought about him so much more than I even admitted to Ginger. In the six months since I got back from Michigan, I’ve imagined him a thousand times. What he might be doing, what he would say to me if he were there—even though I have no idea what he would say, since I
don’t know him
. I’ve told myself that a hundred times too. I even got
Gaslight
from the library and watched it on my computer, pretending he was sitting next to me on my crappy couch in Philadelphia. Then I took my computer to bed and watched it a second time, pretending he was there all over again.

I don’t do this. This isn’t what I do. I don’t moon over guys. I don’t pine. I don’t wonder what they’re doing. I never have. I mean, sure, I’ve had crushes. Usually, though, I just show up and if someone’s appealing, I go for it. It’s always been just sex, except for my monumentally stupid time with Richard.

But now I’m sitting here on the ground like an idiot because the man I’ve fantasized about, dreamed of, and jerked off to is finally standing in front of me and I do not have a clue what to say.

He leans toward me, quizzical.

“Daniel?” He sounds shocked.

“Hi,” I say.

We’re staring at each other. It’s really dark, so he mostly looks like shoulders and hair. He’s wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt with a tear in the neck that’s stretched tight over his muscular frame. He reaches down a hand, but rather than help me up, he pats the dog on the head.

“I guess she got you back, huh?” Rex says.

“What? Oh.” I laugh, looking at the dog. “Yeah, I guess she has.”

Now he reaches one huge hand down to me, his biceps stretching that poor T-shirt even more. His hand is warm, just like I remember it. He pulls me easily to my feet, so easily that he has to grab me by the shoulders to keep me from slamming into him. In this position, I can’t help but think of the last time he held me like this. Up against his kitchen wall, seconds before he kissed me.

He drops his hands and looks down.

“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t sound very pleased.

“Well, I got that job,” I say.

“Congratulations.” He’s looking at the dog, not me.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I look down too. “Oh shit.” My book is lying in the dirt. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I fell. I scoop it up and brush it off, but the cover is torn and there’s mud ground into the last twenty pages or so. “Shoot.”

“I hope you know how it ends,” Rex says, looking at the muddied book.

“Yeah, I’ve read it before,” I say, but I feel like I’ve injured a friend. I’ve had this copy for ten years, read its corners round. I put it in my back pocket and try to shake it off. I’m not usually sentimental about shit like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t have the heart to check whether my iPod survived the fall; I just stuff my earphones in my hip pocket alongside it.

“Uh, so… Marilyn?” I say, nodding to the dog. “She seems okay, huh? And she grew a lot, didn’t she?”

“She’s fine,” Rex says, smiling fondly. “She’s a good dog.”

“I didn’t know you were going to keep her. I hope—I mean, I hope you didn’t feel obligated or anything.”

“Nah, I haven’t had a dog in a while. It was time. We get along pretty good. Well, I mean. We get along pretty well.”

“Why Marilyn?”

“Like Marilyn Monroe—she just, um—you know, she was a little banged up, so I figured she could use a star’s name. Especially one who took some hits and kept getting back up. Marilyn just needed some taking care of.” He seems a little embarrassed as he explains.

“Right, of course, movies. I like it,” I tell him, smiling, but actually I’m thinking,
Didn’t Marilyn Monroe kill herself?

“I had a dog called Brando for a little while when I was a kid. My mom named him. Said it was because he was ugly, so the name would balance him out. I just figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Look,” I say, “I wanted to thank you. That night… I was a mess. I’m not usually like that, I want you to know. So, thank you for helping me. And—” I laugh nervously. “Also, I want to apologize. I… was kind of all over you and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or anything. I mean, it was so cool of you to let me stay and then I just kind of jumped on you and—anyway. So, I’m sorry.”

I force myself to look up, plastering what I hope is an unconcerned expression on my face: an it-was-casual, no-problem, I’m-not-mortified expression. But the second I look into his eyes, I feel it slide off my face. He looks stern, serious. Like I’ve disappointed him in some way. Or I’m about to.

But beneath the stern expression is heat. It’s dark and, okay, I can’t see him that well, but I can feel his eyes drinking me in, sliding over my face and my body like he owns them. Me. Like there’s not a force in the world that could stop him from taking whatever he wants from me. And I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t let him.

When he speaks, though, his voice is calm, controlled, giving away nothing.

“I kissed you, Daniel. Don’t you remember?”

“Hell yeah,” I say softly. My eyes are glued to his mouth.

“I think maybe you want me to kiss you again.” He takes a step toward me. Ninety-eight percent of me is desperate for exactly that. But the other 2 percent is all of a sudden terrified. Terrified in a way I’ve never been before when it’s come to guys or sex. Terrified because it feels like this may be the most important decision I ever make. More important than deciding to go to college when all my teachers thought I was trouble. More important than sticking my hand down Corey Appleton’s pants in seventh grade, proving to myself that I was gay and I would fuck up anyone who gave me shit about it. More important than applying to grad school or taking this job. I can feel it in my gut.

I feel myself nodding, but I can’t feel anything else. I can’t smell the trees anymore, can’t hear the irritating chirrup of cicadas that’s been buzzing at my nerves all week. He’s taken up all my senses. Every nerve in my body is tuned to his frequency, every bit of my attention focused on the man in front of me.

He takes another step forward, pushing me backward with his huge body. But instead of falling, one step puts my back up against a tree. Rex’s chest is right against mine. With every breath he takes, his chest expands, pushing me against the rough bark behind me. He is heat and power and the air between us is electric.

As if in slow motion, he raises his hand. He places it at my neck, stroking my skin gently with his thumb, then in one powerful movement, he puts pressure on my jaw, tilting my head back and my mouth open and then his mouth is on mine and I’m dissolving into his kiss.

I moan when he deepens the kiss. He tastes like nighttime, something dark and fathomless and necessary. Then he pulls back. I blink quickly, trying to figure out what made him stop. He’s looking at me, his mouth only a breath away from mine.

“Lie down, Marilyn,” he commands, and I hear a yawn and the comfortable snuffle of a well-trained dog getting comfortable. He never breaks eye contact.

“Daniel,” he says in that same voice, and I nod. Nod at whatever he’s asking because whatever he wants I want it too.

He kisses me deep and hard and I pull his hips toward mine to fit us more tightly together. He moves to my neck, his stubble scraping sweetly across my throat as he kisses my neck slowly and bites the muscle there. I pull in a breath and moan, pushing my hips into his. Every scrape of his teeth sends a pulse to my groin. I’ve gotten hard so fast I’m overwhelmed, like all the blood drained from my head and rushed to my erection.

His mouth is soft and powerful, and I slide a hand into his hair to guide his lips back to mine. I push up on my tiptoes to get better access. Our kiss is like a conversation: getting to know each other, tilting to find each other, exploring.

I nip at Rex’s full lower lip and he growls, frustrated, and grabs my ass in his hands, pulling me against him and lifting me off the ground to hold me against the tree with no effort at all. I wrap my thighs around his hips and he thrusts against me.

I’ve never been with someone so built, and his strength is driving me crazy. It’s like I could do anything to him without hurting him and he could do
anything
to me, which makes my mind spiral to a thousand places at once.

He pushes harder against me, spreading my legs with his body until he can grind against me. He’s holding my whole weight like it’s nothing and as he rocks into me he brings our cocks into perfect alignment.

“Fuck,” I breathe, stiffening with the effort of not coming right away. It’s been too long. He eases off a little, still kissing me, and lowers me to the ground.

“I want to feel you. Can I?” he asks, and he slides one warm palm down the back of my pants, cupping the muscle, running a thick finger between my cheeks. I shiver against him and nod again, going for his pants. He stops my hands and, for a second, I think it’s going to be a repeat of what happened in his cabin all over again. But he just looks at me intently and says, “Tell me I can touch you.”

“You can touch me—shit!” The second the words leave my mouth, he pushes my pants and underwear down and grabs my ass with both hands.

“Your book,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Your book’s getting all messed up again,” he says, and I look down to where my copy of
The Secret History
is once again on the ground. Note to self: try not to step on your iPod.

“’S fine,” I say, reaching for him again.

He spreads me apart and kisses me with a hunger that makes me tremble as I fumble with his pants. When I finally drag his jeans and boxer briefs down, his erection springs out, hard and thick against his belly. He pushes me back against the tree and thrusts against me and, as our cocks meet skin to skin for the first time, we both moan. He’s all hardness and heat and he bites his lip and looks into my eyes as he rocks against me.

“C’mere,” Rex says, and he lifts me again, pulling me against his body, my back against the trunk of the tree. As he holds me steady, I thrust against him and shudder with pleasure. He groans and runs possessive hands over my lower back and hips. He spreads the globes of my ass and runs a thick finger down the crevice between them, circling my opening and making me shiver and clench up. He brings his finger up to my mouth and I suck on it. Then there’s wetness at my opening, wringing tiny shudders from me. He leans in to kiss me hard, sucks on my lower lip, and strokes me open. I cry out into Rex’s mouth as his finger slides inside.